We once cut our palms in the moonlight, climbing to the top of her roof at midnight to swear our allegiance as “blood sisters.” This was before Cassy got braces, and I got contacts, before her parents decided to separate, and mine decided to forget about me completely. She and I defined a good friend as someone who bailed you out of jail in the middle of the night, and a best friend as someone sitting in the cell right next to you, just as guilty, laughing and saying, “Damn, that was fun.”
Things have changed. Gone are the days of thinking that two a.m. was past our bedtime, that love was something easy to fall into, that kisses are contracts, and that school is a place for socialization. A best friend is more than a partner in crime. No matter how many times we watch Peter Pan together, order the coloring menu at fancy restaurants, or wish upon a star to take us to Neverland, the truth is that we are growing up. Cassy and I cried together on each of our thirteenth birthdays, desperate to remain in childhood just a little longer. We had no idea how it would feel two months before my twentieth birthday, as I found myself four states away at Baylor University, talking to her on the phone about her college visit to UC Berkeley.
“Why do you want to go there?” I ask, fiddling with my car keys and dreading cracking open my geology textbook.
“Well,” she tells me, and I can almost see her sitting straight in her chair, her Betsey Johnson bangs falling into her eyes. “It has the best psychology program I’ve looked at, much better than UCLA. Their department is better designed for medicine, and Berkeley’s is aimed more towards cognitive psychology.”
I tell her that it’s so great, that Berkeley is a lovely school, that she’s so smart and I’m so proud of her. In reality, my heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach, as I try not to think about how how the girl who once asked me how to spell "nose" in the sixth grade is actually ready to go away to college. We are on the brink of adulthood. I cannot stand to think about the circumstances that have led us both here, not because I am ungrateful, but because I am terrified of what comes next.
We say I love you, and good night. I feel a little better. I try to think instead about all of the other things we have lived through together, and the images and dialogue come easily. She sat with me on the dingy floor of our poorly-lit middle school bathroom, our windbreaker jackets making shushing sounds when she leans over to wipe the tears off of the frames of my nerdy blue glasses, telling me that I made the right decision about never again having contact with my father. She picked me first for volleyball and kickball every single time she was captain, even though I was the worst in our seventh grade physical education class, and she stayed home from the eighth grade Halloween dance for me when I got suspended. I didn’t know she had a date that night. Cassy stood up Bradley Huth to watch School of Rock with me in our costumes instead. The first time I got dumped, I was at her father’s first apartment off Topanga Canyon. I hung up the phone, and collapsed into a sobbing mess on the floor. She stroked my hair and let me eat a whole bag of M&M’s before drifting off to sleep in my bathing suit and sweatpants on her couch, exhausted from crying. We walked two miles to meet each other every day after school in high school, often stealing bread from restaurants and sneaking into movie theatres. When my first serious, adult relationship ended, she pretended we were still in grade school, cooking me a bowl of pasta and feeding me cookie dough in her neighbor’s Jacuzzi. Cassy has lied for me, held my hand when I was in the hospital, and brought me laughter during the times when I thought I had forgotten how.
My best friend’s greatest gift is unconditional love; her second greatest, empathy and compassion. I love that we have known each other long enough that we never have to explain a single thought to one another; at this point in our friendship, we simply already know.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
