A Tale of Two Friends
Project 365, Day 13
Do you need help with your locker?” she said to me, her standing as tall as a tall sixth grader could be, me as small as a crouched over sixth grader could be…who also just so happened to be short. I can’t quite remember her tone, but I like to remember that it was falsely annoyed, trying to act irritated with a hint of friendliness coming through.
This is the story of how I met my best friend, eh, rather, how my best friend and I became friends. I tell it in honor of her birthday. Let’s call her Lorena for the sake of her privacy (a made-up middle name we created for her as children because she didn’t have one). Lorena, you know who you are.
“Sure,” I said back, surprised by her sudden attention but also thankful because I had been struggling with the combination for an embarrassingly long time—probably about three minutes, but when you’re 11, everything is embarrassing—and I was going to miss my bus.
A little back story: Lorena and I were not strangers. In fact, before that moment, we had never said so much as two words to each other, but it was understood between the both of us that we didn’t mix even though our families did. Our brothers, several years older than us, were best friends. Our parents, friendly. Us, none of the above. I have a distinct snapshot tucked away in my mind of our families standing in the parking lot of our brothers’ high school, them chatting, while we just casually glared at each other when our eyes met. I have no recollection of why or how it started. When we fast forward a bit, Lorena would go on to tell me she thought I was “prissy,” her being a bit of a tomboy growing up (me, the complete opposite); I thought she was a “beyotch” for no other reason than I just decided she was. Ah, middle school, what a time.
Our preconceived notions of each other were based, literally, on passing glances. Again, not even two words spoken. But we held on to those feelings for years, until my locker jammed, and she thought to offer an olive branch. I wonder what I must have looked like to her for her to break her icy silence with me. Did she think I was pathetic? Was she aching to reach out and settle our passive aggressive non-feud? Whatever made her chance missing her own bus, walk back and help me, I’m grateful for it.
Once the locker was open, so were our hearts. Cheesy, absolutely, but true nonetheless. That beautiful thing happened that seems to be unique to kids where you go from nothing to everything in the snap of a finger, no memory of any “warming” up period between us. No awkwardness. I only remember BL and AL—Before Lorena and After Lorena—we were instantly family. I’d like to say that I recall walking to the bus loop together that day, discussing our prior distaste for one another, laughing about how ridiculous it was because it was based on nothing, but the truth is I don’t actually remember. Again, my landmark memory was that locker moment, and then my brain mushes together the rest of our history.
As quickly as we could make it happen, it was weekly sleepovers. Her house, then my house, then her house, then my house…that first night at my place being labeled “epic” by the both of us. My memory is hazy on the details, but it involved the combination of pool inner tubes and the staircase of my family’s modest two-story home, eating sweets in the wee hours of the morning, and of course, plenty of giggles. I’m pretty sure the next day ended with a lunch date at Friendly’s (remember that place?!?). I mean, all those seem to check the “epic” box according to a sixth grader’s tastes.
She was tall, I was short. I was artsy, she was sporty—sportier than I was, at least. I was a homebody, she was a get-up-and-go-er. On the surface, we had nearly nothing in common. In fact, we often talked about it. “Why are we even friends?” we’d sometimes ask each other. No one was ever offended; neither of us ever had an answer. We didn’t have many shared friends as we “ran” in different circles, but together, it was magical. Guess we didn’t need a reason besides we just thoroughly enjoyed each other. Now, as a grown person, I can see that we filled in the nooks and crannies of each other’s souls. Lorena, ever the spontaneous spirit, never a care in the world, me the cautious goody-goody. It worked for us. She needed me; I needed her.
In the later years, when school and sleepovers turned to jobs, to careers, to husbands, to children, to thousands of miles apart, our running joke to each other was a simple prompt: “I want to move. Where should we go?” A little mental escape, or maybe a fun role play that adult minds need sometimes. We’d throw out cities, places, situations, obviously never intending to up and leave. It was a game played out of boredom with either of our life circumstances, the other one always ready to indulge the other. Come to think of it, we haven’t I-want-to-move-d each other in a really long time. Now, I just get “when are you moving here?” or “will we ever live in the same city again?” Wow, adulthood is depressing, ain’t it? I hope so, Lorena, I really do!
I could reach the ends of the internet writing about my life and memories with Lorena, as anyone who has spent nearly 25 years tending to a treasured friendship could. The Sunday barbecues at my parent’s house, the hours/weeks/years spent sitting at the kitchen island, eating cupcakes with forks (it’s our thing). I’ll find stories to pluck out and write about later on, surely, but for now, if she’s reading (I’m sending you this so I’d be insulted if you weren’t 😂), I just want to say, thank you for helping me with my locker all those years ago. What if you hadn’t? Would we be here? And sorry I hated you before I knew you. Not sure what that was about. I’m grateful to call you not just a friend, but a sister. To another 25 together, and another 25 after that!
See you tomorrow, friends!