Christine and I, the best of best friends, somehow ended up with a knife that stabbed the core of our friendship. We lived so close by, a two-year old could have crawled the path from my house to her house in just a second. We rode our worn-out bicycles every day into the school’s muddy playground in the backyard. Children jumping up and down, playing with their small, used-up balls with their inanimate parents. Children. Always energized and forever social, right? We usually meet some of our close friends either playing the popular and famous sport, basketball, or the ordinary and typical sport, walking. The strollers discussed random facts about random concepts. Christine and I cruised through the unseen park. We would usually stay out until dark, or a little before since my mom would penalize me with a whip (she hates for me to stay outdoors after sunset). Christine and I met around fifth grade in the same homeroom. We had fun in sixth grade, camping in the cabins and performing a skit. Seventh grade holds the most memories, including the time I moved to Ohio.
At the end of the last day of sixth grade, at the corner of our bus stop, I blurted, “Christine. I’m moving. To Ohio”. I think it took her a while to absorb this unimaginable concept, since she started crying after what felt like years. She sobbed for quite some time, until eventually she quieted herself to some intermittent moans and whimpers. She babbled on and off about my moving day. I realized too late that I should have brought a box of Kleenex with me, before going on the bus. While all this happened, I tried not to cry myself, seeing someone actually weeping for me. This never happened. Not twice. Not once. Shock took over me like hunger takes over after a swimming practice. I guess me not crying made Christine ask me the irrefutable question, “Why aren’t you crying?”. Should I reply with because I am immune to shedding tears? Or that I had mourned my sorrow already? I guess I could have said either, but the first sounded raw and lame and the second response that came to mind felt disloyal and faithless. Instead, for no apparent reason, I blurted, “I don’t cry in front of people”. Right then, I noticed her reddened, tear-streaked face. I felt sorry for her, but I couldn’t feel sorrier for myself. My incredibly weak response pondered me incessantly that I believed I should have informed her with something more believable. Right then, I wished I could go back to the first day of fifth grade, when moving did not concern me. I don’t want to get tortured by the split of my best friendship ever. Christine didn’t want to even think about the future without my presence, with her all sad and upset about me leaving. However, when it came time to move in the beginning of seventh grade, something about her feelings seemed to shift. Something mysterious and unknown had occurred over Christine’s summer vacation that I deeply regret. The very thought of it burned my head.
We served different homeroom teachers in seventh grade. We met each other in the crowded and rough halls, though. So basically, you could say we saw each other less frequently. But we did have one class together, science. We even sat on the same table. Even though I jumped up in joy and expected Christine to do the same, I observed that she quietly stared into space. She swiftly and neatly accomplished all the necessary compositions for class and submitted these in to our beetle-eyed, pointy-nosed teacher. Christine kept doodling on her other documents, intently watching the clock. I figured she needed to go someplace in a hurry. I wondered where she wanted to go and why did she not utter a word to me? When the bell finally rang, I grabbed my belongings and rushed out the door. While at the exit, I mumbled hello to Christine and asked what she intended on doing that night. Like a slap on my face, she raced down the crooked stairs and met up with some crowd, who I, before, thought she had hated. The next day, she did the exact, same thing. To test things out, I started to ignore her. Realizing me not talking to her, might have made Christine challenge a hello to me one evening in our science class. Startled, I quickly regained my cool and left the room, like everyone does during a fire drill. Rude, I know, but I wanted her to feel the same sensation I had felt long ago.
Eventually, shifting from house to house became the center of my attention. What to pack? How to pack? How will my new room look like? What will my sister get? Time came and went. Finally, my sister and I stood open-mouthed at our huge, sky-bluish manor. We settled in quite securely. I felt relaxation with peace beside it. The burden I carried on me held my only dominant interest. Even though Christine had avoided me, I could have still been a good friend and push her to take notice of me. But instead, I went with my outermost conscience, ignoring her completely. Now that I am staying in my new, up to date home, I worry more about what is going on here, like my school and who to make friends with. I didn’t realize that I had totally forgotten Christine’s phone number until too late. Before, it stamped itself into my heart next to my own house number permanently. I guess I felt too upset to even write her phone number on a small piece of paper and stuff it into one of my boxes. I failed to keep my only best friend in connection with me. I missed the good old times, our rides into the park, and visiting each other’s houses.
I believe in strongly making up when best friendships go deeply wrong.
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