She had this hair that hung to her waist. I knew it wasn't real - only a weave, yet I touched it, reverently. Everything about her was exactly what I was not. And yet - she was my best friend.
She excuded a sense of confidence I had ever seen in a person before. Her skin was golden brown due to her American Indian and African heritage. Her smile was beautiful, her teeth white and square, a small gap in between the two front teeth endreared her to me.
My first year back in a school I despised I saw her sitting in front of me. Her sock shad little ladybiugs on them and that glorious hair was half curled, the rest hanging stright, reaching down to her leather belt. She giggled as candy from her bookbag spilled onto the floor. Offering me some our eyes met. And I knew I had met my best friend.
We both loved chocolate, we both loved guys with long hair, we both hated manufactured boy bands, we both adored Hanson and we both hated our private school.
We ran in the halls, we ate lunch in detention on a daily basis. If she got detention and I didn't, I would throw away my homework so as to recieve a detention to be with her, and she would do the same.
We put glue on a teachers seat. We fed our principals dog massive amounts of chocolate, we taped notes on the popular kids backs. She was so beautiful.
I was too tall, too skinny and pale as ice. I was sick 50% of the time and my blue eyes seemed to scream out against the paleness of my skin. She kept me company when I was sick, she called pretending to be the hospital informing me of my soon appraoching hot doctor, she sent me rediculous cards and took pictures of the kids we hated in school making silly comments coming out of thier mouths.
One night at her house I woke up in the middle of the night thirsty, I padded downstairs to get a drink. I opened the cabinet to get a glass and was met with the site of tons of pill bottles. Her name was on every single one. There had to be over 50 bottles, my stomach turned and I went into the bathroom to throw up.
Her blood. The life in her, I remember, I knew. She had cit her finger and got hysterical, the small drops of blod being soaked into her baggy white sweater. She went home, No one could touch her.
When she wa son her period she stayed home, no one going in or out of the house.
Her bottle of lysol in her bookbag. The way she cleaned everything.
Aids? My best friend?
I asked her. And we never spoke again.
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