I had two best friends growing up, but the truth is, I was closer to K than I was to M. And M knew it.
K and I were the kind of friends who read each other’s diaries. We just handed them over, literally splitting ourselves open like books for someone to peer inside. And that’s how I found out K’s parents didn’t like me. I read it in her diary.
I cried, and she cried, too. She tried to explain this weird dynamic, justify it, but she was only 11, and I was only 11, so we didn’t really understand what we were talking about. I still don’t really understand it today.
I was a good kid. I was smart and funny and kind and all the things parents like in their children’s best friends, but I was also the third wheel. I came onto the scene after M and K were already best friends for years and years, since diapers and pre-school and matching outfits, and maybe her parents just preferred it that way. I upset the fragile status quo.
We went for a walk around K’s neighborhood. The houses around us were giant, mansion-like things made of stone and brick and crawling with ivy. Shiny Porsches and Cadillacs were parked out front like Christmas tree ornaments sparkling in the sun.
She put her arm around my shoulder. I remember knowing in that moment that we were turning into little adults, little tiny adults who have problems and disagreements and fucking life issues, but we couldn’t do anything about them except cry and hold each other a little bit.
Because what could we do? We were just little tiny adults surrounded by expensive cars.
Today’s prompt: Tell us about your childhood best friend. Are you still friends?