I grew up with Lily. We swam in my pool together, passing my inflatable tube back and forth and snorting chlorine bubbles. She taught me how to swim. “All you have to do is move your head from side to down, side to down,” she said. She demonstrated, and then laughing, added, “Of course, kick your feet. If you want to move, kick.”
   Whenever obnoxious family friends were over, we would sneak outside to the park across the street. I hopped onto the first swing, and she on the second. We flew through the air side by side, either holding hands or holding contests about whose feet could touch the top of the looming maple oak. Our giggles screeched in all the wood-chipped corners, and those stroller-pushing mothers never failed to cast us disturbed glances. But, I didn’t care, and neither did Lily. She was the practically the same person as me. She never disagreed. We never fought. Our friendship was the apex of ideal.
   Lily was the reason why I had such high expectations when I walked through the doors of Jackson Middle School. I met a girl with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes named Keira in my first period math class. She told me she liked the color pink, and we were instant friends. We wore cotton candy skirts on the same days until the end of the marking period. That was when she told me that she hated Demi Lovato. I told my mom to donate my skirts to the clothing drive.
   Lily made me feel better. She stroked my hair and whispered in my ear, “I’ll be here for you. I won’t let you down.”
   Her words nullified my pain but intensified my hopelessness. Right then, I knew that I wouldn’t ever find someone like Lily.      That night, she slept next to me, listening to me rant about the superficial girls with their exaggerated tones and nasty glares and the rowdy boys who still hadn’t gotten over the concept of cooties. “I hate it, Lil,” I breathed. I felt her fingers lace around mine.
    “You have me.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “You don’t need anyone else.”
    So, for the rest of middle school, I ditched piano classes for ice cream and Lily’s jokes. I ignored Talia and Ben and Sarah and all the others whose names I didn’t bother remembering for frozen sunsets and Lily’s deep mildew eyes.
    “On a scale of one to ten,” she asked me one day, “how much do you like me?”
   I smirked. “Is that even a question?”
   And she grinned like she didn’t just expect that answer – she knew the answer.
   But, even dancing among tea lights in my backyard and playing truth or dare on top of strangers’ cars outgrew me. Suddenly, Lily’s constant yes’s and sugary words melted into a string of yawns and monotony. I used to love her for always saying, “I agree, you’re right,” but now I wished she would argue sometimes. I wished she would yell at me, pull me aside and grab that bottle out of my hand, scold me for taking those swigs and jumping behind the wheel. I wished she would tell me to stop, slow down, focus on those red fifty’s on my math tests and concerned looks from my guidance counselor.
    “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like me?” Lily asked, laughing, like it was the funniest joke in the world. She popped this question to me every year. Security: it was what we all needed.
   But, it was my last year of high school, and I realized that, staring up at the streaks of crimson and magenta and tangerine, the answer had changed. Or, maybe, it had always been the same. Maybe all along, I had tricked myself into thinking it was one thing, when it was something else all together.
   I stood up. Pressed my lips together. “Zero.”
   Lily raised her eyebrows. “That’s not funny!”
   “I’m not kidding.”
   Lily’s smile melted like the snowman we built together two winters ago. She started to speak, but I interrupted, words heavy with years of bitterness and ignorance. “You never stopped me. You let me do stupid things because you never fought with me. And then, you kept me all to yourself.” I stopped. Tears were building in my eyes, throat, heart. I could drown. “Look around, Lily! I have no friends, and I’m so distant from my own family. Because of you, I have nobody.”
   I didn’t wait for Lily’s reaction. I swiveled on my heel and ran down the hill. I looked back only once, and she was already gone.
   When I came back home, panting, my mother and older sister were sitting on the living room couch. Not sitting, actually, but waiting. For me.
   My sister handed me a small white card. It read: DR. SHAW, PSYCHIATRIST.
   I gulped. Like I said, I had nobody.