Life loves to surprise people. As someone who hates surprises and does not know how to expect the unexpected, life seems to really love to irritate me. I’ve been through just as much as any average person has. We all go through struggles and surprises because that’s just how life likes to work for us all. Everyone has their stories, some fun and some sad. I have so many of my own stories I never know really where to begin. I think there’s always that story that sticks with us. There’s that story that touches a large spectrum of feelings, both good and bad. The story that shapes who we are today and what we fear so greatly.

Now this story starts with, but doesn’t end with, two girls, friends through elementary and middle school, two peas in a pod, if you saw one the other wasn’t far off. One of them was me. The other girl was my other half—in the most platonic way possible. Let’s call her Maggie.
The first thing I can remember was her hair. In first grade, Mrs. Lyon’s class, I got to sit next to her and her hair fascinated me! You see, she kept it in braids most of the time but that day, she had it down. It went to at least her waist and it was a pretty shade of brown (though I had thought it was black at first). I think I complimented her on it. Maggie later told me that she’d wrote about me in her diary that day, “She’s pretty okay.”

I can’t remember when we stuck together like glue, but we did. We both liked cats and talking casually about strange things like, “Woah! What if you were born with hair that long and you never cut it? It’d had to have wrapped around the world at least four times by now!” Now, aside from intellectual banter like that, she’d been the one to deliver the news that my super important fifth grade crush did not, in fact, like me at all. If I remember correctly, his words had been, “In your dreams.” What did that mean? Was there something wrong with me? She’d been the one to support me after I was socially crippled when I realized all my classmates were like that. I talked to and laughed with them, but we were different. They were cool and we were not. That was a pleasant surprise. Thanks, life.

Middle school came soon after and, once I had gotten all my tears out about it, I found that it was actually not as bad as I thought it’d be. It was much worse. Those had been our years, though. Those were our anime-loving, inseparable years. They were my lowest years in regards to getting bullied, but we can get to that later.

I’ll let you in on a little secret… I left her first. Sixth grade. Not for a long time, maybe a few months tops.

At the beginning of sixth grade, I came in late to science. All the seats were taken but one. My eyes met his and we both grinned like idiots. We’ll just call him Monkey because that’s what he was. Monkey and I went way back. My first memory of him was that he had a broken arm and we all had to hold hands, for some kindergarten reason, and I didn’t want to hold his. Why? I didn’t believe in cooties and I didn’t think boys were gross. It was quite simple, really. I just didn’t want to catch his broken arm! Yeah, we went way back. Whenever I told him he was disturbed he’d remind me, “That’s a band, you know,” and we’d forever giggle at the crayon color Tickle Me Pink because what does that even mean?

Enough about Monkey, he isn’t really the focal point here. After I sighed and stomped on over to the seat next to him, it was rare we had a moment where we weren’t talking to each other. Eventually, I ended up hanging out solely with Monkey and his chimpanzee friends. I left Maggie for some dude. I replaced her. It sickens me now, even though Monkey and I had some pretty good times together.
Seventh grade I returned to Maggie because I’d forgotten how to talk to guys. They scared me. They still do.

This year was Yu Yu Hakusho year. Anime was cool but Yu Yu Hakusho? That was our show. Maggie loved guys with long hair so she swooned over Kurama, a fox demon with long red hair and a rose whip. I preferred his short, both in height and temper, friend, Hiei. They were basically our male, and much cooler, anime counterparts. We loved it. At the same time, my mother was ill and we had no money so I couldn’t get Maggie a birthday present. I did my best and drew, inked, and colored a poster of Kurama for her since I wanted to make sure she knew I cared after leaving her for Monkey. Afterall, she was so important to me that the only reason I remembered my own brother’s birthday was because they were on the same day, different month. Her’s was October 28th. She adored the poster but later informed me that she woke up sick one morning and puked all over it.

Eighth grade. The surprise year. The year of romance, bullying, and suicide. The last year with my best friend. She guided me through that year and was the first person I squealed to about my new long-term boyfriend, the first person I cried to about being made to feel worthless by those on my bus, and the second person I told about my dad’s suicide. In the last case, she was only the second because I was on a date when my mom found out.

One of my fondest memories with Maggie was one of the last. That summer after eighth grade was the first summer I got to go to state fair. I could bring one friend and have them sleep over so, naturally, I chose Maggie. She’d been over to our newest house back in February to help me make my fairly new boyfriend cookies for Valentine’s Day (as I can’t cook or bake to save my life) and scream at each other over bad Wii games, but this was special. We’d both never been to the state fair and had no clue what to expect. It turned out fun, we ate taffy and deep fried goodness until we got sick and looked for Maggie’s other friends, who would later be replacing me. We weren’t interested in getting on any of the rides or buying fancy things (though there was a stand with overpriced anime and video game merch that we’d gawked at). All we wanted was to eat junk food and be together. I yearn for that now.

High School began and she drifted. We had no classes together and had different lunches. It was bound to go sour but it was still a surprise. My friends in lunch with her soon informed me that she was spending her time during lunch somewhere else or eating with others. Eventually, in the few times she spoke to me that year, she mentioned aikido.
Sophomore year I tried my best to reconnect with her and joined aikido. I had been sure it would work out. Things were broken but we stuck together like glue, didn’t we? It could be revived, it’d be like the countless turn based RPGs I’d grown up with. My party member was down but all I needed was to grab a Phoenix Down and she’d get back up to fight by my side again. It would work out and I knew it, so I smiled my biggest smile that day after school. As per usual, I called her name and made sure to emphasize the beginning, “Mahgie!” I was so happy that I could cry, but I rocked back and forth on my toes and heels instead.
“Oh, hi.” She was indifferent in the kind of way that stung. It burned. In that moment, I remember thinking of cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but the feeling was near as painful as the time I was talking to my mother and gesturing like crazy. My hand had whipped forward, right into the lit tip of her cigarette. It was a quick burn. A short sting. At first, it seemed like nothing but later? Later, it’d hurt more than ripping off a bandaid ever would.
“How was your day? What’s up?” I was excited still. Maybe a bit concerned, but excited nonetheless. This was an easy way to start talking. Surely she would return my smile and talk about some new anime she’d been watching or what she’d thought of one of the many I had suggested for her to watch so long ago. The battle wasn’t lost yet, was it?

“Fine, I guess.” Maggie shrugged and set her things down next to mine. I opened my mouth to continue our very awkward conversation but she was already going to talk to those friends we’d been looking for at state fair. My heart sank into my stomach and I did not move. It felt as if my stomach acid had instantaneously began to burn my heart away and I would momentarily vomit it up. I still smiled.

Smiling was hard after that—it still is sometimes. I find that now, the first person I tell things to changes each time. Each first person has one thing in common, though. The first person I whined to about that fantastic long-term boyfriend cheating on me was not Maggie. The first person I told about our parting was not Maggie. The first person I talked to about my family’s struggle to get food to eat was also not Maggie. In fact, Maggie wasn’t even the second, third, fourth, fifth...she wasn’t even the last person I told. Maggie has only been informed of my life due to hearsay, if at all, and I, too, have only heard hearsay of her life. She’s just another person who I can’t muster up the courage to approach.

Nowadays I find myself nitpicking. I find myself noticing these things the first person does and I can feel myself noting how they did not handle it well or how they seem to be sick of me and I wonder if that is what happened with Maggie. Was it sickening for her to hear me complain and smile moments later? Were my anxiety attacks annoying? What did I do wrong? Am I doing it this time? When will this next person go? I question a lot and life does not give the answer written below or beside where I have typed it. It surprises. People surprise.