Let’s pretend the fat girl coming into seventh grade loved herself. Let’s say her confidence was absolute, her budding depression nonexistent, and that desperation to be with the popular kids (since she saw how happy they all were in our Podunk nothing-town) was never an issue.
On second thought, don’t. Just for kicks and giggles, let’s load her up with self-esteem issues. Let’s pretend she joined the volleyball team (even though she was horrible at sports) and tried to get close to the popular kids (even though they shared zero interests). Heck, let’s pretend this was her dream coming true.
Now let’s pretend that girl was me.
Let’s pretend one of the things I wanted from my new life (and I really thought of it that way, even though I was in the same building with the same kids that I’d been with since kindergarten.) was a best friend. Sure, I’d had a best friend before, but that was a guy, and that guy was a farmer, and he certainly had no place in this shiny new world of popular-ism. So, slowly but surely, I dropped him, and began searching for a new best friend.
Enter a girl with a name that nobody could pronounce. She had crooked teeth and one eye that would sometimes roll around in her head. We called her T.
Let’s pretend T and I had a normal relationship. I hung out at her house, we told each other everything (which was mostly her telling me stuff), we went out, we hung out, I played with her six-year-old brother. Let’s pretend we were sisters.
Let’s pretend that T lived for drama, both from her classmates and from her personal life. Her dad was a jerk, her mom restrictive, and she never got to do anything. The town she moved from was only twenty miles away, and some of her friends still came down to visit her. And by “friends,” I mean stalkers. Friendly stalkers, but still. Stalkers.
Her main stalker was named Andy. He showed up at her house a lot, and her parents would let him in because their families were close. So Andy would bug her, and swoon over her, and sometimes get angry at her, and go get her ice cream from the store. I never saw Andy, but I talked to him on the phone sometimes. His voice was nasally and strange, but I got used to it.
Her other stalkers were Brandon and Zach. Brandon was somewhat like Andy, but with more of a temper and way more depressive issues. Zach was psychotic and actually in jail. Then there was Vince, who was definitely in love with her, but wasn’t a stalker.
Let’s pretend my family went on a roadtrip to Alaska the summer before freshman year. Let’s pretend I came back to horrible news—Brandon had committed suicide.
Let’s pretend I’m a good Catholic girl and said prayers for Brandon’s soul and fasted by not eating meat and not snacking for well over forty days.
Life goes on. Homecoming came, and so did Vince. The three of us hung out at the game, then said our goodbyes. Life goes on.
Let’s pretend that halfway through my sophomore year, I found out my humorous duo partner for speech and drama was ineligible. Let’s pretend that same day I was walking to youth group when I saw T’s mom’s car parked outside of the church. I knew it couldn’t be her because they don’t go to our church, but sure enough, she was waiting inside for me.
We had this long conversation about how she was concerned with T (who had struck up a relationship with some twenty-something British guy she met online via Xbox). We talked for a long time, I gave her advice, and she was thankful for it.
Right before she left, I stopped her. I had this thought nagging on me, a question that I already knew the answer to, but needed to ask anyway. And even then I knew what would happen: I would ask the question, she would give the answer I was expecting, and everything would change.
But I had to ask anyway.
“Andy….He’s not real, is he?”
The short answer was no. Andy, Zach, Brandon. They were all lies. Part of me knew this, but wouldn’t accept it. Part of me knew this was wrong.
The long answer was that T has always been crazy for attention. She’d smear crap on the bathroom walls when she was mad. She told everyone her uncle beat her when he very clearly did not; she even bruised herself all over to make it more believable.
Let’s pretend I’m hopelessly optimistic and can’t stand to be very angry at anyone. Let’s pretend that I said it was okay but never trusted her again. Let’s pretend I lost my best friend a long time before I stopped talking to her.
It’s a strange thing, to watch your friendship slowly die. I’d seen betrayals like this in movies and in books, but then it was like a bomb dropping. Everything happened at once. One second they were friends, the next they weren’t. But T and I still hung out. I still went to her house, she still told me everything. And it would seem to anyone that nothing had changed.
The longer I was with her, the more alone I felt. All illusions about the perfect best friend disappeared, replaced with a harsh reality. This girl was sick. Her mind didn’t work right. She couldn’t be close to anyone without finding a way to push them away. She kept herself in an eternal light of pity and took great pains to nurture an ego based on nothing.
So when she moved away, I wasn’t crushed like I would’ve been a year ago. I didn’t cry, didn’t care. I actually found myself relieved, and I knew that was wrong. She still talked to me on Facebook, and I made polite conversation.
Then she found out I told some of our mutual friends about the lies she told me. I warned them. They took that warning. Now Vince—the one person she told me about who actually exists—won’t speak to her.
The last time we talked, she called me traitor.
So this is where I’m done pretending.
Right now, I don’t have T. I don’t have the drama she stirs up. I have a new best friend, one who’s honest with me. I’ve repaired all the friendships that she helped me push away, including farmer boy. And guess what? I look in the mirror now, and I like what I see. Maybe I’m not what anyone would call hot, not even pretty. Maybe I’m still fat, but I can love myself now. And it took being called a traitor by a traitor to see that I am not a bad person.