The beginning years of elementary school were a torrent of confusion and uncertainty. I was teetering on the edge of a waterfall, hanging on to a thin branch of hope that one day I might escape the rapids. When Amy became my best friend, she pulled me out of the water and onto a fragile raft. We clung to each other, riding together through the stream. We didn’t care that every sharp turn meant a cold, unforgiving splash in the face; as long as we had each other, we would endure the tumultuous water. To this day, I continue to wonder why it was when we had finally reached calm water that I suddenly drifted away.
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There are certain elements that don’t mix well with the sometimes brutal bullies of elementary school. It’s safe to say I possessed all of these elements: buck teeth, an obsession with books, lack of athleticism, and a gross allergy to social situations. When Amy and I met, our mutual “weirdness” made us so compatible that we became best friends instantaneously. I was delighted to have a person with eccentricities that were on par with mine: Amy was characterized by double-jointed fingers, a front tooth turned completely sideways, a surgically repaired cleft pallet, and a waif figure. We both loved writing, the Harry Potter series, computer games, climbing trees until we fell from the top, and acting out our grandiose fantasies. We both knew of a field five-minutes away, which graduated from just a place down the road to a personal haven during the third grade. There we were free from the snide remarks of our classmates: no one was wrapping a tape measure around my waist and exclaiming, “Oops! There’s not enough of it!”, no one was whispering as I read my book in the corner, no one was relegating me to “defense” by myself during daily soccer games. During the years of pre-adolescence, I don’t think there was a day when Amy and I didn’t talk at least once.


Then adolescence swooped down on me, capturing me in its talons and poisoning me with the black-ink desire to be accepted. I met Amelia and Susan in sixth grade. My sixth grade self was captivated by their Abercrombie clothes, purple nails, and seamless sociality. They were, in every sense of the term, “popular girls”: beautiful, fashionable, and manipulative. Enchanted and desperate, I began to tentatively nudge my way into their circle of friends. Only after I had revamped my wardrobe and began saying the word “like” ad nauseam did the door open to their luminescent palace of acceptance. It was the most mesmerizing place I had ever seen.


A rift began to emerge between Amy and me. In hindsight, I understand that she was frightened by my sudden conformity and the prospect of being abandoned. She started teasing me about my shaved legs and my shirts that boasted “Abercrombie” across the chest. I would internally wince every time she commented on my symptoms of puberty, the growth of some weird things right below my collarbone. I took her negative change in behavior as my crucial justification for pursuing other friends, and the rift between us spread itself larger. It was on a Wednesday, when I was sitting by Amelia and Susan, that Amy abruptly came over and said, “It’s okay, Brooke. You can tell me that I’m not your best friend anymore.”


I arched my eyebrows in disbelief, but frankly, I was not entirely shocked. During recess the same day, I confronted Amy, and the dam holding back her anger burst forth. We bickered for what seemed like hours, allowing our ugly dispute to mar the beauty of the day. The violet flowers were beginning to fade away nostalgically, their petals suffused with the golden-brown hue of spring’s death. The wind tumbled through the grass, swirling the crisp autumn musk into the air. Nature had taken her brush and smeared the green leaves with maroon, cutting out dark outlines in the azure sky.


“I f-feel like you’re leaving me…I-I don’t know why, but…” Amy stammered, wiping tears onto her sleeve. They climbed with tremulous fingers through the threads.


“I’m not,” I insisted, though the mixture of feelings snaking itself around my stomach was not as sure. “I just want to hang out with other people for a little….”

“Wh-why, though?”

“Well…we’ve spent so much time together.”


“I know, I know…but—”


“—But nothing. We’re fine, alright?”


Most recesses were spent repeating this conversation incessantly. With each word I felt myself recoiling back from Amy and into the comfort of new friends. When we finally “resolved” our issues, we hugged briefly and walked off in opposite directions to our respective “groups”. I walked off to join Amelia and Susan while Amy walked off to join no one. I’m ashamed to say that this didn’t bother me. I remember the sunlight leaping off the red-violet leaves on the trees and into my face, blinding my vision.


The rest of sixth grade careened by me. Caught up in the excitement of transitioning to middle school, I failed to realize that I had sidelined one of the most significant people in my life. By the final months of sixth grade, the rift between Amy and me had diverged into an ocean. Now, when I think about reaching across, the undertow pulls me farther out—out into the bottomless purple sea, in which there are no splashes in the face or rough waters, but a longing as deep as an abyss.