//this is a short story written by me for my writing portfolio class. it is fiction. enjoy :^)
You’re a tall girl wearing a new pink dress with your brown hair up in a french braid and smeared eyeliner across the fair skin of your eyelids and down your red irritated cheeks, mixing with the angry tears that drip down to your mouth. You sit down on your flowered bedspread and look at the wall across from you covered in pictures of you and your old friends and trees and the ocean and all sorts of other photos you’ve taken over the years and taped to the wall to remind yourself of all the good things you’ve got. You kick off your new sandals and they fly across the room, hitting the plastic baseboard between your dresser and your desk. What is there to do? You can’t do anything about this. She finally said it and it’s been said.
Across the room, below the printed photographs, is your cell phone with the screen still on and the messages open. She said not to take offense. She said she wasn’t being mean, just stating the facts. She said it isn’t anything to be ashamed of. She can just go die and rot in hell where she belongs.
This—this is an injustice. This is wrong. That wasn’t anything to say to your best friend whom you have known since preschool, whom you’ve never been truly apart from. That wasn’t anything to say to anyone, not even your worst enemy. You need to do something about this.
You’ve known that’s what she thought. It wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t something to be typed into an iPhone and sent. It was acknowledged in silence, at least to your face. You’ve speculated though—she isn’t one to keep things to herself, and things might have been said to her other friends, but you assumed it would be out of concern and never with malevolent intent. You assumed she cared about you more than anyone. Apparently, you can’t have faith in your own judgement.
She ended it, and over this, of all things? What kind of person ends a lifelong friendship over something like this? I’m only doing what’s best, she said. And then, she had the nerve to make the polite request that you stay home tonight? This is who she really is. Not your caring, supportive best friend for life, but some cold-hearted bitch who only cares about friends who further her popularity.
You decide on it, right here and now, but you’re not sure what you’ve decided. You stand up and pick up your shoes from the blue carpet and strap them on your feet and march down the stairs to the bathroom where you wipe the eyeliner off with a tissue and don’t bother to reapply it. Out the front door and down the front pathway past the rickety old mailbox, you walk along the sidewalk with forceful, confident steps and anger in your eyes. The heels of your sandals click along the cement like tapdance shoes.
You turn onto the two-laned road and the sun flickers in your eyes through the tall evergreens as the sky turns orange and pink behind the backdrop of shops and restaurants and cars driving home. Ahead, you see the high school and you walk faster, the clicks of your heels increasing in relative proximity. You’re almost there.
When you walk into the building, the crowd to enter the dance has depleted and only a few students are still waiting in line to contribute their five bucks. Good. You stand in line impatiently, but you aren’t there for long, and you stuff a five dollar bill into your classmate’s open hand before you march down the hallway to the gym.
You step into the gym and scan the room for her. The lights are still on and there are paper garlands of red and gold hanging from the balcony and all your fellow students are gathered in their respective cliques, talking and laughing and waiting for the lights to go out and the DJ to play some techno music so they can dance and talk and laugh some more.
In the far corner of the room you spot a few of the people she hangs out with, and, a moment later, your ex-best friend herself. She’s smiling and talking to one of the bitches she thinks are her friends and her silver sequined dress sparkles like her charming personality and she looks so fake and happy and you hate her more than anything and you march across the linoleum floor, the clicks of your heels audible even over the murmur of lively conversation, and she sees you as you’re passing the empty center of the room and her face falls and she taps the shoulder of some other bitch and says something quietly that you can’t hear, and they all turn to face you and you walk a bit faster and one of them whispers to another and you know exactly how much they hate you, how they’ve always hated you, how they all know that you’re some crazy bitch who can’t take criticism and who doesn’t have any real friends and who freaks out over everything, and you just can’t stand it and they’re going to learn that you aren’t powerless so you walk a bit faster and then you’re running in high heels that click and you feel even taller and more powerful, a force to be reckoned with, and you glide towards the people that hate you and in one motion, you punch your ex-best friend in the face.