To-est Tomato, Minnie Strone . . . Soup!

BB Minkey, this is so unlike you to block my every outreach. But as I continue to reiterate . . . I get it. And man, do I not blame you. I am on my knees literally begging for your forgiveness, Stef.

We are all changing so much as summer-after-Senior-year and first-semester-of college loom over us. I could always count on you taking me back with open arms no matter how crappy I was bein’, but you’ve grown up a ton, and I respect that from the very bottom of my heart. You have blossomed into someone who if I met today for the first time I would envy. Someone I would want so much to be friends with. Someone I would hope liked my clothes, my hair, my thoughts on society and the world at large. You’re just so multidimensional and wise and both book- and street-smart. Basically, Stef—you friggin’ get it. Whatever the IT everyone always talks about is . . . you get IT and have IT. All of IT.

I just can’t bear to go another day having won Nationals and MVP without being able to share it with you. I mean this, those titles and the trophies and the new school banner, mean less than nothing to me because I can’t even share it (IT) with you. What’s a mansion, they always say, if you can’t share it with those you love most? A yacht is just some floating metal if it’s not filled with people you love. And titles are meaningless if your best friend isn’t in your world.

Pleading with you, Stef. Let me be a part of your world. Mine is nothing without you in it. That I can say for certain.

Ya know, I was so delusional coming into 1992 thinkin’ I had “evolved so much” and “figured it all out.” I am humbly admitting I don’t know much, but I know I love you. (Oh my god, I just remembered how much we sang that song, Steffed Animal. You were the most glorious Linda Ronstadt and I, an amazin’ Aaron Neville.)

While I can’t do anything until West Side Story auditions are over, I am going to listen to my best friend (you might know her . . . her name is Stef Campbell . . . she is, oh, I don’t know . . . the best girl ever. Heard of her?) and end things with Christopher. Let me say that again. I AM GONNA END THINGS WITH CHRISTOPHER!

I guess I forgot me along the way. I forgot who I am. What I’m made of. You tried so hard to remind me, but I was basically deaf. You could have done sign language and I wouldn’t have gotten it, Stef. I guess that means I wasn’t deaf. I was dumb. Ignorant. Arrogant. All of it (IT).

I’ve changed, though. I have. Going to Nashville, being immersed in Southern culture, changed me. I got to sit and meditate (thanks to you, my guru) and get clear. And clear I am, Stef. Clear as Ms. Bugg’s chalkboard after I got picked to squeegie it.

And I miss your mom and her cooking. Why couldn’t she have rubbed off on my mom? Things I will probably not understand until I’m in college. There are so many things I bet I just won’t have the ability to get until I’m outta this town. All that is to say, Stef, I would LOVE to come over and have your mom’s dinner. I would love to talk and do our figure-life-out old-school conversation. And I am not assuming the Nantucket cottage offer still stands, but I can’t think of a better way to bid South High an official farewell. In a cottage on an island with my best friend.

I will keep writin’ you until you can find it in your heart to forgive me this one last time. Hey, I imagine siblings fight and make up a ton, right? And we are sisters, Stef. So I do hope that counts for a lot.

Diego is so lucky to have you. And while he was very, veeery good-lookin’ before, havin’ you by his side has made him flat-out gorgeous. I say that simply as a testament to you. You make people shine. I ask to be one of the lucky ones who gets the benefit of your Halley’s Comet.

Hearts and Stars and Galaxies . . .

Tara