5C

Ours wasn’t the kind of friendship where I knew the exact day it started. I only knew the exact day it became essential.

     I have always been aware of how I break.

     I know what kind of situations will break me.

     I know what kind of people will do it.

     I know how much it will hurt.

That day in sixth grade, remember? I broke because the humiliations and doubts and anger gained critical mass. I failed a history test because I’d forgotten about it; I had been studying hard all year, and with one bad grade I undid it all. Then I had to run an extra two laps in gym because I was too “lazy” slow, and I didn’t think I was going to make it, and I was going to have to stop or die of a lung attack before I finished. The other kids loved that. And then, at lunch, I tried to sit with Tara Jenkins and she told me there was no room, even though there was. The weight of it was too much. I felt myself breaking as I went outside to recess. I found a quiet piece of pavement and started rubbing my hand over it. Catching the gravel in my skin until I was bleeding, until my palm was open and raw.

Then you found me. Later, you’d tell me that you’d seen what Tara had done and had followed me out to see if I was okay. I was never sure if that was true. I thought it was possible you happened to see what I was doing and were morbidly intrigued. You came over to me and didn’t tell me I was gross and didn’t ask me what I was doing. Instead you said, “Stop that.” And I did.

I said I hated life. You said you hated life. We decided to hate it together.

We didn’t know anything.

Without you I wouldn’t have been able to contain the hate. I would have used it against myself. You’re the one who helped me control it. My mind spun out to other things.

But it always came back to you.