The Weird Kid

In high school I had this friend that I usually hated.

I am a reluctant subscriber to the mirror-theory of hating people. That is, if dislike for someone really pounds you in the gut; you find yourself just wanting to shove them off things, it's because they're brazenly mirroring to you parts of yourself you hate.

Therefore when I hated Misty it was because she was me. I'd watch her interact with people more popular than her, I'd listen to the funny, wry things she said and see how she screwed her face up into just the right look of chubby-girl-knows-deeply-your-hurt. And I'd think, "Goddamn you that's my line. That's how I'm going to get into the popular group."

Well, consciously I'd think, "You stupid little faker, they'll never like you."

By the time I graduated I had decided she had a truly black soul and was gratified to find her, a year later, wallowing in a pointless life. She lived in Arkansas, in a rotting house with five lonely homely stoners, one of whom was her boyfriend. She worked in the office of a Dairy Council, had arrogantly changed her name to Carys and had taken to wearing what was either a pentacle or a Star of David around her neck, I can't remember which. But either was ridiculous for a ex-Seventh-Day-Adventist from Omaha. All to show off of course. Disgusting. Weird clothes and quoting Nietsche could not change the fact that she was starting a life-sentence of mediocrity. Just like me. So Ha Ha on you.

Two months ago I moved a box and the bottom broke open and Misty's yearbook fell out. She had ran out of money for the boarding school we went to and had left before getting the yearbook of her Senior year. Someone gave it to me to give to her next time I saw her.

Now, you see, I am sophisticated, and noble, and so I sought her out through a mutual friend, to send her the yearbook.

Ten years had past. I found her. Still named Carys. Except now she is archaeologist. In Hawaii.

I emailed her. A lot, trying to find out how the hell this did happen. How she come up out of that soft easy mire we both had lived in? She and I were unavoidable soul sisters in suffering at the hands of the stupid world around us. Our job was to avoid it and make fun of it. Not...enter it.

She was happy to tell me all about it in long meandering letters. There was this line.

"then one day it just struck me, that if I didn't do something this would be my life – forever…and it wasn't a particularly bad life really, all things considered you know, but I just knew I wanted more…"


I sat in my decomposing lawn chair for the better part of a week, after reading that. Watching a sprinkler nourish weeds and a naked baby and yeasty dog. How dare she not be me anymore. Or rather, how dare she be me and do something I couldn't. Work hard, yank on to a dream even though it wasn't easy to hold. Have adventure, restart a stalled life, instead of being scared and hoping to god today wouldn't bring pain.

I don't want her life. I want my life, because it is good. I love that damn sprinkler, weeds, baby and dog. I just want more, too. And how insulting to be shown that it is possible.