She was, by no means of the word, exceptional. But to the me who sat a seat in front of her in drama and ran twenty steps behind her in PE, she had an imperceptible charm that enticed me and everyone else to delve into her objective mediocrity. She was, by no means of the word, pretty. But to the me who shuffled through a closet constructed from middle school pretentiousness, she had a confidence that outshined the collective closets of even the “popular girls.” She was, by no means of the word, kind. But to the me who prided herself on speaking her mind, she listened, as if what I was saying made sense, as if she agreed with me.

She was never the fastest runner, but she was faster than me. She’d promise me, with a chipped nail indenting on my shoulder, that we’d run together. Even then, by the second lap, my blurring vision couldn’t perceive the outline of her figure. Some unknown force propelled me to run faster—and I did. And one day I ran faster than her, but she wasn’t there—sick, down with a fever at home. I made it farther, panting as I propelled myself off the pavement over and over again. I made it, but when I turned my head she wasn’t there, 5 miles off to the north—home where she might have hidden whatever expression of pride, indignation, or indifference that would’ve otherwise been afforded to me. I never told her.

She stood in stark contrast to the drama teacher whose voice ebbed and flowed with the flame of her passion that burned ceaselessly despite the icy gazes of a class of sleeping teens. Instead, the aching tumor in my heart possessed a distinct glare that gleaned through the thick lenses that sat on the bridge of her nose, and that sharpened condescension shot through the mime’s fiery passion. If you talked to her, that gaze would drill into your skull and perceive the construct of your soul—she said nothing back then, but that imperceptible thick fog of superiority always loomed about her, and in hindsight, our unpolished ideas must have been so hideously common. But to me, she said, “You're better than them, they aren’t even aware that they’re contradicting themselves.” I was too, but God's words are the final truth.

She seemed to see things that weren’t there, but they were so real to her that, through her, we felt that we could ostensibly feel those things. Sometimes, she’d look back at us, pause between her strides, for a moment, to cast a gaze across those who clung behind. In the midst of swarming bodies, she’d stand still—peering at maybe one blade of grass that leaned the opposite direction. She’d call me over, lean down, and pluck it from its roots. “Have it,” she said, cupping my two hands in hers. With slow movements, she steadily slipped the weed into my palms. “Now look, it's better now, right?” she said as she drove the heel of her broken shoe into the grass. I followed her gaze from her eyes down my arms and finally to my palm where the grass had already disappeared, but by the time I realized, her gaze lightened in its focus as it shifted towards something behind me like she was crying or holding back tears. When I gazed back hoping to perceive what she did, my hands had slipped from her grasp. “Come on, let’s go,” she turned her back, but the lingering touches radiated a palpitating heat. If I could make her turn back again and be worthy of those thoughts reserved for her. 

There I was, for better or for worse, enraptured by her. A dull, blunt, and cruel girl that was ever so charming, ambivalent, and elusive. It's funny because like everyone else, me included of course, she didn’t possess any sort of passion—in fact, she had the same emptiness I did—an emptiness that expressed a yearning to experience those terrors on TV. “Y’know, sometimes I wish that some sort of earthquake would topple my house down, just to feel alive,” I’d say, and she’d agree. I milked this line—over and over, reasserting our unique brand of worldview, reminding her just how similar we are. And her face, contorted in perpetual scorn, would unravel into a strange expression of both joy and arrogance. She’d pat me on the back, exclaim in front of her collection of childhood friends “yeah, me too” as if it's the first time she had ever heard me say that. The way she spoke, the way her voice lightened an octave, the sharp “hah” as it broke with the crude dishonesty of her laughter, the way her gaze carelessly slipped past my shoulder ignited an unbridled hatred within me—and so came, a carnal craving. Those hands that once held mine never brought the same warmth as that time, it stayed cold, the heat distinctly fading along with my memory. I want to plaster something on that impervious expression of hers—tear down that arrogance and reveal the sadness from that day, peel back at it because she stubbornly hid it away. Rejection, rejection, rejection, REJECTION after rejection—but that’s no matter because each time I could sense that frown slowly turning upward—“maybe next time” it mused, and I would salivate at her feet, panting like the blind pug she eyed in front of the liquor store.

Sometimes, as I feel my legs ache chasing her fading figure, my eyes would wander to the patch of skin peeking from behind the tarnished collar of her uniform. If I could only get so close as to see my reflection in the sweat dripping down her neck, if I can just run faster maybe I can taste just how dirty it is—just how dirty she is. But no matter how fast I run, I can only delight in the trailing dust of footprints left behind—the footprints marred into the unkempt grass waning from her careless steps; the footprints stamped into each grain of sand graced with the touch of her morbid vitality; the footprints marked by the tattered shoe she refuses to throw away; the footprints that speak of her existence. If I could relish in it, let the posthumous blend of fading touches render me inebriated, if she could bear to let me lick the bottom of those shoes, let the sensation of the tattered cloth trace the steps she’s taken along my tongue, if —