Krissy and I met when we were both15 and boyfriend-less, when the best things in life were a cup of coffee and abig, fat slice of cheesecake with gingerbread crust. That cake was the firstthing Krissy and I discovered we had in common. In the chaos of a tangledadolescence, I held onto the one thing that connected me to my best friend.

Krissy and her blond ponytail had bounced up to the counter and peeredinto the case with large, blue eyes. Under the lamplight was the last slice ofcheesecake, calling out to both of us. She announced that cheesecake was herfavorite and, with wide eyes, I said the same. With great reluctance, we decidedthe right thing to do would be to share it. So there we sat, Krissy with herhalf, me with mine. It was then we realized we were going to be friends for avery long time.

The first summer passed, then the second. We spent everynight at her house or mine watching "Mystic Pizza" and "TheBreakfast Club" until our eyes watered from never blinking. We stayed awakeuntil dawn reading magazines, admiring models, indulging in mud masks and whiningabout how much we both wanted boyfriends. We would hike to the store at thecorner just to buy whipped cream in a spray can and king-size packages ofTwizzlers.

Finally, Krissy got her first car. She gleefully offered merides to and from school, and we used the precious time to gossip and vent. Onweekends, she'd pile our friends in the back of her truck; the passenger's seatin the cab was reserved for me. It was the third summer, just after schoolstarted and autumn began to creep in, when she met Alex.

It wasn't untilI watched her truck pull away with Alex in the passenger's seat that I knew I hadbeen abandoned. She had made some excuse why she couldn't take me home that day,something about "plans with Alex." Those three words formed her newfavorite phrase. As hurt as I was, I understood. I knew my time with Krissy waslimited, but it ran out sooner than I had guessed.

"Alex and I,"she had said on the way to pick up our friends. "We ... um ... youknow." For a moment I just listened to the hum of the engine, trying topretend I hadn't heard.

"Oh," I finally replied softly. The wallbetween us was complete. The day had come when there was something she couldn'ttalk to me about. Krissy had gone from baggy shirts to miniskirts overnight.Jeans became stockings and sneakers became clogs. She began deserting me, nevercalling unless Alex was working late. There were no more truck rides or latenights, no more blond ponytails.

I made excuses why I couldn't see herthe rare times she invited me out, something about homework or helping my mom.When I did spend the night, we were both too tired to stay up, and her room wasso empty of all the things we used to cherish that spending time together was achore. She was a woman now, and we had no common ground.

That fourthsummer, we went back to the cafe. She had needed a shopping buddy and I was outof excuses, so we made small talk like always in the insincere, "How's theweather?" way we had adopted. We finally decided it was time for lunch, andstepped into the cafe, the bitter taste of lost friendship in every corner.Krissy smiled suddenly, and I recognized my old friend in her childlikeexpression.

"Check it out," she said. "They still sell thesame cake." I peered through the glass and smiled back at her through theone missing brick in our wall. The harbored doubts were put aside, and Krissy andI were best friends again. There we sat, eating cheesecake with the gingerbreadcrust. The cafe closed in all around us, the aroma of cappuccino mingling withfresh-baked muffins. The conversation suddenly came easily and the afternoon wasours. This time, we each had a slice of our own.