When we were in seventh grade, Shaina made an internet friend. His name was Cole, and he was definitely our age, she promised. They started to talk a lot, and eventually I started chatting with him on Facebook. It was all good fun, and we would go home and talk with Cole while telling each other the ridiculous things he said. When the whole thing blew up and Shaina was hurt, I sent him a long email and told him never to contact her again.
I was always very protective of her. She was the only person I knew going into middle school, so we sort of clung to each other like a shark and remora. It was an unlikely friendship, but it worked.
She was from an unstable home life. Her mom was a lifeguard and she lived in a tiny house in a bad neighborhood with her two siblings. Her dad seemed to just drift into her life, make her angry, and then leave for a while. She was lost in all of her energy, a sort of violent explosion. Contrast this with my own comfortable suburban life just across Rockville Pike, and maybe I was in way over my head from the beginning being her closest companion.
When we were in seventh grade, she would complain about herself all of the time.
“Ugh, I hate my nose so much.”
“I’m so fat.”
“Everything I touch is a mess.”
“I don’t know why I even try, I should just give up.”
Every day was a constant struggle, and every day it grew harder and harder for me to understand why she was so unhappy.
“You’re beautiful, honest.”
“You’re smart, you’ll figure it out.”
“You always have me.”
“I love you, isn’t that enough?”
I looked over at the empty fish tank next to the computer.
“There’s nothing left now.”
“I just want it all to end.”
And then I was crying, sobbing all of the sudden and my mom and sister were rushing over and begging me to tell them what happened while I gasped and sputtered and failed to grasp the words I needed.
I knew Shaina was going to be angry. I knew she was going to distrust me for a while, and I knew I might regret it. But I told my mom, I told her how scared I was. It wasn’t a joke anymore, it wasn’t shouting, “I want to die!” in the middle of geometry class after finding out there were two proofs on the final exam. It was very different, and I was naïve.
My mom told the school counselor, and Shaina was sent to the Crisis Center. She came home that day and fumed online. I came clean, and Shaina declared she could never trust me again. I cried some more.
But then, about half an hour later, it was better. I hadn’t, in fact, ruined her life, and she never said a word against herself the entire day.
“You looked really pretty in that new dress today.”
“Thanks!”
There was no protestation. There was no dismissal. Just thanks, and a smile.
We went to different high schools, and Shaina turned into the most authentic hippie I know. She told me all of her stories from her adventures, staying out and cruising around with boys, telling off teachers and standing up to the system. I stayed in my comfortable suburban life, and enjoyed the stories of her excitement. She seemed happy, genuinely happy. But now I wasn’t.
I was tired of pretending I understood the political debates my friends had at lunch and staying home all weekend to do homework. Straight A’s and staying indoors began to bore me.
So we made our “adventure pact.”
We promised to go out into the world and experience as much as possible, but then take note and report to each other. We each did this our own way, though. She met more guys and went to large parties. I stopped hanging out with one group of friends and went swing dancing. It felt really good to have someone who understood my need for excitement, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how different she was from the Shaina I knew in seventh grade. I couldn’t stop thinking about how different I was, too.
We grew up together, and came to want more from life together. I was like the remora, living vicariously through Shaina and making sure she was free from any parasites. But, eventually, I had to grow up and become my own predator of the ocean.