Friendship

Truth-Telling

We were lying in a circle, curled up on a den of sleeping bags, pillows and blankets. Popcorn and candy wrappers were scattered all around, remnants of that night’s feeding fest, while we had, oblivious to all else, watched our movie selection, comprised mostly of films featuring Orlando Bloom. But now the TV was silent, and most of us had migrated off the couch and living room chairs to our sleeping bags. We lounged around, nonchalant, waiting for the quietest part of night when the hostess’s brother was sure to be asleep. Some of us had iPod headphones screwed into their ears, the other end handed obligingly to the person next to them, heads bobbing in unison, looking in the almost-darkness like some sort of musically inclined two-headed animal. Some of us were eating the last remainders of candy, salvaged from the hostess’s dog when the coffee table had been tipped over during a particularly dramatic reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean. The said dog was snuffling inconspicuously in the corner, nosing hopefully in an empty pizza box, looking for that last overlooked piece of pizza. We were quiet for some time, except for the occasional whispered conversation. We looked at the clock perched on top of the TV. 10:47 PM. The hostess nodded, and, in the long-continued tradition of sleepovers, we rearranged our sleeping bags into the designated circle for a game of Truth or Dare, for our first one had been more or less decimated, as we had all branched off into our own little sub-circles, centered on the lucky one with the iPod or in current possession of the candy bag. It was the time for us all to spill our guts or suffer the wrath of a Dare But, irresistibly, the sleeping-bag planets being orbited by frizzy-haired, tired-eyed (but of course no one would admit it) moons, were being drawn by gravity into a larger circle focused on the last precious remains of popcorn, serving as our sun in our own personal galaxy. “So . . .” someone said, balanced precariously on top of a small Mount Everest made of sleeping bags and pillows. So. We all knew what that one little syllable meant. It was Circle Time, where, as most of the girls in the world who have ever partaken in a slumber party knew, it was the time for us all to spill our guts or suffer the wrath of a Dare. Of course, now that we were at the (we thought) great age of thirteen, we rather scaled back on the Dare. First of all, there just weren’t very many sufficiently mortifying things left to set for each other to do. Most of us had friends who were boys now, some of us even had boyfriends, so getting dared to call so-and-so wasn’t such a big deal anymore. And, since we were virtually locked in the living room, running outside at two o’clock in the morning in one’s underwear singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” at the top of one’s lungs was not particularly practical either. We had also almost entirely abandoned the age-old question, “Who do you like?” as well. Sure, it was always interesting to know, but in our tight circle of friends, most of us knew already, and those who didn’t were probably going to get around to asking about it one of these days, but for the most part it was not such a tantalizing question as it had been when we were seven. Instead, we started off with a round of “What do you fear most?” and had to resort to using the Magic Manatee somewhat earlier than intended, (usually we bring the manatee out when we get to Most Embarrassing Moment) to stop us all from interrupting each other and waking the parents. (In case you have never heard of the Magic Manatee, it is a stuffed manatee attained at Sea World nearly eight years ago, which serves as a method to acquire some semblance of order. The basic principle is this: You can’t talk unless you are holding the manatee, and if someone would like to add something to the discussion, then they must wave their hand wildly in the air, frantically mouth “manatee,” and be able to catch the marine mammal when it is tossed in their general direction. If one fails to subscribe to this rule, and interrupts anyway, that unlucky soul will be barred from our circle and made to go to bed before seven o’clock in the morning.) We whispered late into the night. Dragging in sea anemones, basic principals of philosophy, theology, and physics, that math teacher from sixth grade, that incident regarding the ice cream, the so-called scandal from fifth grade, in which he pushed her from the swings when it was widely believed that she had a crush on him, where we are, and where we want to end up, government conspiracies involving Area 51 and where we go when we die, we all managed to weave it into our own story, between the trivial and terrific, we told the tale of our friendship, our hopes and dreams and fears from the past years, knowing that it would last for many more, but when the first rays of dawn shown on the horizon, even the most steadfast “I’m-staying- up-all-night-“ers fell asleep. And the last question we asked was indeed, “Who do you like?” After all, we were not as grown up as we thought we were. Katie Sinclair, 13Manhattan Beach, California Mona Cao,13Freehold, New Jersey

Paintings

Lara flung the covers away with an arm and nearly fell out of bed in her rush to get to the clock, on the other side of the room. The piercing wail of the alarm had always irritated her immensely. She saw it as a shatterer of dreams, a malicious creature that waited until the very moment when you jumped into the sky to ring its sorry heart out. Hand slamming down on the “off” button, she sighed and ran her long, slender fingers through her tangled dark brown hair. Then she regarded them with fastidious interest. She decided they should be included in her list of good features, as number three, owing to the long, unbitten fingernails and delicate, almost visible bones. The other two were her eyes and her hair. The only delicate thing about me, really, she thought rather sadly, as she tried to walk to the bathroom but tripped over a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles. She hopped on one foot, tugging the miscreant sheet off, and continued on her way. Once there, she scrutinized herself in a tall mirror on the back of the door. Stocky, five foot five, straight, lanky brown hair, stormy blue eyes, check. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed. She turned to the mirror over the sink and began to search for the easiest place to start brushing. She had long ago decided her hair was like a wild stallion. Sometimes it could be elegant, pretty, even affectionate, but mostly it was willful, impertinent, and unyielding. Yanking her brush through the first wild snarl, she heard a small, metallic crack. She sighed and reached up to pull a tiny metal tine from the knot, then looked at the corresponding hole in the brush. There were other holes too, mostly around the edge. She felt sorry for the decimated thing, and compared it to the soft grass the stallion viciously chomps. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed She brushed her teeth quickly and brusquely, and then went back to her room to grab a book before heading downstairs. The Hounds of the Morrigan. A fantasy story but centered on Irish mythology. She stroked the shiny cover as she walked down the hall. Ireland. She would be going there soon. She smiled at the thought. Maybe, just maybe, she would have a magical adventure. After all, where would one be more likely to happen than in Ireland, the Land of the Fae? She trilled three happy notes, and then found herself in the kitchen. Lara always had the same thing. She was aware this was very unimaginative, but she told herself she could not be infinitely creative. In things that were not artistic, she always followed a set pattern or order. Even though it made no difference, she liked to think she accomplished more when in a comforting ritual. Grabbing a bagel from the breadbox and a bottle from the fridge, Lara set them on the table. She was in the act of dipping the knife in to spread on the bagel, when she realized it was ketchup. She hurriedly wiped the knife off, screwed the top on, and put it back in the fridge. Then she pulled the right bottle out, feeling minor irritation. As she lazily spread creamy yellow mustard on the bagel, Lara thought it was quite possible no one else in the world had the same thing for breakfast. She liked to think that at least one thing was all her own, unshared. She knew it was unusual to eat mustard on a bagel, but she was a firm believer in Pleasure Before Convention. Like Age Before Beauty, an idea she thought excellent. She both envied and despised exceptionally pretty people. She knew (or told herself she knew) she only had one remarkable feature; her cloudy gray-blue eyes. She would have loved them even more if they had worked properly, instead of making her wear glasses. Well, need them, anyway She hardly ever wore them. Carrying her plate to the table, she put her feet on the chair diagonally across from her and began to eat. She also read, using one hand to hold the book and the other to eat. She vaguely heard her mom, Michaela, begin to stir above, and she felt a sort of sinking. She loved her mother, but she liked having the house to herself. She finished the bagel and licked her fingers, then put down the book and carried her plate to the counter by the sink, and left it there. She climbed the wide staircase, and halfway through the hall, she met her mother. “Good morning, Lara,” she mumbled, then rubbed her eyes. She seemed to come more awake, and smiled. “Only a day and a few hours left until you go to Ireland!” “Yes, I know, Mom. Thank you. I’m really glad to be going.” Her mother smiled even wider and her eyes got the melted look Lara recognized as fondness for something inanimate. Whenever she thought of a special place, object, or even idea, her eyes became shiny with moisture, and they seemed to stare right through whatever was in front of them. Lara’s mother cried very easily, but not out of sadness. Now she shrugged her shoulders in excitement and then, suddenly, frowned. “You’re still in your nightgown!” “Yes, I’m going to change right now, Mom.” Lara slipped into her room and nearly tripped over the giant suitcase. She swore silently and glared at the thing. She had tripped over it nearly daily ever since she finished packing. She imagined it glaring back at her in a stuck-up fashion. “There’s only enough room in here for one of us,” she told it sternly, then without another word, she booted it into the hall, where it lay in haughty defeat. She lifted her chin and turned to her dresser. Nothing much was in the maple drawers. It had all been packed, all but her least favorite clothes.

Sour Memories

Today I go into candy shops and see little bottles of liquid Warhead sour substances and Warhead sour spray. But I can never find what I am really looking for: sour, sweat-producing, face-pinching, tongue-twisting, and eye-watering, irresistible, Warhead sucking candies. I know it sounds weird making so much fuss over something so little as a sucking candy, but it is more than a sour sucking candy to me, it is a memory to me, one memory that has been wrapped, packed and sent from Japan. It all started way back in second grade. Fraser and I met each other the year before but that year in second grade was the year of the Warhead! If you did not know any better, you would say Fraser and I were twins. He is slightly taller than me, but he has brown hair, and blue eyes, two of the many features we share. In fact, I, one of the two “twins,” had mistaken him for me. I was walking into my second-grade classroom when I saw a picture of me on the floor. I thought it was Fraser’s and ran to give it to him. This is how much we look alike. Fraser was a really nice kid. He was a bright and clever kid. He always came up with ideas that everybody agreed on. Even though he was Australian, he did not have an accent. He was someone who was ready to do anything, anytime, anywhere, even if it meant his life. But the thing I liked most about Fraser was that he always had a smile on. He was also daring. He was not afraid of anything. But we always helped each other. Fraser and I were a team. “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin Anyway, he would come to lunch with a goldmine of Warheads. Black cherry, green apple, yellow lemon, every Warhead flavor. He would tell me which he thought was the most sour. He would put more than one in his mouth at a time and tell me which were the best combinations. While he did that he would make funny faces trying to fight off the sour. He would imitate the face on each wrapper on the Warheads (except for the head exploding). He was like a librarian. “Hi,” you would say to him. “What could I do for you?” he might reply. “I am looking for something sweet and sour.” “Hold on.” He would reach into the goldmine and pull out a green apple. “Here you go.” “Thanks.” You would take the Warheads and leave with sour explosions in your mouth. One day while we were in the second grade we were at Fraser’s house when he got up and said, “I’ll be right back.” When he returned, he laid out five black-cherry Warheads (the most sour) on a paper napkin in front of me. He did the same for himself “Let’s see who could hold the sour the longest,” he said with a sinister grin. “Whoever spits their Warheads onto the paper napkin first loses.” “You’re on,” I said, confident of my victory. “On your marks,” he said, “get set, go.” We stuffed the candy in our mouths. Immediately my face scrunched up from the explosion. But Fraser was sitting calmly with that sinister grin again. Can newcomer Michael Madans beat Warhead master Fraser Stead? I thought. Nope. I stared at the Warheads that were just in my mouth and now on the paper towel. Then I just laughed. Once Fraser finished off his Warheads he started to laugh too. And we just laughed and laughed. This was more than just a sucking candy, it was one of the things that made our friendship stronger. Halloween of 2003 was the last time I saw Fraser. We were only in the fourth grade when he moved back to Australia, where he was first born. And that was also the last time I had a Warhead for a long time. It is Warheads that keep our friendship as strong as it is. It was devastating. I just stood there doing nothing, no matter what my heart said. “I guess this is it,” I said. “Yeah,” he said. “Bye.” “Bye,” I replied. I was ready to do something outrageous. But I didn’t. It felt like being strapped to a brick wall. After all these years of happiness, laughter and Warheads, we were going to be separated on Halloween, which is supposed to be a holiday of joy “It was really nice knowing you, bud,” I said. “I am going to miss you. See ya.” And that was it. But little did I know, I did not just say goodbye to my friend, I also said goodbye to the memory of a huge friendship. So that was it. No more Fraser. No more Warheads. I wonder what my life without Fraser would be like without Warheads. Would we remember each other? Would we still be friends? Many things could happen if it was not for that piece of candy. So here I was a fifth-grader, almost sixth, walking down the street. It has almost been a year since I last saw Fraser and the last time I had a Warhead. I think to myself, if I could just taste the sourness, and the sweetness of the memory, my spirit would rise. I wonder if Fraser has Warheads in Australia? Does he remember Warheads and all the memories? I walk into the nearest candy store and think, I wonder if they got more blue raspberry sour spray I reach in and pull out a package of WARHEAD SOUR SUCKING CANDIES. I really do not think when I see it. I just grab it. It is not a bag of candy to me. It is the key to my happiest memories, Fraser. I give the cashier the exact change and run out the door. I open the package and look at