Friendship

Rain and warm mist stick to the windowsills. My face is leaning towards light, pressed against glass. It’s a sun shower. Always such an unnerving thing, as most adults put it. I think we need more of these sun showers in life. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy. I am sitting on one of the various window seats that my home-decorator mother insisted on for our house when I was born, the last of seven children. There is one window seat for each of us, with cluttered cubbies and our names underneath. Other than my parents, we kids don’t care whose window seat belongs to whom, and we take whichever is available. I’m currently sitting on Mark’s. For the past couple of days I’ve been thinking more intently than I’m used to, and less selfishly than my thoughts usually turn out to be. I’m thinking about people, and what I’m missing when I look at them. *          *          * I met Loraline at art camp, at the beginning of summer. She came up to me, popped a big bubblegum bubble in my face, and asked, “Are you the new camper?” “Yes,” I’d answered, a bit shell-shocked, not so much because of what she’d asked, but because of her forwardness, and her appearance: a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, overalls, and wild, dirty-blond hair. “Of course, you gotta be,” Loraline said, hitting her forehead with her palm, “how many new campers are there! Simonee said one new camper, not plural, more than one. So you’re obviously it.” I was already a bit frazzled, but the sudden mention of a girl with an odd name like Simonee—not Simone—made me even more confused. I asked who Simonee was, and she just laughed. It’s too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy “Who’s Simonee! Good one, real good one. I’m Loraline. You’ll get used to me blowing bubbles—I use gum for my art projects. I’m very original.” Now that that was established, I didn’t ask anything else about this mysterious Simonee girl—until I met her. There was such an anticipation to meet the girl who apparently everyone except me knew that I found myself asking, “When will Simonee come to camp?” about every minute of my first day. “What, are you in love with her or something?!” joked Gabriel, who Loraline had introduced me to as “the calm guy.” Gabe smiled gently beneath his curly brown hair, and he indeed didn’t look like someone who liked arguing. In fact, he was the one who had suggested the idea of creating a clay music box to the camp counselors—a project that we were working on today I was painting mine with waves and mermaids, for the calming ocean. I noticed that Loraline’s was bright pink, and had pictures of ballerinas popping bubbles, and that Gabe’s had faces of smiling people looking straight at you. I wondered what Simonee’s music box would have looked like if she were here. My second day at camp, Simonee arrived. And ohh, did she arrive in style. “There she is!” Gabriel pointed out, as she strutted through the doors to the art room. Everything surprised me. First, I overheard that she was fourteen. And I thought / was short! She could pass for an eleven-year-old, honestly The second surprise was that when she entered with her four dalmatians and huge fur coat and mittens (in summertime!), the three camp counselors—Stacey, Joe, and Abigail—cleared a sort of path for her, as did the campers. The four dalmatians barked wildly as Simonee got them to shut up for a few minutes, leading them off to a corner where they obediently stayed put. She shrugged off her heavy fur coat and handed it to Joe, who quickly hung it up. Just as Simonee was walking over to our art table (I’d figured out by now that Gabriel and Loraline were her friends, and by establishing myself with them, I was too) and I wasn’t ready for more surprises, every single camper minus myself sang out, “Hi, Simoneeeee!” Simonee ignored the cheers and claps for her and plopped down right next to me. “Tell me your name,” she commanded. “Why?” I couldn’t help asking. “Tell it.” “Deliah.” “Deliah,” she repeated, gazing at Loraline for a minute, then at Gabriel. “Hmmm. We’ll have to think up something for you.” “Think up something for me?” I was shot a look that had never before been aimed at me: a look that told me right off that I was an ignorant fool with gravy for brains. Simonee’s answer was simple. “A nickname. Are you mentally challenged?” “No, she’s just new,” said Loraline, quickly. She was immediately shot The Look of Dumbnosity. “Newbies always start out mentally challenged. Some, like me and you and Gabriel, get over it, and some…” Simonee looked straight at me “…might not.” *          *          * The third and fourth days of camp were a blur of Simonee bossing people around, Loraline constantly popping her bubbles to re-use them for her art projects, and Gabriel acting as the peacemaker, while I sat silent as a mime. On the fifth day, Simonee poked me during collage-making. Loraline, obviously, was looking for pink backgrounds to match her bubblegum scene, Simonee was trying to find cute dog pictures, Gabriel was on a hunt for caramel colors to match his skin in the self-portrait he was making, and I was on the lookout for pictures of children— especially friends. I’d never experienced friendships with kids as different as these three, and I wanted my artwork to reflect upon them in some way. “Don’t you ever talk?” Simonee asked simply. “Yes, I do talk. I just haven’t been given much of an opportunity to prove my chatting skills yet. At the right moment, I assure you that I will please you with talk.” Apparently I had answered correctly Loraline blew a bubble and tipped her cowboy hat at