Us

I cling to the rollicking waves of our tumultuous friendship before they slip from my grasp, white-knuckled fingers and tangled legs praying not to be tossed astray by the unforgiving current. Our differences lie between us like mountains, tall and unsaid, etched into the anonymity of silence, and we pretend that everything is fine until I'm inevitably staring into your green-grey eyes trying to understand something that I don't. We never fight, but we don't get along either, casting aside everything we once stood for in favor of sticky, syrupy quiet as we sit in straight-backed chairs, both of us wishing we were somewhere else. I think about boys, deep within the stupidity and solitude of daydreams, the sort of daydreams I should be able to extend to my best friend, but I know you won't get it, I know you'll be itching to talk about something else. I almost get the clothes that I see in magazines, that I see printed across the internet like status in tangible form, but then I think about your face, twisting up with disapproval, and I click out of the online clothing store as if it's a bomb. I'm careful about what I say around you, but I'm also careful to be seen with you, shame blurring the edges of my vision and, later, taking another shape as I wonder if I've mistreated you, if you think I'm embarrassed of you. You sing so loud you sound like you're screaming and I tell you to stop, even though long ago hearing you sing like that would make me wish I had your unabashed confidence, that I was able to lift my head to the cracked ceiling like it's a cerulean sky and belt out lyrics without caring who heard. I used to idealize you, take in your thrifted clothing and multicolored pins with starry eyes, before the pull to be normal overtook me, for better or for worse, coating my judgment like sweet powder, turning sour if it lingered too long on my tongue. I remember the days when things were easier, when I looked up to you--is that the way it was always supposed to be?--when we didn't have other friends, just each other and the pitter-patter of our wild, imaginary thoughts. We would lie back on the carpeted floor of my bedroom holding hands and talk about who we were, who we were going to be, when we moved in tandem like a soft, low tide. But now the ocean is defying everything it promised it would be within the weak daylight of late afternoon, crashing to the shore with violence, a volatile flourish of salt and foam, while beachgoers laugh and talk and build sandcastles, not realizing that anything is amiss.