Pretend Friends By Martha Anne K

Pretend Friends By Martha Anne King

“Who is she?” as Wayne’s voice drops an octave in three words.

Gary follows Wayne’s eyes. He’s a head taller than anyone else in the room and easily sees her. “I have no idea.”

Bill jostles Gary aside. “She’s gotta be somebody’s wife!”

I watch as party hairdos circle and dodge black and gold balloons and crepe paper garlands vying for a glimpse of who is causing the commotion.

Gradually, the forced laughter and too loud conversation masking the awkwardness of twenty years of silence between friends hushes over. Scattered whispers: “Who is she?”

She turns toward the mingling crowd, once or twice holding the eyes of someone but not long enough to connect. She is alone. Since I stand well to the edge of the room with Wayne and Gary and Bill and the rest of the gang I grew up with from first grade, she doesn’t see me. As part of the organizing committee I know who’s attending. No one comes to mind. Who is she? And then for just a second our eyes meet … and I know.

I see a six-year-old tomgirlfriend sitting on the steps of her tiny screened-in back porch. Her arms folded on her knees, her shoulders shaking. “Hi! What’s wrong? You aren’t dressed! We’re gonna be late for our first Brownie meeting!” She looks up to speak through her silent tears when her mother shrieks from the kitchen window. “You! Go home now. She’s not going with you. I’m not wasting good money on that silly Brownie uniform. Go on home now. And you, young lady! Stop crying and come in here. Make the lemonade. My Bridge Club will be here any minute and I have to iron my new organza dress. Hurry up!” I turn to leave. With streaked cheeks and wet aching eyes, she reaches out to me for something I don’t know how to give.

“Who is she?” whispers Wayne in my ear.

She is lying at the foot of my double bed on a too hot September day in a lime green jumper two sizes too big. She’s on her right side, knees pulled up almost to her chest. Her head rests on her arm while her left fist pounds time with her sobs. She’s almost a foot taller than me now. Bad eating has left her with awful pimples that punctuate her face as though they bear witness to all the slights and hurts she has suffered. I am round and young breasted and learning to flirt with boys and thinking about dieting. She is shapeless and too thin and knows it. Braces have killed her smile. Too large and too thick glasses hide her eyes. Her tear filled green eyes. This is the afternoon of our first day in high school. That morning as I dressed in my new royal blue A-line skirt and darling blouse with the Peter Pan collar and circle pin on the left side and fussed with my hair and sneaked a bit of lipstick, she was on her knees in her bathroom fishing her brand new underwear out of the toilet where her Mother had dumped them the night before. Just to be mean. Now she gasps between sobs, choking out her story, trying to make sense of it. She can’t. And neither can I.

Gary sees my face and rubs my shoulder. “Hey, are you all right?” Then looking at her again, he forgets about me. “God! Who is she? I’ve got to find out.” Taking control as always, he struts over to her. She stands eye to eye with him, holding his stare. Not a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. Without saying a word, he takes her by the hands onto the dance floor.

“Come on! Let’s go!” And Wayne and I are out there too. I feel silly twisting the night away to Chubby Checkers. I watch her dancing. Hair flashing around her and see…

Her standing at my dresser mirror. Holding my brush like a weapon in her never-ending battle with her hair. She hates her hair. Red. Orangey red. And that accentuates her all over her face freckles; not the cute little brownish freckles that people love on pixie-like noses. Her hair is uneven and too long. To save money her mother grabs the kitchen shears, when she thinks about it, and “tidies this mess up. Child, the Lord must be punishing you real bad to give you hair like this. Lawd! Lawd! Child.” Her hair, not quite kinky but way beyond wavy, cannot be tamed into the smooth, sleek, chic Jackie flip, so she strangles it into an uptight updo, a French Twist with bobby pins disciplining every wayward strand. She stands back from my mirror, resigned. Turns to me to say something and freezes. There I am with my ultra straight hair with the slight upturned ends, her dream do. And not in jealousy or envy, but simply sadness, she starts to silently cry.

Wayne, in mid twist, winks at me and as she and Gary pass by, Wayne cuts in on Gary. I try to catch her eye, but Wayne spins her away. “So?” I say to Gary. He shakes his head, “I just don’t know. Who is she?”

She sits in the corner of the knotty pine paneled rec room in the basement of my parent’s home. Even though my classmates are wall to wall in this tiny room, she is alone, watching. Happy to be there. We had graduated that afternoon on a warm June day in ‘64. I sat on the stage and gave the benediction, careful to enunciate every syllable just as I had been coached. She sat in the stadium bleachers. Mostly forgotten, a moment’s recognition as she walked across the stage, hardly anyone clapped. With black and gold tasseled mortarboards and diplomas in hand, we hugged and danced in circles and laughed with joy and excitement. My folks took our pictures -- silly ones and serious “gonna-conquer-the-world” ones -- they promised to have them ready Saturday… day after tomorrow…when she leaves for a college high in the mountains of Utah. A haven. Half a continent and a world away. As our graduation party winds down she is the last to leave. Not wanting to go home, yet wanting to go home. When she pauses at our front door, my Mom hugs her tight and tells her she is beautiful and the world will be her oyster. My Mom always says things like that. My Dad takes her chin in his right hand very gently, and reaches up with his left to softly caress her hair. “No matter how far away from home you go, you have a safe place here.” This is a funny thing for my Dad to say. It is so strange I know I will remember. She looks into my father’s eyes for a long time and doesn’t say a word. When she turns to hug me goodbye, I see her tear and fear filled eyes.

She never did come back from Utah.

Bill is acting like our class president again. He’s hamming it up on the small stage while in the background the DJ spins “Louie Louie,” “Sugar Shack” and early Beatles tunes. His puns bring groans and jeers… like they had 20 years ago. We all wish we were 18 again. Most Successful carries off her bottle of champagne like an Olympic torch. Most Marriages is a good sport about wearing a lei made of blue-and-white-lace bride’s garters. And on it goes… Until Bill invites Her to come up on stage. At first she resists but the whistles and shouts propel her forward and onto the riser.

She turns to her classmates. Their faces stare back. She and those faces had shared classrooms and lunchrooms for twelve years. They have no idea who she is. I watch in fascination as she stands there, riveted in the moment. Not proud. Not anxious. Simply there. Basking. Almost sensuous in exhilaration.

Her black stilettos with the tiny straps across her arch perfectly accentuate her red painted toenails. The curve of her calf is clear evidence that she is very fit. Her tanned legs don’t need any stockings. The scalloped hem of her skirt kisses the top of her knees. Black lace drapes in gentle folds across her hips. Exquisite lace, lace that when you trace the threadwork with your finger tips it feels like … snowflakes captured in silk. Her waist is slender. The strapless bodice lifts her full breasts. Her tanned shoulders and long arms are smooth. Her graceful hands and artist’s fingers wear only a simple gold band…third finger left hand. Wearing no other jewelry, her inner radiance is enough. She tosses her head and her perfectly cut hair, auburn now, falls freely well below her shoulders. It is wild and wonderful. Untamed. This mane of rebellion frames her face and demands that you see her as she is. Her face is flawless. Maturity has revealed high cheekbones. Red lipstick, her only makeup. Her lips are held softly together, with a hint of a smile.

The crowd leans forward, unaware they have moved closer to her. She is looking into their eyes. She is nonjudgmental. Absorbing their energy and their validation with every breath. Radiating confidence and joy. Arching brows draw us to her eyes, eyes that spark with intelligence, passion and happiness. This is a woman who has known great love, reciprocated that passion and been blessed with an inner peace known only by the truly happy.

Time is suspended in this room of pretend friends.

But the whispers are starting again.

Someone breaks the spell, “Hey! BEAUTIFUL! Who ARE you?”

She knows exactly where I am standing. Her eyes find me easily. Our eyes lock. Our shared joy in her triumph is electric. From the center of her soul, she smiles the smile of a true friend seeing another true friend. And once again we see each other through tears. But this time, they are mine.