Amy helped me bury the body. She was such a good friend. I miss her terribly.
I guess I should back up a little.
Even though high school students desperately want to fit in and have loads of friends and dress "right" and know all the right pop culture, they each live in a tiny, selfish bubble. I suppose some don't, but I sure did. My bubble swirled around me reflecting me back to me and showing me that I was put-upon and I was unique and I was suffering like no one else had in the history of the world. I didn't notice, or care, that friends of mine, like Amy, were suffering, too. I was suffering worse. No one could understand... except, maybe, that strange, elusive creature: a boyfriend.
I wanted, more than anything, a boyfriend. The desperation began in earnest during 8th grade. At The 8th Grade Dinner Dance (the first time we all got dressed up and behaved like gentlemen and ladies), I wore a skirt with my shorts hidden underneath, a pair of sneakers, two pairs of socks, and some horrid shirt with a cute collar. I boogied without moving my feet with my group of girl friends. Amy looked fabulous, and she wore pink heels. At one point during the evening, Amy let me borrow them and I strutted around, trying to get a boy--any boy--to notice. I would have danced with anyone if he had asked me, including the band director, who, in hindsight, was surely gay. Mr. Phillips said to me as I clicked by, "Tonight's your night!" I believed him. He was wrong. Amy asked for her shoes back. I went home still having never been kissed.
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