What are good qualities in a friend? Boy/girlfriend?

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.

246

She died from blunt force trauma to the skull.  In greater detail, it was a rock, held in the hand of a man, who repeatedly bashed her on the face and left side of her skull, as he was right-handed.  She lost consciousness, but not as soon as she would have liked.  The whole event was over for her within two minutes, though it carried on for the man another ten.  He struck her with the rock, a piece of cement carried with him for that purpose, for approximately three minutes, one full minute after she was already dead.  He then grabbed her limp shoulders and shook her, occasionally slapping her on the ground, for another minute.  He stood and kicked her body and even jumped on the torso.  The last few minutes were spent shoving the corpse into a plastic garbage can and stuffing bloody garbage from the scene on top.

67

Put it down, I thought. Just put it down. Put it down. Put it down. The words were a chant in my head, an ineffectual spell meant to save my life. Put it down. Put it down. Put it down.

The knife came up. The knife came down. The knife pulled out, up, down. Out, up, down. I said put it down, not this. My knees weakened and I went down. The knife went with me and we both went down. Even as I fell, I was careful not to fall on it and push it in deeper. My hip went down. My shoulder went down. My head went down. My spell changed to Help. Help. Help.

64

Picture a house, on the small side, with a tidy yard. The house is red. The front door is dark wood and sports a fall wreath. There are large trees, still holding most of their leaves. A terracotta pot sits next to the door bursting with dark orange mums. Now go inside.

The foyer is tiny but equipped with a little hat rack and boot holder. There's a braided rag rug, mostly red tones. The hall goes straight into a bright kitchen at the back or up the staircase to the second floor. To the right is a small parlor. To the left is a library. This is no "Choose Your Own Adventure", so go upstairs.

The stairs are wood. Kick plates are off-white, treads and banister are dark cherry wood. There's a neat runner up the middle that continues in the upstairs hall, red tones and cream. It is only because of the cream that the bloodstain is noticeable.

11

Bartholomew cut a fine figure on the dance floor. He was elegant in a dark blue suit, cut to accentuate his broad shoulders and trim hips. The man glided more smoothly than even my rotten cousin Melinda, who unceasingly bragged about her extensive dance lessons. Even while floating effortlessly across the room, he managed to remain the epitome of a man. It was at that moment I understood I needed to make him mine. The only trouble was, he was betrothed to another, and I to yet another. Small concerns, however, when love is involved.

I may have fibbed when I said the "only" trouble. The other trouble was that Bartholomew and I had never formally met.

If I gave the impression that not having actually met Bartholomew was the final trouble, I do apologize because there is yet one more, teensie tiny trouble: I was suspected of killing his grandfather, though I assure you that I did nothing of the sort. The elderly man simply died in my presence; I had nothing, directly, to do with it.