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Let's just call her Conchita. Now, I realize that is a perfectly lovely name, but it affects the sort of sugary two faced aura that I'm aiming for here. Minus sugary. Perhaps I should have picked something like Hildebrand or Edwarda.
Now. Let's start at the beginning of this gripping saga. Conchita and I met in middle school. (How fitting I should meet her in Hell itself.) We found that we had many close interests, like clothes, art, views, morals, etc. We were joined at the hip. I spent three weeks with her one summer, and we had a blast running around, being insane, typical 14 year old stuff, I guess. Sounds all ideal, doesn't it? No. Because, you see, as the summer drew to a close, Conchita would pack off to Faceorange High School, whereas I was headed for Bluorchid High School. I thought that since we were such good friends, we could keep up correspondence and see each other all the time. Now, at this time, I was also dating Diego. Psychopath that he is. Diego and Conchita had known each other since they were very little, but had never been particularly good friends. But she suddenly and stupidly began telling me all kinds of shit! And when I say shit, I mean she began to creep on him. She said stuff that you shouldn't say to your best friend about her boyfriend. Very uncool. The summer after Diego and I broke up, she found a wonderful opportunity to nurture their budding relationship. I'm sure it was guilt that kept her close to me. The year went by, and we grew increasingly farther apart. Of course, this is to be expected. And she changed. She found a friend, Jillian, the biggest schlotty flirt ever, and suddenly everything was about Clinique and Abercrombie. Vaguely unsettling, no? Well, quite. Of course, I am a non-confrontationalist. I don't like getting my hackles up. Conchita grew increasingly unhappier and struggled violently to fit into the mold of an unforgiving and cultish society. I felt for her, and tried to remain an outpost of normality and support. I recognize that people change and grow. But damn. Regression? Come ON. However, the process (which would be me, and her, understanding what? each other) was slightly impeded by the fact we attended different schools. And what's better cure for that than her transferring to Bluorchid? Almost anything. She drove me nuts. Whined constantly, acted disdainfully around me, and virtually refused to unwind and let go of all these weird social conceptions she picked up at Faceorange. Like walking ANYWHERE by yourself was virtually unheard of. This meant that you were a total social outcast if you couldn't find a horde of fifteen girls to accompany you to the pop machine, in which case, you were one of the fifteen girls following someone to the pop machine. Such bizarrities followed her (and me, in turn) around all year. "Funky ass bitch", as my volleyball homie Spinner would front. Everything I did was met with silent criticism. Things were teetering on the brink of intolerable when I found some rather interesting things out. Such as a massive amount of shit-talking. And was it anything along the lines of "Anemone Ra is such a bad friend because this and that"? No. It was mean shit, like "I hate the way her body gets tighter and more toned...it's gross." (To which I would have replied starchly, "And white flabby arms are so attractive.")Or "anyone who wrestles...c'mon, she must be bisexual..." A bunch of annoying crap about Diego and me...things she had always adamantly declared, were suddenly not so valid anymore. "She thinks she had some kind of connection to him...she doesn't know him like I do..." Could she stick her head ANY farther up her ass? Probably not. For weeks after, she'd call my house and try to talk to me in her slow affected valley voice. I never listened to her, I always "had to go" do something. Jesus, anything. Any kind of reason she had was just not something I wanted to hear, you know? She always tries to dig information about me out of Moonhuck, who, to her credit, staunchly refuses, (or sidesteps it at least.) I still see her around Bluorchid, looking like she's trying, pressed and dressed very neatly, looking very hollow and smoky. Like if I waved my hand through her, a smell or a faint color would stick, but she'd distort and her body would blow away. |