An Open Book

It is hot. It is always hot.

Neither of us feel the effect of the sun outside, as we’re holed up my bedroom, the air condition on high-speed with the windows closed.

You’re sprawled on my bed flipping through a magazine that you had bought at the pharmacy on the way to my house, while I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor with my eyes trained on the television.

“This guy is so hot.” You say, pointing to a shirtless guy in some designer ad.

I shrug, not taking my eyes off of the television.

You’re always like this now. Talking about guys and how hot they are.

That’s all you talk about; make up, boys, who is sleeping with who and Darcy.

I cast a glance in your direction as you let out a sigh, and take in your appearance.

You are wearing an Aeropstale fitted shirt which hugs your curves (which you received from the gruelling hours of soccer practice) and shorts that are so short that they disappear under the hem of your shirt.

A pair of oversized sunglasses are perched on your head, the sides decorated in gold with words like ‘HAWTIE’ and ‘WASHINGTON D.C. FOR LIFE.’

I’m still confused about this, because neither of us live in, or are from Washington.

While you look like you have stepped out of a magazine, I look like I’ve finished visiting the cemetery.

I’m wearing dark grey sweatpants that end awkwardly above my ankles. I have my favourite black ‘The Beatles’ t-shirt on, though it’s a size too big.

My hair is thankfully in a normal state, and I have one hole in the pinky toe of my sock.

“You’re so boring, Ash.” You say, swatting my head with the magazine. “Darcy loves to look at magazines.”

I cringe at her name, but try not to show it.

How can you talk about her to me?

You know that I don’t like her, or are you really that clueless?

Darcy was the one that changed you, Darcy was the one that stole you away from me.

I remember we used to make fun of Darcy.

We used to hate her. I still hate her.

In second grade, we would sit in my room and talk about Darcy and her stupidly high high heels.

In fifth grade we would whisper about Darcy and her first boyfriend—who got caught making out behind the cafeteria.

We used to hate Darcy.

We used to be best friends.

What happened?

You don’t need to answer that question because I know.

It was in eighth grade that we got separated. It was the first year that we weren’t in each other’s classes.

You were in Darcy’s class. I was in Ellie’s.

Ellie was fun and smart and spontaneous and we became friends.

You started talking about boys and make up.

You and Darcy became friends.

I would try to hang out with you, but you would go with Darcy instead. She took you away from me. She stole you from me.

I remember I called your house on a Saturday afternoon. We had made plans to hang out at my house as we usually did after you had soccer practice.

You were an hour late. But you were never usually late. I had called your house and your mother had picked up the phone.

“Tanya’s at a friend’s house.” She had said sweetly, as though our Saturday plans had never existed.

“Whose house?” I had asked as my stomach twisted into a million knots and my throat became dry.

I didn’t have to ask that question, because I knew exactly where you were.

“A girl from school...I believe her name is Darcy?” Your mother had said.

That night I had cried.

A sudden noise brings me out of my thoughts. You look up from the magazine and roll onto your back.

The air is suddenly awkward as neither of us have anything to say.

“Are you doing anything next Saturday?” You ask, looking at me.

“Yeah, Ellie and I are going to go see that new action movie.” I say, looking right back at you.

You blink, surprised, before nodding slowly.

“Yeah, okay.” You pause, “Darcy and I were gonna see that movie as well.” I nod and we go back to the way we were before.

The only sounds in the room are the rustling of your magazine and Tyra Banks’ voice shouting at aspiring models.

You fiddle with the bracelet on your wrist—one that Darcy gave you after you had known each other for one year. It is a friendship bracelet.

I stare at it, before looking back at the television.

You still call us friends. You still wrap your arms around me in a hug. You still come over to my house uninvited, even though I have nothing to say. You still sprawl across my bed like you did when you were six, looking through magazines. You still smile at me as though nothing has changed, as though you haven’t left me for someone else.

I smile back of course, because I’m never going to tell you to leave. I’m never going to tell you that we shouldn’t be friends anymore.

Because the truth is, I like your company.

Even if you forget about me sometimes, and even if you have a new best friend.

You say that we are still best friends.

But I know nothing will be the same.