To Hell With Your New Shit

My bedroom at 475 Park Street looked as though a fifteen-year-old was still its occupant. The walls, painted a soft lilac hue, were covered in posters, ticket stubs, and photographs. I sat gingerly on the edge of my bed, moving a stuffed animal out of the way, and ran my fingers over the edges of a picture frame on the bedside table. The people in this picture didn’t exist anymore; they had grown up, grown apart, and moved on.

“Lindsay?” My mother’s voice accompanied a soft knock on the bedroom door. “Dinner’s ready, sweetheart,” she continued, pushing the door open and poking her head inside.

“All right,” I told her quietly, moving my gaze from the photograph to the view outside of the window. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“You know, darling, nothing has changed,” she said, one of her hands still gripping the edge of the door. I looked at her, expressionless.

“Everything’s changed, Mom,” I whispered. “I left.”

“Well then, it’s never too late to change it back,” she promised before stepping into the hallway and closing the door.

I stood up and smoothed down the fronts of my black slacks. The windowpanes beckoned me; they perfectly framed the image of freshly cut summer grass, looming trees, and that house.

I stopped in front of the window, resting the palms of my hands on the windowsill. A soft breeze ruffled the familiar leaves outside. I felt as though I hadn’t looked out of this window in a lifetime, or maybe more. Headlights flashed at the end of the street, but I didn’t blink. I watched as the rusty, white pickup truck slowed and turned into the driveway next door. But still, my eyes did not move, nor did the rest of my body. My breath, however, caught in my throat, and my heart seemed to betray me a few beats as the driver stepped down from the truck’s cab and slammed the door shut. And now, now that it was far too late, my mind could not will my muscles to move an inch. His eyes, for one incredibly brief moment, darted to my window, almost as if out of habit. And in that instant, I fell backwards into a vortex of time that I had not recently revisited.

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“Lindsay, why don’t you come help me make these brownies?” My mother’s voice carried up the stairs from the kitchen. I stood at my window, arms across my chest, and a sour expression painted on my face.

“No!” I shouted back defiantly. I refused to be friendly and welcoming to the people who had replaced my best friend and her family.

“Lindsay?” I heard my name a second time, but this time from my father. “Can I come in, sweetie?” I didn’t answer, but I heard the door creek open, anyway. I didn’t tear my gaze away from the muscled men carrying furniture and cardboard boxes into to the house.

“Linds,” I heard my father start as he sat down on my desk chair, “you can’t hate these people.” I turned around only slightly to frown at him. He chuckled a bit and motioned for me to sit on his lap. I begrudgingly obliged.

“I don’t want a new family to live next door to us,” I told him. “I want Allie to live there!”

“This new family didn’t make Allie’s family leave, you know that, right?” He asked me. I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap, before nodding slowly. “I know that you’re going to miss having your best friend next door, but you can still call her and write her letters whenever you want.”

“Whenever I want?” I asked hopefully, a small smile starting to form.

“Well, whenever it’s not past your bed time,” he explained. I twisted my mouth into a scrunch, but gave in.

“Well, all right,” I agreed, “But I don’t wanna be best friends with anyone else!”

“You don’t have to find a new best friend to replace Allie,” my dad informed me. “You can find another best friend, though.” At eight years old, I thought my father’s wisdom was endless.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he told me, picking me up off of his lap and standing me back on the ground,” I think that the new family next door has a boy just about your age who is also probably looking for a second best friend.”

“Maybe,” I said, looking at my father disbelievingly. “But what if he’s weird? Or smelly? Or picks his nose? I mean he is a boy, Daddy.”

“Well, why don’t you just think about it?” He suggested with a laugh. I nodded in agreement and went back to man my post next to the window as my father left my room.

I scanned the neighbors’ yard for any signs of a potential second best friend. As soon as I saw him, I couldn’t move. Because he had seen me. Now what if he thought I was weird for spying on him from my window? But he didn’t run away, or tell on me. He just stood there for a moment, mirroring me with inquisitive eyes. He was scrawny, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and had been riding around the driveway on a scooter. He didn’t seem so bad, I thought to myself. Maybe he could be my second best friend, after all.