Smirt

Ellie Turner. I knew her during high school and we’d hung out a few times through other friends. She hadn’t really changed. A new wardrobe, a little more makeup, a sky high standard of confidence. . . We’ve all grown up in our own different ways. But I didn’t know that she was Chris’s friend. The few times we did talk, I vaguely remembered her mention him. During those times she had been drunk or high, so I had ignored her. Never once did she just admit she was friends with a boy named Christofer Drew Ingle.

I liked to believe I knew him better than her. Because somehow I did know him. Ellie had grown up with Chris and knew him in high school. All she shared with Chris were memories. I had been given the opportunity to know the finished product, so to speak. I was making history with him every day. Chris seemed to be developing into the person he was comfortable being; there were no insecurities or grey areas. I formed a conclusion that linked Ellie as well: Chris didn’t know the true Ellie either because she had changed too.

“What movie are we going to watch?” I asked once we had turned a street corner, which distanced us from Ellie and Chris substantially. Gavin hadn’t planned an impromptu movie date until mere minutes ago and I was full of Italian food. How could he possibly walk at such a fast rate on an overstuffed stomach? That right there is pure talent.

Gavin picked off a piece of lint from his shirt. “I lied. We just needed a window to jump out of. God, she is such a condescending bitch. I’m sorry, but what the hell is her problem?” He took a deep breath and let it out with a loud sigh. “Miss New-York-City-Model-Slash-Fashion-Designer. Kiss my ass.”

By now, we had reached the parking lot where my car was. I slid into the driver’s seat, Gavin following to the passenger’s side. I drove out of the lot and just listened to him ramble on, deciding that we could go to the mall. But we were going to the big mall with actual name brand stores. We don’t call the state Misery for no reason.

“. . .and you saw her holding his hand like he was her property! Ugh! I can’t stand people like that.” Gavin leaned back in his seat, that signature pout on his face. He was such a drama queen king. I love him to death though and he knows it.

“Totally,” I said with an affirmative nod. “Gavin Nichols, you are a genius. I’m glad we’re best friends and roomies.” I flashed him a grin and thumbs up before focusing on the road again.

“If we weren’t friends, I would’ve been offended by your snide comments,” he muttered in a low voice. He gazed out the window, singing along to a cheesy commercial jingle on the radio.

“Jesus Christ Superstar, stop singing. Sweet child o’mine. Stopppp.” I couldn’t resist teasing Gavin. It was a favourite past time of mine; actually, it was more of a hobby. His reactions were priceless and varied. None of his reactions followed a pattern or common thread. Maybe that was a contributing factor as to why I enjoyed picking on him so much.

Gavin chose the ‘bitch and moan’ technique. He started yelling out the craziest profanities, one of his best, in my opinion, was narwhal shi tzu cunt flap covered in cow piss. He really had a way with words. “I swear on the quesadillas at Cactus Hut, let it be known that we are not friends anymore!” he yelled as I parked the car a few feet away from the entrance of the mall.

Cactus Hut, an authentic Mexican restaurant Gavin and I frequent, is nothing like its name suggests. Well, the restaurant is shaped like a sombrero. Plus, there are cactuses scattered throughout (and outside) the building, but that’s beside the point. Just know that swearing on Cactus Hut quesadillas is pretty fucking serious.

“I’ll make it up to you,” I promised as we walked to the entrance. I slung an arm around his shoulders. “How about I buy you a crêpe and a smoothie, mon ami?”

Gavin considered this for a moment. Then he pecked my cheek. “Oui, ma cherie.”

I love my friends.