Betsy O'Loughlin

I used to be in love with Betsy O'Loughlin.

Well, if I have to be brutally honest in this passage, I would have to say I'm in love with Betsy O'Loughlin. And for the record, it's not like I meant for it to happen.

Betsy and I have been best friends since we were three. I know, a very cliche way to start the story, but it's the darn truth. We were a match made in heaven; we balanced each other out. I was the good, sweet girl everyone trusted, and she was the tough, don't-mess-with-me one people tended to stay away from. I kept her sane and she kept me on edge.

Now, don't go thinking she corrupted me into becoming a lesbian. I did it myself, I guess you could say. Because by the time we hit eighth grade, I started noticing just how beautiful she really was. And I became jealous.

Betsy has always been...experimental. She's known since she was in second grade that she was attracted to boys and girls. It's something I've always been used to.

And by the time we were thirteen, I started to wonder why she never showed any interest in me.

I'm not an ugly woman, if I do say so myself. I'm about 5'5" with brown hair that hits the bottom of my rib cage. My eyes are a deep blue that some guys have told me remind them of the ocean. I have freckles that dot over my cheekbones and a cute little button nose that I am pretty proud of. My smile may be kind of crooked, but Betsy always told me it made me look just the right amount of flawed.

When we hit high school, she ventured off into her own little world. We remained friends, but a part of her began to slip away from me. Our Friday night sleepovers became rare, our random spirit days dwindled, and our afternoon mall trips stopped completely.

I was desperately trying to keep a hold of her, always calling and texting to ask her if she wanted to hang out, but I would usually get an answer along the lines of: "I'm busy" or "Maybe tomorrow."

But tomorrow would never come.

At school, she ignored me altogether. I would be walking down the hall and pass her locker, where I would see her with her new friends she made, laughing and talking.

It bugged me that she moved on so quickly, having found a new group of people to talk to. Does she go shopping with them every Saturday? Does she give them advice when their parents fight all night long? Does she ditch P.E. with them every once in awhile to hide behind the bleachers and share some spiked fruit punch?

We would hang out occasionally, but it was awkward and uneventful.

But even as this phase continued, I still felt that flutter in my stomach every time I passed her. Every time we made eye contact, I felt that blush on my face. Every time she tucked that dark, swirly hair behind her ear, I would feel my finger twitch, as if begging to be doing that.

And no other girl could measure up to Betsy in my eyes. I couldn't find another girl to feel this way about. Every other girl I saw or talked to couldn't make me feel that way.

And that's the thing: I only loved Betsy O'Loughlin.

And then, by Junior year, we were separated entirely.

All those years of friendship were thrown out the window.

We stopped talking. We stopped texting. We stopped leaving cute little notes for each other in our lockers. We stopped sitting together at lunch. We stopped everything.

It left me heartbroken.

It was first semester of Senior year that I actually conversed with her again.

It was a Saturday night at some dingy party at Todd Swanson's house. The place smelled like beer and cologne and sweat. I was dressed in a leather mini skirt, a blue v-neck, and my mom's navy suede boots. My brown hair was in it's natural state of loose waves and I was wearing minimal make-up.

I had been in the kitchen, making myself a screwdriver, when I heard her laugh. I immediately stopped everything I was doing the moment that gorgeous sound reached my ears. I spun around to look for her.

And I spotted her.

She was sitting in the den on the couch, squished between two other girls. Her hand was on one of the girl's bare thighs, her pale white hand contrasting against the other girl's tanned skin. Her dark hair was straight and sleek, her eyeshadow blue and her eyeliner thick around her green eyes. She was wearing a black top and a lacy white vest with dark-wash jeans and her beat up Converse.

I couldn't help but stare at that outfit.

That outfit was the outfit she showcased for me Freshman year. She had been going on a night-out with her family. We were outside her house, drinking from her Dad's beer stash secretly, taking turns passing the bottle back and forth.

"Are you sure it isn't too little girl-ish?" she was asking, pouting those full pink lips. I lick my own, chugging a swallow of beer to distract myself.

"It's fine," I shrug, handing her the beer. "You look gorgeous, as usual."

"Hmmm," she hums, taking a swig of the alcohol as she thought. "Take a picture of me. I want to see how I look before I go out in public like this." She sets down the beer bottle, the glass clacking against the tiled ground, and pulls her digital camera out of her bag. She gives it to me, our fingers brushing lightly. I turn it on as she goes to stand in front of the boring brown wall of her house.

"Ready?" she asks, posing with her hand on her head.

I nod and put the camera in front of my face, focusing it before snapping the picture.

I played this little movie in my head as I watched her at the house party, her smile looking a little fake as she laughed at something someone said. And before I could stop myself, I was moving my feet forward and toward the den.

I stopped in the doorway of the room, the fog of smoke burning my eyes. Now that I was closer, I watched as the group of people Betsy was with passed a bong around their circle.

"Hey!" a blonde sitting on the floor called to me. "You wanna join?"

Betsy's eyes turn to me, blank and glassy. That's when I realized she was high. I hesitate as one of the girl's beside Betsy stands up and stumbles into the bathroom connected to the den. The sounds of her upchucking floated back to me.

Now was my chance.

"Sure," I nod, stepping into the room. The smell of smoke overpowered my other senses, but I push it away as I sit next to Betsy. She was still staring at me.

"Here," a guy with red hair coughs, pushing the bong toward me. I take it cautiously, everyone in the circle barely paying attention to me. Except for Betsy. I turn to meet her gaze as she stared at me, her expression still blank and uncaring.

I press the end of the bong to my lips and pull.

As it entered my lungs, I tried not to cough. It was difficult, but I kept my composure. I set the bong on the coffee table in front of me, and it disappeared within seconds. I had to close my throat so I wouldn't cough, the drug burning my lungs. I swipe a hand over my sweaty forehead, realizing just how hot it was in the den.

"Why?"

My eyes snap over to Betsy. She had uttered that one word softly, but indignantly. There was a little more emotion in her face, but not enough for me to register her feelings.

"Why what?" I ask gently, as if speaking too loud would break her like glass.

Betsy removed her hand from the thigh of the girl next to her, turning her entire body toward me. "Why are you in here?" she murmurs, her dark hair falling in front of her face. "Why did you just use that bong?" The old Betsy was showing through, the new Betsy falling short. A new found hope crashed onto me like a cold wave.

"To prove to you that I still love you," I answer truthfully. "Even though you've changed."

My old friend pursed her lips at my response. "You can't be here," she whispers. "I know I made a wrong decision, and I know I left you in the dust. But I don't want you to mix yourself up in this life for me. I can't let you do that."

"Why not?" I cry softly. "I want you, Bess."

"Shh," she puts a hand against my cheek. "I can't escape. The drugs...they're my life now. But you can still escape. Leave. Now. And don't come back."

Betsy leans in and kisses me. I could taste the alcohol and smoke in her mouth.

It was short and simple, but it set my body on fire. I returned the kiss with more fierce passion then she expected. But she ended it too soon, pushing me back against the arm of the couch. "Go," she says, the evidence of her high still in her eyes. She wasn't completely here. "I've changed. But you can't change, Cecilia. Leave."

She waited as I sat there, debating. Finally I stand, making my way to the door. And when I turn to give her one last look, she was back in her previous position, laughing and sticking a hand out for the bong. I breathe in deeply before exiting the house.

That was the last time I saw Betsy O'Loughlin.

She was my everything. She was my world. And she was gone in a whirl of smoke and mirrors.

Do I miss her? Of course I miss her. She was my first - and maybe only - love.

But I still have that picture of her from Freshman year. The one we took at her parents house as we drank stolen beer and pretended to be cool. I keep it in the second drawer of my computer desk, on top of the notes we used to pass back and forth in high school. I look at it all the time, pretending she hadn't changed and that we were still best friends.

Because that's the best thing about a picture. It never changes. Even if the people in it do.