I'd Do It For You

One - Lucy

Within the span of one week, three catastrophes took place. My dog Fred died, I got a D on a history project, and I turned ten years old. 

Fred died on a Monday. I'm the one who found him, our sweet beagle dog with a muzzle full of chocolate. I still remember screaming for my parents, while simultaneously realizing that I'm the one who left a plate of brownies out in the open. I haven't eaten chocolate since.

My history project was due on Wednesday. I told my teacher - Mr. Wilks, a grump of a man who in all honesty hated children as much as we hated him - what had happened to Fred, in hopes of an extension. He had no sympathy, and so I pasted together my model of Machu Picchu half-heartedly and turned it in with low expectations. It was returned to me the next day with a fat red 66% stapled to it. It turned out that I had built Chichen Itza instead. My parents were sympathetic but obviously disappointed, because they hired a history tutor for me the next day.

My tenth birthday was on Saturday. I've categorized it as a catastrophe because it's one of those moments that became a core memory, my mind returning to it every time I needed a good humbling. You see, my parents thought it was a huge deal that I was turning ten years old and so they party-planned accordingly. They rented out half of the local Chuck-E-Cheese, bought hundreds of dollars worth of decorations and pizza, and handmade me a kitten-themed sheet cake. It never occurred to them to ask me whether I had any friends to invite. 

When we had been waiting in linoleum chairs, on the receiving end of sympathetic glances from Chuck-E-Cheese workers for over an hour, my parents finally accepted that nobody was coming and began to try and save face. They tore the decorations down, as if that was going to make it any less obvious that I had been stood up on my own birthday, and began to pass slices of cake around to strangers nearby. 

My mother planted her hands on her hips, although tears winked at the corners of her eyes, and said, "Well, somebody's got to eat this cake." 

This brings me to the only good thing that happened that week. The best thing, in fact, that would happen to me for many weeks after. I met Miles Ferry. 

At my parents' direction, I reluctantly approached a skinny, gap-toothed boy in the ball pit with a slice of cake on a paper plate. The hair hanging over his eyes was an angry shade of red and the toddler in his arms was conducting an energetic attempt at suicide-via-ball pit. He was the sort of boy that I would have smiled at in school, but that I'd be too nervous to actually talk to. Even waist-deep in plastic balls, he held himself with more confidence than I ever could have, despite looking no older than me. 

I squatted at the edge. "Hey." 

The boy looked over at me, eyes sharp and cold. "Hey." 

"Do you want a piece of cake? I...have extra." I held out the plate to him, uncomfortably aware that he had his hands full. "I can bring over another piece, too. For your brother." 

The boy set the toddler down on the side of the ball pit and took the plate from me. "What flavor is it?" The question was serious. 

"Vanilla. I think the icing is strawberry." His eyes sparked, but he glanced at his brother, whose gaze was fixed on the crumbling slice of cake. 

I watched as he pushed the plate towards his brother, then looked back at me. "Maybe - another slice would be good?" 

 I smiled at him, then ran back to the table where my parents were waiting to cut another slice of cake. When I gave it to him, he took a big bite, and then asked me, through frosting-covered teeth, if it was my birthday. 

My smile dropped. "Yeah." 

"How old are you?" 

"I'm ten. I was supposed to have a birthday party, but..." My face was red and heavy with shame. I couldn't cry in front of this strange boy and his baby brother. 

I saw his eyes light with understanding, then pity, before he put down his fork and said, "That's alright. Me and Everett will be your birthday party. What's your name?" 

"Lucy."

"I'm Miles Ferry." He stuck out his hand and I started to giggle despite myself as I shook it. Nobody had ever shaken my hand before, and it felt very grown-up. "It's a pleasure to meet you." 

Miles and I sat there on the edge of a ball pit for almost an hour, watching little Everett coat his fingers with strawberry frosting and cake crumbs and seeing how far we could kick the balls. He was good company. Simple, but charming, and he made me laugh until I was crying again, only the tears were happy this time. We discovered that we lived only a few streets away from each other, despite going to different schools, and he told me about the trampoline in his backyard and the chickens that he cared for. I told him about my awful week - about Fred, and about Mr. Wilks. He asked me questions about Fred - "did he know any tricks?" - and agreed that Mr. Wilks was an awful old man - "he sounds like the Grinch." And by the time it was time for me to leave, I had long since forgotten my failed birthday party, I was so enthralled by Miles Ferry and his stories.

He stuck out his hand again, solemnly, seriously. "Happy birthday, Lucy," he told me. "Your friends missed out on some great cake." 

From then on, Miles and I were inseparable. We went to different schools, but every day when I got off the bus, I would meet him outside my house and we'd give our afternoons to each other. We knew each other's favorite snacks - I ate ants-on-a-log; he enjoyed Cheese Whiz on crackers - and we took turns playing video games on my dad's old PC. I helped him with his language arts homework; he helped me with my history grade. And both of us struggled through fourth-grade math. 

Beyond that, we'd just talk. "Tell me a secret," he'd beg sometimes, when we both ran out of things to say and homework problems to solve. And so I'd tell him some gossip from school - people who were mean to me, people who were kissing other people, people who were lying about kissing other people. He didn't know any of them, and didn't care to know any of them, but he loved to listen. I made other friends of course - my tenth birthday was the last that I spent completely alone - but none of them were quite like Miles Ferry. None of them made me feel like the most interesting person in the world the way he did, and none of them were quite as polite. As for his social life, I didn't know much about it. I knew that he kept to himself at school, and that his favorite people to hang out with (besides me) were his many sisters and brothers. He never spoke of any other friends at school, but he never complained of being alone. When I asked, he just told me that I was his best friend and that was never going to change.

That was good enough for me. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I didn't know, Miles. I didn't know then who I had met. Didn't realize who you'd become to me, that my whole world would revolve around you one day. 

But can't you see how much you meant to me? I - I mean, how much you still mean? 

You and I go way back.