𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐧; conrad fisher

1

1 - Summer, 2011

For as long as I can remember, it has been me and Steven Conklin–the two of us against the world, forever. The details of how and when we first met are a little bit fuzzy, but according to Steven, our friendship began on the first day of Kindergarten year. We had been filling out 'Get to Know Me' charts, and my pencil snapped mid-way through it. Steven, who had been sitting next to me, noticed my broken pencil and began to rummage through his own pencil-box before he handed me a replacement. Coincidentally, this red pencil happened to have my favorite Pokemon on it; Charmander. Steven described my eyes lighting up as he handed it to me, and soon we fell into a heartfelt conversation about Pokemon and our extensive card collections. Steven said that ever since that day, the two of us remained the best of friends.

That school year Steven would often recount his stories and adventures from his family's beach house in Massachusetts (or, as five year old Steven pronounced it–Math-a-chu-sess). He'd tell me about splashing in the pool during their family's annual Fourth of July parties, getting Cotton Candy and riding the Ferris Wheel on the boardwalk, and the moats he and his friends would dig up on the beach with their handy plastic shovels. I listened to Steven with intense curiosity, and a longing to share these exciting experiences with him. My Summers normally consisted of taking care of my tomodachis, and having tea parties with my stuffed animals being the only guests. It wasn't all that bad, but they definitely felt lonesome and boring after hearing about what Steven would be up to at his beach house. My family was never really into 'quality time', and this issue would only continue to worsen throughout that year.

In the Spring of 2011, the arguing began. I spent many sleepless nights covering my ears with my pillows in order to drown out the sounds of screaming and shouting downstairs. Suddenly my mother's work hours got longer, and she wouldn't be home until the late hours of night. My dad's schedule remained the same, what changed was that when he got home he'd stagger on down to the couch and down a six pack of beer. Each morning, I'd go downstairs to see him lying in his own sick, bottle in hand. Even at my young age, I was able to tell the atmosphere of my home had completely changed, and it took a heavy toll on me. My mother eventually noticed my change in mood and took it upon herself to make sure I was out of the house for as long as possible. She got in contact with Steven's mother, Laurel Conklin, and began scheduling almost daily playdates, weekend sleepovers, whatever she could do to make sure I wasn't spending hours in the cold grey of my once blossoming home.

Laurel never minded my company in her home. She'd give us snacks and smoothies, help us with our homework, and every night she would drive me home as we listened to our favorite Taylor Swift songs. She became somewhat of a mother figure to me.

I loved the Conklin home. Laurel always felt guilty because she thought it was too small for us to play in, she didn't have room for many toys, nor did she have a large yard for us kids to run around and horseplay. I never cared, though. The Conklin home had the one thing I yearned for–love. It was perfect to me.

My parents were both professors at the University of Pennsylvania, so as Summer inched closer, I began to worry about the possibility of having to spend the next few months at home, every single day, stuck with the both of them and all of the negative energy they brought to our house. With the Conklin's gone in a few weeks, there would be no escape. I started to develop anxiety over this. My teachers noticed my strange behavior in class, how I would suddenly cling to my chest and breathe heavily in the middle of class, or when I would start tearing up when called on. During the last week of school, my Kindergarten teacher brought my parents into her classroom to have a meeting with her.

I sat down outside of the class beside Steven as the three adults spoke inside. Without thinking, I began to cry. When a little kid normally cries, it is a very dramatic scene to witness. They've usually got this big old frown, and their mouth is wide open to soak in all of the snot and tears running down the kid's face as he bawls and bawls. The way I cried that day wasn't really like that. I simply sat there, silently, as tears slowly streamed down my cheeks. It wasn't just a tantrum, I had felt legitimately heartbroken.