It Would've Been You

I

"𝐎𝐊𝐀𝐘, 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐄?" Sydney, my best friend of nine years, peers over my shoulder to read the sentence I had written in our matching journals. I didn't understand why she needed to write about her week. Why would I want to relive the past five days by writing words on a lined paper sheet?

"C'mon, Mora." She frowns. "I'm sure something good happened to you this week."

I stifle a laugh. "My therapist said my anger management skills are improving. ." She clasps her hands like that was the best thing she had heard all week. "Isn't that great news? You should–"

"slowly." I finish my sentence.

"Oh." Her excitement settles. "Well, that's still something." She tries to comfort me, but I know it's just out of pity. I wonder how she puts up with my nihilism. And why she does. I act like I'm one foot in the door of death. I don't want to believe I'm alive half the time.

She holds herself together, even when the world is crashing down. If anything, she's my polar opposite. Literally. Valedictorian, President of the Debate Club, and the perfect daughter. Or at least, that is who she wants to be for her parents.

There are a lot of layers to Sydney – secrets she keeps buried beneath her innocent smile and soft-spoken voice, but I could say that about anyone. We all have something to hide about ourselves.

For one, no one knew that she had fucked Zion Harper in his car during our school's baseball tournament at the end of junior year. No one except me. I was the only person she told anyway.

"Do you remember Luke?" Sydney begins, "The Quarterback, with curly brown hair?" She tries to remind me. "The one who has a college girlfriend?" I cock my head, hoping I'm referring to the right person.

"Yes!" She beams before continuing, "Apparently, he was doing cocaine in the boys' locker room. Now he's suspended." She says cocaine like it's a word that could land her in jail.

"You should've come to school today." She whispers, clicking her favorite multicolored pen.

I could explain why I didn't go to school today by the piles of glass in the garbage. My dad had another episode last night. Luckily, my sister and I cleaned everything in the kitchen before she came. But I won't tell her that.

"I had cramps. Bad." I lie.

Her face turns to one of concern. "Oh, I could've skipped school too. My mom usually makes–"

"No," I say, almost dismissively. "I mean, it's fine. I'm okay now."

"Oh-kay. ." She mumbles, not bothering to say anything more. She knew about my dad. She knew how difficult staying in this house was sometimes. She knew about my self-harm. She knew too much.

But I trusted her with my life. And I didn't even trust myself with that at times.

Her lips fold into that perplexed what-should-I-say-now look while she packs her journal into her neatly assorted backpack, her pens in rainbow order, and her laptop in the largest compartment.

After a few minutes of silence, which, at this point, is normal for both of us – she sighs. Loudly. In hopes that I will snap out of my daze. I do that a lot. Daydream. It's my way of disassociating from the outside world.

"You're not coming to school tomorrow?" She already knows the answer.

"Probably not."

"Will you at least come over tomorrow evening? My mom is throwing a cheesy birthday party for my little cousin. I need someone there so I won't go insane." Sydney jokes.