Memory Lane

Part 2: Confession

On June 1, 2014, you realize that you like me.

I remember that day differently so your confession startles me, fresh ice on sleepy skin. We're fifteen that year, lounging on the beach. You were drying off from a quick swim, your wet head on my lap. The ocean trickles between my thighs from your scalp, a cool feeling that I welcome in the face of the blazing sun.

You're telling me a story from The Before, drawing a stick figure of your ten-year-old self in the sand. I listen with rapt attention as you describe how you were bullied.

It starts with a school trip to a museum. You don't remember which museum, but you recall spaceships and moon rocks. Someone thought it was a good idea to put a whoopie cushion on your seat and the loud fart that everyone hears earns you the nickname "Smelly Ellie." If that wasn't bad enough, you're partnered with a gross boy in class who soils his pants on that same day.

From then on, everyone avoids you in class. No one would sit with you at lunch or raise their hands to do group work with you. Not even that gross kid who cemented your awful nickname on that stupid school trip.

"Children are cruel. Everyone goes through it. Well, at least I did," I admit, sympathizing with your plight.

"Why would anyone want to hurt you?"

Your question is kind, but if you saw life through my eyes, you would know that the real question was why wouldn't someone hurt me?

Bullies pick on the weak and a year ago, being the girl with a dead father made me irresistible to the cruel. I tell you that they don't tease me anymore, but I still hear people whisper behind my back. What they say exactly, I don't want to know.

Regardless, people are nicer to me, probably because I'm friends with someone pretty like you. I would tell you this, but for some reason, you don't like that word. That's not to say you were anywhere near as insecure as I was, but something about being called "pretty" was demeaning to you.

You liked your body. When I'm in your room, I catch you staring at the mirror more times than you would like to admit. You've called yourself sexy multiple times when I'm within earshot, half-joking and half-serious. Later, I would find out that I liked your body too. But I didn't really know that day on the beach.

I should have. In hindsight, it was obvious. My first clue was the jealousy. I didn't like the way the boys on the beach stared at you. A few of them were our age, but most of them were older. It gave me the creeps and I scowled at all the ones that made eye contact.

You didn't like the way they stared at you either so you wore a white t-shirt over your bikini.

I tried to build sandcastles to distract myself from the discomfort. Their attention wasn't even directed toward me, but something about their eyes made me squirm.

"Let's go into the water." You held your hand out to me. "We can build sandcastles later."

We ran to the shore, taking in the vast sea. With your encouragement, I waded the waters, avoiding the shard of broken seashells and tangles of seaweed.

The last time I was here, I had a complete family. Mother and father - the full package. As I went deeper into the sea, I realized that I had you.

The water reached my waist and I stood, mashing the sand between my toes. That didn't stop you from going further. You looked back, flashing a blinding white smile.

"Scared? The water feels good. Come in deeper."

If you told me to jump off a bridge, I would do it. I bit back my fear as the sea closed in around me. I kept going until I was neck deep, with the water draped over my shoulders.