Indie Rokkers

2 ≈ Friend, Please

        Clara's P.O.V.

A week had passed since our girls' night with Camille, and today was the day she'd introduce us to her new boyfriend. She was going to take us to his concert, and afterwards we'd meet backstage for proper introductions and all. Needless to say I was extremely excited, also happy. One, because I'm attending to a concert for free; two, because Camille is my best friend along with Megan and if she's happy with her new boyfriend, I am as well.

But Megan didn't seem so happy. She was actually sulking in the living room, refusing to go and get dressed.

And I knew exactly why. Megan wasn't quite fond of Camille due to the past we have together.

Camille and I are friends since second grade. We were inseparable. But she was the kind of popular kid, pretty, thin, tall, beautiful long blonde hair, gorgeous clear eyes, plump rosy lips; always polite, really sweet to everyone, respectful, talented, intelligent -- an angel. While I was the weird little kid, wearing massive glasses, with weird teeth, messy tangled curly hair, metabolism of a 40 year old man -- hence the excessive fat in my belly, thighs and cheeks --, with very high grades, and very awkward and shy personality.

Classic.

We met at the first day of class on my first year at that new school. She was sweet enough to hold my hand and show me around the playground, and talk to me so I wouldn't be alone, even though she was the strange one -- she was French, and not American, like myself. But we grew up together; she was always at my house, I was always at hers. We knew each other's families; I knew her secrets, ambitions, hidden talents, dreams, and she knew mine. It had always been like that, and I did not mind. I loved Camille and she loved me.

I saw her trying hard to become a model and when she finally managed something, on our first year of high school, she moved back to France. Now picture me, the always labeled 'weird kid', alone, in high school. It'd be hell.

But then Megan showed up. 

She was a bit like me, too, but she was popular too because she was musically talented. And I mean, she played in a band. English, brown hair with blonde highlights, a bit of heavy make up, playing in a pop rock band, and with a friend like me, she was asking to be mocked. But she wasn't; everyone loved her, while they were oblivious to me.

But what does that have to do with Megan hating Camille?

Well, apparently nothing. There it is.

I thought of Megan as a substitute to Camille. Megan wasn't Megan; she was another version of Camille. Someone that was there so I wouldn't be alone. Not a real person, a real friend, with a life of her own. Just someone for me. I had never told her that, though. I loved her to pieces and at the time I didn't know I thought like that. I didn't realize any of that.

But when Camille came back three years later, on our last year in school, I completely left Megan behind. Which was honestly the worst thing I could have done.

Camille was, then, way more popular, because she had already become a well-paid, mildly popular model. And so her new friends hated me. And Megan hated me too, because she cared about me and liked me, while I only liked her because she was a substitution to Camille.

And that's the story of why I spent my college years alone, hating myself, going through depression, in and out of hospital clinics due to suicide attempts and anxiety attacks.

But then, ta-daa, we met again.

We. Megan, Camille and I. By accident. Pure coincidence. At a supermarket, at night.

They were, the two of them, with boys, buying drinks. They seemed drunk just then, honestly. They had changed so much. Camille's hair was shorter, messier, and she had freckles; she was wearing massive high heels and this huge beige fur coat. Young model, rich. Of course.

And Megan, with her now dyed black hair, long and shiny, wore black Dr Martens, black skinny jeans, black leather jacket, 10 thousand bracelets on each wrist (not even an exaggeration!), black eyeliner, I think she even had black lipstick on.

Weird thing that they became friends, being polar opposites of one another.

When Megan saw me, she legitimately threw a can of beer at me. It hit my chest. I ended up with a broken collarbone. 

They went to visit me at the hospital, though. They were nice; brought me flowers.

But Camille was angry at Megan because she became aggressive with me; Camille hated violence more than anything.

They stopped talking (but, with time, Camille stopped caring about that; polite the way she was, she wouldn't keep any resentments), and meanwhile, I was becoming friends with each of them again. Megan and I became best friends; this time, I kept in mind she was not another Camille to fill gaps -- it was Megan, and Megan only. They were different. Too different, by the way.

I still loved them both, nevertheless. And I wanted to make both of them happy, because they were (almost) always so nice to me.

''Megan, please.'' I sat down beside her. ''Please.''

''I don't like her, Clara.'' She spoke, emotionless. ''Neither do I like her stupid boyfriend.''

''But I do! I like them both, even if I don't even know him yet. And you like me, don't you?''

''Yes, but-''

''Please! Just do it for me. Please. I'll bake you whatever you want for- a week.'' I made puppy eyes, nudging her arm.

''Hmm, a week?'' She looked at me and I smiled, nodding. 

''A week.''

''No.'' She said, looking back at the black tv screen.

I sighed deeply, knowing that wouldn't be easy. 

''Alright. Two weeks.''

''No.''

''A whole month!''

''Stop it-''

''TWO MONTHS.''

''You're not buying me with food, Clara.''

''Oh, really?'' I said, starting to get pissed off now.

''Yes, really.'' She growled, looking back at me.

''Okay. Okay, okay.''

I raised my hands in surrender as she groaned and cursed at me, so I went into my bedroom. I laid out in the bed my clothes and went to take a shower.

***

''You're really not coming?'' I said emotionless as I searched for my keys in my coat's pockets.

''No.'' Megan mumbled in between spoons of cereal she chewed as she watched some crappy movie, aka from that weird director she liked so much, David-- Lynch I think. I could sense she was angry and frustrated -- and inevitably guilty. I knew her too well.

''Alright.'' I said, finally finding my keys. I got everything I needed and walked towards the door. ''Goodbye.''

''BYE!'' She yelled back, slamming her bowl on the coffee table.

Told you she was angry.

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a/n bands are coming soon, have no fear