Gone

Something was different. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but something was not the same. James was acting funny; she wasn't herself. What happened to the spunky, fun loving, carefree little girl that I've grown up with? I missed her.

I sat in the rocking chair in the corner of James' bedroom, the place I've sat for years whenever I am with her. The pink walls decorated with sparkly ribbons and pastel flowers were slowly being replaced with boy band posters and torn out pages of Teen Cosmo magazines. Even the pink, silky rocking chair where I sat had scribbles on it, scribbles that I couldn't make out but I'm sure there was some sort of teen angst behind it.

Then again, I couldn't blame her or be bitter. She was growing up and maybe that meant we were growing apart.

"James! James Bear! Come down, let's go to the store together." Her mother called to her from down at the bottom of the stairs.

"It's not James Bear, Mom." James shouted back. "I'm not a little kid anymore. It's Jamie!" James is hardly as grown as she thinks, at the ripe age of 12 years old. But I get it, moving up into middle school is kind of a big deal. She's at that age where school dances and football games are replacing the sweet innocence of childhood tea parties with dolls. Times are changing. And I'm not sure where that leaves me, her best friend. I wanted us to change together.

"I don't want to go to the store with you!" James continued, as she slammed the door with incredible force for such tiny arm strength. The next thing I knew, loud music was blasting and James was sitting on her bed, deep in some steamy tween romance novel.

"James," I said softly, not even sure if she would hear me. "James, did you forget that I'm here?"

Nothing.

"James. I'm getting really tired and for some reason I feel like you don't want me around. I can go if you want. James?" I tried my hardest to make my voice louder, but it felt as if something was holding me back. Was this what growing up meant? That I would be sad and alone? I didn't want to be alone. I wasn't sure how to handle it; I've always had James.

I tried to stand up and walk across to room to James, but for some reason I began losing control of my body. My knees were shaking as I tried to take step after step. What was happening to me? Why was James not talking to me? I needed her help!

"James!" My voice squeaked.

One step.

It felt almost as if I was walking on a cloud.

Two steps.

There was no ground beneath me and I was forgetting how to use my legs.

I bent over to rest, unsure of why I felt so weak. I sat down in the middle of the floor. To the left of where I sat there was an old, crumpled up piece of paper. I opened it up.

It was a picture of James and I, one that she had drawn many years ago. We were stick figures and there was a rainbow over out heads with a giant pot of gold at the end. I flipped the crumpled up picture over, and there it was, written in her mother's handwriting.

It all hit me at once. That dizzy, gut twisting feeling that you get when you hear the news that you didn't want to hear. My face felt flushed, the heat on my cheeks burned. I almost felt a tear fall down my face, but the dizziness was numbing and I was starting to lose my breath. I felt like I was going to faint, or worse, disappear.

"James..." Her name barely escaped my mouth.

The words on the back of the picture read: "James and her imaginary friend, Anna."

I was gone.