Nova and I had first met when she was 5 and I was 6. Her family moved into the house next to mine. The previous neighbors had been a cute old couple, dramatically ending their lives with a murder-suicide (the papers called it a “death by accident”, though).
The first day they moved in, I was forced by my parents to go over and introduce myself. Upon walking over, I saw a blonde woman on the porch, directing the tired movers as the summer heat took a toll on their strength.
“Hi, I’m Logan.” I had said.
“Hi Sweetie! I’m Paige Williams. How old are you?” She smiled and stared at me with deep interest.
“I’m 6.”
“Oh! My daughter’s 5! I’ll send her outside. You two can play together!” Her enthusiasm was now almost as prominent as the sweat beads forming on her forehead.
Shortly after, a girl appeared outside, holding a crushed dandelion in her hand. She had blonde, almost white hair, and grey eyes that seemed to blend in with her pale, freckled skin. Even at 5, her face was already that of an adult, with high cheekbones and a small but structured nose. I was in awe. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my 6 short years of life.
“I’m Nova.” She brandished a sort of confidence that I had never experienced before.
“Nova?”
“Nova, like the star.”
I continued to stare at her, perplexed at this foreign name belonging to this foreign girl.
“I’m Logan.” I finally said.
“Cool. Let’s go plant flowers and play with the worms.” She turned around and started walking into her backyard, leaving me no option but to follow her.
When I got home later that day, bright eyed and tired, I asked my father what a nova was.
“A nova?” He asked.
“Nova, like the star.” I repeated her words.
He cleared his throat. “Like a supernova?”
I didn’t know what he meant, but I replied “Ya.”
“Most stars fade over time. But others end in massive cosmic explosions. Supernovae.”
“Oh. Okay.” I went to bed that night with thoughts of explosions and stars and Nova Williams.
We spent the rest of the summer together, playing with worms and pretending we were pirates. We were enrolled into the same kindergarten class and were best friends throughout elementary school, estranged from the other kids that had a lack of imagination due to their excess of video games.
When I was 7, I was forced to go to Sunday school. Nova was too. On the first day, I sat at the table in the back, shooting glares at the other 2nd graders that tried to take a seat next to me. Those seats were for my imaginary friends. Friends, plural. I had a whole group of them, ranging in name length and color and size. I only allowed Nova to sit across from me, as she understood my friends and respected them. As the Sundays went by, I was hit with the bitter realization as we memorized the 10 commandments: if you admit to having imaginary friends, you’re either held back in grade levels or shipped off to a therapist, but if we all have the same imaginary friend we’re a religion. I explained my theory to Nova and two weeks later we both quit, telling our parents that the kids bullied us.
We went to the same middle school, and in 7th grade, one day during recess, I finally grew the courage to confess my budding crush on her.
“Logan? What?” She had said after I had put my feelings into words on a playground set. Her blonde hair was tangled and knotted, her jeans were ripped and her eyes were incandescent.
“Um, sorry, but we’re just friends. You’re, like, my brother. I mean, I plan on liking a guy that speaks multiple languages and can sail a ship and take me to the moon. Nothing personal, though.”
My 7th grade heart was crushed. After that, I never questioned our friendship, and I never ventured outside the borders of “friends”. She was a loud, mysterious girl who I was hopelessly in love with, and if she could never love me the way I loved her, I would settle for loving her as a friend.
Middle school passed, high school arrived. Her beliefs on the world strengthened, her vocabulary grew, and her beauty only became more and more evident. She seemed to be farther away from me, in the sense that I could never quite grasp what she was thinking. Nova was always on a different cloud of thought, lost in her own world that I was desperately trying to set foot in.
High school proved to be Nova and I’s worst years. The drama, the grades, the teachers. My closest friend besides her was Sam, a boy with messy, chin-length hair, and two hippie parents. Sam was incredibly smart, but didn’t care about test scores and grade letters. And then there was Nina. Nova had become friends with her in middle school. Nina came to school about twice a week, as she really didn’t care. Her thick black hair was always in knots, and her clothing consisted of anything and everything black. Messy eyeliner framed her piercing blue eyes, and cigarette smoke seemed to follow her every move. Nova said she liked Nina’s viewpoints on life. She intimidated Sam and I, but over the years we learned that while Nina had intense thoughts and destructive actions, she was extremely observant and even more caring.
And so we became us: Nova, Sam, Nina, and I. Sam was my best friend, Nina was my friend (I was still a bit intimidated), and Nova, was, well, Nova.
