Emily and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. She makes up the best games and knows exactly what to do at all times. And we love to be together!
When we first met, Emily was just 3 years old. I remember opening my eyes and waking up under a tree. She was lying next to me. When she opened her eyes, she looked over and giggled.
“We are being dead,” she tells me. So we are dead. We stayed like that until her mom stepped out the back door, calling for her to come inside. She popped up and grabbed my hand. Together we ran inside.
That day was wonderful, playing ninjas in her room, painting each other's nails with fake polish because we weren’t allowed real stuff. We built a blanket fort and hid from her dad in it. In the bath, we played with the bubbles. When she got shampoo in her eye, I made funny faces to stop her crying. In bed, we made up stories until we fell asleep.
The days pass in fun and laughter. Each night, we fall asleep tired, all our energy spent happily. Even when she gets hurt, I help her to smile. When she’s sad, I tell her funny things to get her to laugh. We get along, and we don’t need anyone else.
When her parents hear her talk to me, they joke about it. We know that they don’t believe I’m real. But we both know each other, and we don’t care. When they start talking about school though, we get nervous. They tell her that she needs to stop talking about me. She’ll have real friends at school. She won’t need to ‘make up stories’. But if she keeps talking about things that aren’t real, the other kids won’t like her.
She tells me that she doesn’t care. When they aren’t listening, we talk for as long as we can. At night, she tells me that I’ll always be her best friend. We talk about how the kids at school might not even be fun. They might not know how to play dog and kitty. They might not like pretzels and peanut butter. We fall asleep reassuring each other.
But the day of school comes, and Emily has to leave. Her parents tell her that I have to stay home. They tell her to say goodbye. I tell her that I’ll be waiting here when she gets home from school. She cries as she gets into the car.
When Emily comes home from school, she’s excited. She chatters away while she takes off her shoes and coat, her mom and dad smiling behind her. It’s not until she comes up to her room that she can talk about it with me. She tells me about Mark and Lilly, the two kids she sits next to. Her teacher Mr. Grough, who told everyone they could call him Mr. G. She talks about how she got a snack and they played dog and kitty during outside time. And she’s happy. I tell her that I’m happy for her, that it’s good she gets to have fun. That night we played a game of ninjas before bed.
I get to be with Emily as she grows. She learns to read and write, she learns new games and meets new people. When school ends, we get to play all day again. But Mark and Lilly tag along. They know that I’m here, but they can’t see or hear me.
Usually I don’t get to play. But Emily is happy.
The next year of school, Emily meets even more people. And she stays longer, learning more. When she comes home, she has more to say, telling me about new words she learned, books she found in the library, pictures she drew during art time.
And she teaches me what she learns. But we don’t stay up as late, Emily falling asleep earlier. She’s tired and needs her rest, I can understand that. So I just tuck her in and turn off the light, climbing in next to her.
Summer is busier, with more playdates and trips to the park. I don’t always get to go.
Back in school, she starts a project for class. They have to write letters to someone they know, telling them about their day. She chooses me. It doesn’t matter that we don’t play games as much, she still chose me.
Summer blends into fall into winter into spring. School and sports, art and building, science fairs and dances. We don’t talk anymore, but I read what she writes. Her school project ended, but she still writes to me. She has a special notebook for it.
Today Henry sat next to me and he kept intrrupting the teacher, so annoying! But Charlie was sitting next to Lilly and she was rilly really imbarrassed.
I tried to ask her about Lilly when she got home the next day, but she was too busy talking to her parents. That night I tried again, but she didn’t hear me until I touched her hand. I hope she still needs me.
I got another c on a spelling test. I think mom and dad are mad but they didn’t say anything. I think therre mad at each other to.
Lilly sat with Charlie again, and Mark told me he doesn’t want to hang out eneemore. He says that I’m weird.
I try to put her old clay tiger project on her desk. The one she was so proud of making. When she comes home, she stares at it for a while. She throws it in the trash. When I ask her what she wants to play, she doesn’t respond.
Lilly tells me that I don’t understand and she’s right.
Maddison was talking to her friends today and they all looked at me when I came in.
Mom and dad are worried about me. And they don’t know what to say.
I try to comfort her, to tell her she’s not weird. But I’ve lost my voice. I’m losing my touch. I can’t talk to her anymore, and I can barely move things. I try putting her favorite toys in her bed, trying to help her remember happy times, but it doesn’t work.
I ate lunch in the bathroom again. One of the teachers came in and I had to hide the sandwich wrapper in my hoodie and pretend I was really going to the bathroom.
I sat down next to Lilly today and all the girls she was with made excuses and walked away. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t talk much for the rest of the period.
I stayed home sick today and the only ones who noticed were the teachers.
Mom wanted to talk about my grades today. I yelled. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry mom.
I skipped third period.
I want to tell Emily that it will be okay. But I can’t even move anything now. I feel loose, light. I’m not real. Her parents were right. She could’ve given up on me a while ago. But she didn’t, so I won’t give up on her.
Mom and dad say it will be okay. But they don’t understand. It isn’t okay. How am I supposed to look forward to next year if I dread tomorrow.
I don’t like who I am. Why does everything about me seem wrong? Where are the instructions everyone else got at the beginning of life?
Emily, please. You will be okay. You can. I can’t do anything for you.
I can’t tell mom and dad
Yes, you can.
I want to be okay
I know you do.
But that doesn’t seem to be possible like this
I know it doesn’t.
And I don’t even remember who I thought would care about this. Who am I writing to?
Me. Please Emily. I care. Please believe in others who care about you.
Why keep writing? I don’t know
No, Emily, please. If you don’t believe in me, I can’t stay! I’m sorry, I’ll be better!
Please!
I’m sorry.
When I open my eyes again, it feels like I’ve been asleep for ages. I’m sitting next to a girl. She smiles over at me, then grabs my hand. She brings me to a bench in the park we’re at. On the bench sits a woman, the adult of a little girl I once knew.
“Mommy! Look, this is my new friend!”
She looks up from her book. She looks at me for a long while before giving me a small, sad smile.
“Hello, Lucy’s friend. My name is Emily.” She holds out her hand. When I come closer, she whispers to me, “Thank you for listening when you could. Take care of her, would you? Please?”
Of course, Emily. Thank you for being okay.