And sometimes, a little bit, in the worst moments, I blame you, or at least wonder how I could have convinced you. I know it’s not my fault, any of what happened with you and him, but that doesn’t stop my brain or heart from cycling through the what-ifs. And there are a lot of those.
Here’s a big one: What if on that last night, the night of the accident, when you climbed down from your bunk—stepping left to avoid the spot on the middle rung that creaked—what if I hadn’t held still and pretended to be asleep? What if I’d gotten out of bed, followed you outside, and insisted on tagging along like the third wheel I’d sometimes become? Would you have sent me away? Would Jackson? Would it have changed anything? Or everything? Or nothing?
It hurts to think about. It hurts to imagine how things might be different now, the million-and-one ways. I could be writing you messages you’d actually read and reply to. Driving up to see you on weekends. Making you laugh again for real.
But I didn’t. You aren’t. You won’t.
You never will.
I hate this so much and I can’t even tell you.
I miss you more than you’ll ever know.
Love,
Kayla
August 27
Dear Lainie,
I didn’t want to go to Camp Cavanick. I wanted to stay home and sleep late, read books, enjoy air conditioning, and avoid bugs and “fun” and other humans. But my parents wouldn’t tolerate “another summer of you moping around the house” and I didn’t get into the science camp that was my first choice of torture. (Which is fair—I suck at science. Or rather, I’m as average at science as I am at everything else, no matter how hard my parents refuse to accept that. I’m sixteen years old and have shown zero signs of excelling at anything, but Adele and Peter still seem to be awaiting my acceptance from Hogwarts, or for my hidden superpowers to suddenly reveal themselves at the dinner table, proving I’m as extraordinary as everyone else in this family, not the dud of the bunch I’ve so far turned out to be. Not because they see any particular aptitude in me, but because they are so accomplished and high-achieving, it’s unfathomable that one of their children would turn out to be normal. Poor them. At least they’ve got my brother upholding the family standard of excellence—at Swarthmore, no less. La-di-da.)
I don’t love or excel at science, but I figured at least science camp would be chock-full of nerds. It wouldn’t matter if I was socially awkward or kind of a loner, because if anything, that would help me fit in.
But alas: I got rejected, even from reject camp. So Adele enrolled me at Camp Cavanick (“A Summer of Fun. A Lifetime of Memories. Exclusively for Teens!”) without my permission (though she swore she discussed it with me first), and while they didn’t exactly drag me there kicking and screaming—I do have some dignity—I made everyone as miserable as possible in the weeks leading up to my departure, lest they think they had won and there was any chance I might enjoy myself even slightly. Which of course made them all the more relieved to be dropping me off in the middle of nowhere for eight weeks of being blissfully free of me. I would feel bad about how I acted, but it’s my job as a teenager to help them detach and almost hate me, so when it’s time for me to fly the nest, they won’t feel too hopeless and sad. My awful behavior is actually deeply altruistic, see? YOU’RE WELCOME, PARENTS. Haha.
But I guess the joke was on me. I steeled myself for the worst and loneliest summer of my life (being alone with other people around is so much worse than being alone alone—I’m never lonely by myself, or at least I wasn’t before now), and instead I met you. The best thing that ever happened to me.
Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
I assumed it was Shakespeare who wrote that, but I just googled to check and turns out it was Alfred Lord Tennyson. “’Tis better to have loved and lost Shakespeare” is one of the top suggested auto-fills, though, so I must not be the only one who thought that. Man, Shakespeare gets the credit for everything, doesn’t he. All the other dead writers must hate him.
I feel like before I met you, I wasn’t even fully myself. I was a larva. A plain, unremarkable caterpillar that, in your presence, changed into a beauuuuuuutiful butterfly. It’s like you saw the very best version of me, and by seeing it, you helped me become it.
I don’t even know who I was before I became your best friend. I don’t know who I am now without you. I’m sure this new reality will sink in eventually, but right now it doesn’t compute. And I don’t want it to. “Loved and lost” or “Never loved at all” are shitty options. ’Tis better to have loved and stayed best friends forever. That’s what I wanted for you and me.
Ugh, I am so sick of crying over you. Dammit. How does someone recover from the loss of their very best friend?
No, really: HOW???
Cue Dr. Rita voice: It takes time to process and absorb, let alone move past, a significant trauma like this. You’re still in shock, and that’s okay. You’ve got many stages of grief to go through. You might not feel truly okay and like yourself for quite some time—and that’s all right too.
Well, it’s not all right with me.
She can take her bloody trauma talk and shove it.
(Get it? Bloody? Hahahahahahahahahaha *sob*)
Why am I still trying to make you laugh? Old habits die hard, I guess.
(Die! Ba-dum-ching!)
Seriously, folks, I’ll be here all night.
I will, though. I can’t sleep because I’m haunted by the ghosts of my past, who insist on replaying the highlight reel on endless loop. It’s It’s a Wonderful Life meets I Know What You Did Last Summer. Grab some popcorn and enjoy the show.
I definitely got funnier being friends with you, since it was basically my daily mission to make you crack up. I was good at it. I loved how your lips twitched whenever I made some goofy, random remark. (“What’s in it?” “Artichoke.” “Ah! A pirate’s favorite vegetable.”) Loved how the smallest things grew into inside jokes we ping-ponged back and forth for as long as humanly possible. (“Aye, matey, aside from Swiss charrrrrrd.” “Who told ye that, Old Salt?” “Farrrrmer Jack.” “That landlubber.” “Replace him with an arrrrrrdvarrrrk!” “Send him to the Arrrrrrrrctic!” “Farrrrrr as the carrrrrrrrr will go.”) Loved how other people looked at us when we really got going: part amused, part envious, part admiring, part confused. How they laughed along like they were in on our jokes, but never fully got them. (“Isn’t that right, John?” “That’s right, John.”) How they wished they could be part of us. We didn’t exclude them—we weren’t bitches—but I didn’t need anyone but you, you didn’t need anyone but me, and most people knew that.
Okay, that’s not true. You definitely needed other people. You needed an audience.
You reeled people in, then held them at arm’s length, never letting them get truly close. But me, you let in. I loved the real you, flaws and all.
I wish that could have been enough for you.
I know exactly how you would react to this. I can picture you so clearly, propping your chin on both hands, blinking your eyes wide, and saying, “Tell me more, Dr. Randy,” your voice the kind of mock serious that would make me toss a pillow at you if I had one. But I’m the daughter of not one but two child psychologists. It’s in my blood to psychoanalyze—or to be psycho, take your pick.