Second-Best Friend: Another potential title for a memoir that I will never use. Even though very true to the plot, and very thematic to my life, it’s a bit too melodramatic and … sounds way too much like the title of a memoir.
We all have that memory that attaches itself to the soul and seeks attention, seeks the spotlight. No matter how tired, overdone, worked-through, or even boring the memory is, it clings on with an iron grip and demands that you remember its significance. I oddly respect it for that, despite the repercussions; it takes a lot of self-esteem to be that dignified in your importance.
We can call those “sticky memories,” for the purposes of this post (my therapist would probably differ in terminology), and my sticky memory is, as it requests, very important to me and would love for me to write about it, in full detail, so I will. My sticky memory is like honey; made with good intentions by those unknowing of their sting. It attracts emotions as big as bears and small as flies.
I was in kindergarten, and it was the day after I was chosen to be the line leader. I was wearing bermuda shorts and a striped shirt, because my mom let me dress myself, and I chose outfits like how Jackson Pollock painted. We were walking down the wind-tunnel hallway to the cafeteria, and I was side-by-side with one of my best friends – we can call her Alexia.
I had a clear sense of my reality as a 6-year-old, filled with realizing the predictability of seasons, making symmetrical block towers, mac and cheese, GoGurt, Beanie Babies, and my two best friends, Alexia and Tori. I knew we were three things that fit together, like the sides of a triangle. I knew we had fun, and I knew if they were upset, I would be upset, too. I knew weekends were filled with playing with them and my keyboard, and weeks were filled with school and bedtime routines.
As Alexia and I made it closer to the cafeteria, we began quite the dense discussion, triggered by my mention of both Alexia and Tori as my “best friends.” This was not in Alexia’s perception of reality, it turns out, because she paused for a second and stated “wait, you can’t have two best friends, you can only have one best friend.”
And even then, I remember knowing that the term “best” had only room for one. I knew I was overloading the capacity of the word and its capabilities, and I was faced with my own hypocrisy for what was likely the first time. But what I knew more was that I cared about both Alexia and Tori the same, and I did not care that a word did not exist capable of holding them both. Writing was my least favorite subject at the time; I didn’t like that each letter had to look exactly the same.
So, before I had a chance to respond, Alexia decided to qualify her statement in hopes to better my understanding. She continued “You can only have one best friend – for example, Tori is my best friend, and you are my second-best friend.”
And I don’t remember making it to lunch. I think part of 6-year-old me is still walking down the wind-tunnel hallway, coping with the first major shift in reality she’s had to face, one in which I realized that sometimes people can care about you less than you care about them.
Then the memoir would continue, and the domino effect of that moment would appear in each chapter in a not-so-subtle way. It would be published, get mediocre reviews, and I’d be humbled and a bit overwhelmed as more people than I expect would relate to the Second-Best Friend label and send kind messages. I’d keep a copy for myself to reflect on, as I know it’s a label I’ll hold onto forever.