Chapter 11 (post two)

Pre-note: Enjoy the next section. I'm going to write some more instead of writing my bibliography... which is probably a bad choice, but whatever! lol

Chapter eleven (or ten), section two: 

When I got back to my room, there was a long list of messages on my phone. I’d completely forgotten about Jake’s request to take me to the beach every night, and he had wanted to take me today. I tried to call him back, but there was no answer. I left a message apologizing and telling him I hoped he’d gone anyways.

Afterwards, I put on my blue pyjamas on that matched the blue everything in my room and crawled into bed. It was only a bit after six, and I could’ve gone and met everyone in the cafeteria eating dinner, but I didn’t feel like it. There were memories of earth running through my head, and as much as they hurt, I wanted to think rather than push them away.

Beth had loved art too. When we met that first time in Science class, grade nine, we had clicked not because we both enjoyed dissecting the frog, but because we both hated it yet could appreciate the beauty in what everyone else thought was gross. The way the organs were laid out, the way they worked together, that was what made the whole thing interesting, yet we agreed it would be just as great on a computer screen without the smell of peroxide.

We had Science together, then lunch, then art. We spent that first day getting to know each other; we met for coffee after school and after that, it was as though we’d known each other forever. I know there are stories of best friends since birth or pre-natal yoga classes, but this was better than all that. She wasn’t my best friend cause she lived in the same neighbourhood or because she was the daughter of my mother’s friend, she was my best friend because we were so much a like it was as if she was reading my thoughts, yet so different sometimes that I wondered where she came from.

Beth’s art reflected her moods. Some pieces were dark and twisted, some were joyful and bright. Our art teacher had appreciated this, saying that Beth had a “range of talents and inspiration.” I knew it was her way of working her feelings out, and typically, it worked. In my room I had a row of three paintings she’d done of the two of us. They were actually the same picture, but you could hardly tell because she purposefully worked on them during different periods. One was black and purple, with harsh lines and little other colours; one was like a Van Goh painting, all pale blues and greens; while the last one was stylized, colourful and bright. They were the most amazing pieces of art I owned, they inspired me to be creative myself.

Beth could read my mind, finish my sentences, inspire me or comfort me. I never felt awkward or out of place with her. We had never fought, disagreed perhaps, but never fought. We hung out at every opportunity, and although we had other friends, they knew we were BFFs.

Were.

What was I going to do without her?