I remember how I always corrected her. If she would chew with her mouth open or spell a word wrong, I wouldn’t waste a second pointing out her flaws. I’ve always been like that.
I remember the way her old house smelled. My clothes would hold the scent of lavender Febreeze after coming home from a weekend sleepover. My mother hated that fragrance, but I always associated it with her homemade milkshakes and trundle beds.
I remember during second grade recess, telling her of my silly plan to get her a boyfriend. I knew that my pot belly and freckled nose weren’t likely to get me one; I knew she was prettier, even then. Her wide-eyed innocence on the slide that day stuck in my mind, crazy how much things can change.
I remember the hair bows she used to wear. Her outfits were all from Gymboree, complete with matching themed shoes and accessories. I wished I had clothes from there. I was always so jealous of what she had.
I remember in the fourth grade when I told Blake Croyder that she wanted to marry him. She cried for hours until her mother finally called mine. I denied it.
I remember sitting on her bed after a seventh grade football game. She described how he always smelled like Christmas trees, and how she thought he had been staring at her in class. The next day he texted her, telling her that he liked someone else. I can still feel her salty tears running down my sleeve as I held her head, trying to comfort her.
I remember last year, at summer camp. The moist north Georgia air added extra curls to frame her face, and gave her an excuse to wear shorts that exposed her lengthy thigh bones. I hated walking next to her, especially when I noticed the boys’ heads turn when she strutted towards the dining hall. My stubby legs made it hard to keep up.
I remember when she first got her braces off. She immediately sent me a picture of her new grin, followed by a text telling me how embarrassed she was. She thought that they looked funny. Too big, she said, too slimy. I told her that I wished I could get mine off, I wished my teeth looked like hers. I didn’t even know the confidence she would find, the fine print in the terms and conditions of not having braces; agreeing to respond to the overload of attention.
But mostly I remember realizing how much pain she caused me. I can still feel the pain in my stomach when he told me that how he used to think of me was how he thought of her now. She had replaced me to the one person I thought I was irreplaceable to. I could tell myself that we shouldn’t be compared, but as long as we were friends, I forever felt inferior. She was better, always better.