Disconnected

 

There is a group of kids close by me now. I know I should not eavesdrop. I know I should not stare. But I cannot help it. One of the girls, a small one with hair dyed the color of a galaxy, sings tunes from choir and a musical. A boy’s broad shoulders are large enough to catch a bounty of evening sunlight. All four of the students converse, listen, and laugh. I think they know I can hear them; their voices are lowered.

A few days ago, my mom asked me if I had friends.

Yeah, I have friends. I listed a couple of people. But not close friends. To be honest, I only made those friends a few months ago. And before those few months, during summer, I had one friend. And a few months before that, during my sophomore year, I had plenty of friends. I think. Maybe those were just acquaintances. And a year before that, in what seemed like a whole different world, I had one friend. A year before that, I had three friends. Four years ago, I had no friends.

Most of the time I do not care. I am too busy to think about those things anyway. I have to go to school. I have to pay attention in class. I have to do my homework. I have to eat, exercise, shower, sleep.

Sometimes, I have to do nothing. Sometimes it only lasts a minute. Sometimes it lasts hours. Who I am and what I am made of come from the moments when there is nothing, because in those moments I can just wander, and my brain always goes to the same places.

I can get overwhelmed in those moments of nothing. Especially when there is something that reminds me of myself. Like when I see a group of kids close by. I watch them converse, listen, laugh. I want to walk up to them. I want them to see me, and then yell my name. Maybe one of them would greet me with a hug. I would crack a joke. They would all laugh. One of them would show me something on their  phone that reminded me of you! We would talk about that class we all hate. We would laugh about that time in third grade in which one of us shoved Cheetos up their nose. We would have inside jokes that nobody else understood. We would know each others’ favorite color, movie, and song. We would share secrets. We would get into drama. We would fight. We would give each other the cold shoulder, cry, and make up again. We would show up at each other’s houses, uninvited, wearing pajamas, raiding the fridge, and calling the parents “Auntie” and “Uncle.” I would sing with the small girl who has hair made of galaxies. I would stand next to the boy and both of our backs would become sunlight.

Yeah, I have friends.

Right?