We met her with a triangle haircut, she was short and quiet and just small. Small voice, small hands, but though she was quiet, she was fun and smiled at you when you smiled at her, and had really fun ideas of games to play at recess.
She joined us in our elementary school folly, playing hide and go seek, truth or dare and eating all the candy we could from our pillowcase sacks after trick-or-treating.
We grew together, us in height, she in character. We went through that god-awful white eyeliner phase in Grades 8 and 9, we had photo shoots in our basements and backyard on our Grade 6 graduation present cameras.
She always wore seed-bead homemade necklaces and when we did get her to laugh, it was big and blaring and her usually squinty eyes were wide.
Her basement held the best big-party sleepovers: Six or so of us preteen skinny girls laughing and doing makeovers, listening to Dance Mix 98 and Spice Girls CDs. I think our Grade 7 Spice Girls party was in her basement. She was the quiet but beautiful Posh Spice.
She went out with a cute boy, whose garage band even wrote a song dedicated to her. It was an awful song, but aren’t all songs by Grade 7 garage bands? She loved it, but tried not to let it show. She played the flute beautifully, and sang with just the same airy, steady voice. Although few knew, because her quiet demeanor kept this feat hidden. When she did sing in public at our high school talent shows and musicals, it was usually a part of a group or choir.
She played a beautiful bobby soxer in “Leader of the Pack,” and though she may not have stood out, she was our friend and we cheered for her because we knew she was good.
She had a best friend who I like to think brought out the best in her. She became less quiet, (though by no means loud) let herself enjoy shopping at the suburban mall and began to believe she was a good performer. She was, but of course, it’s one thing to be good and another to know it.
The two of them promised to move to Hollywood to be big famous stars. They weren’t like the other junior high girls who said they’d be singers or actresses “when they grew up”. Oh no, they were going to do it.
After Grade 8, her family moved to Texas. We wrote back and forth letters with fuzzy and scratch-n-sniff stickers all over the envelopes. We wrote about the parties we started to drink at, the boys we started to kiss and the dramas of being 15 and awkward. I don’t think she kept up with her flute lessons, but she did keep acting on stage, signing and dancing for whomever would cast her at the small-ish town. Every once in awhile, we’d give her a call, usually around a table on new years’ eve or during the summer, lying around our friends’ backyard pool. She visited once or twice, and commented on how cold the summer nights were here, but other than climate, her changes were gradual.
She was more beautiful than before, a little more self-assured, a little more willing to take the crazy high school risks that I lived for.
We got infrequent updates on what plays she was in, on her preparation for prom and college. We did the same, branching off to different schools and area codes.
Nowadays, we hear from her once in awhile through e-mail, or her once best friend. She lives in LA and is still trying to make it. That sounds like she won’t, I know. I believe she can. I also know, though, that it’s not always about how good you really are. They call it a break for a reason, right?
I wonder about her. I wonder if she has a good girlfriend with whom she can still have sleepovers and talk to about the boys she kisses, although these days I guess that’s her fiancé, if the grapevine is correct.
I wonder if she’ll keep going for her dream. Her Grade 7 dream she has chased for so long and all the way to Hollywood. I wonder if she’ll just resign herself to being a wife and tending a house and being OK with that. If there’s any bit of junior high her still around, then she’s built for something bigger. But, like I said, she’s quiet in nature and though powerfully talented by now, I wonder if she’ll let that be her guiding force. The ring on the finger can pack a strong pull. And who can make life plans when that involves waiting tables while waiting for a break?
If she’s reading this, I hope she knows I still think about her often and wait to see her name on a screen sometime. It’s a matter of time, I know it. A matter of time, and who’s to know if she’ll wait it out.

Labels: career, high school, marriage