By Meagan Whan
I met Josie Brewer the first day of Kindergarten. She was my mirror opposite, long hair-- mahogany where mine was golden, almond eyes--seas where mine were sands. She was friends with the cool Kindergarteners, the B-side kids, the ones that came on the opposite days to us. Her first word to me, "Shouldn't." My first word to her, "Why."
It was second grade, art class; after two years of orbiting one another we finally spoke. I had been drawing a horse head with ovals and circles, the way our teacher said. I'd given my horse a stripe on his forehead. I was colouring the stripe in, peacock blue.
"Shouldn't it be white?" Josie asked. She was turned in her seat, one foot tucked underneath her body, the other foot swinging.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Because that's the way it is."
I looked over at her drawing, a collection of circles with hair.
"What's that?"
"My family."
"There's so many of them, your whole family?"
"No, my parents and sisters."
"Which one is you?"
"I'm not there." She scribbled some more hair.
“We just got a dog. I named him Buddy.”
“Is he there?”
“No.”
Sixth grade and we were connected, everyone knew it; the teachers called us by one another's names. The telephone was our umbilical cord, stretching from me in my living room to her in her basement. I'd never been to her house. I'd sit, with the phone cradled under my chin, imagining her basement. I imagined Josie on a red velvet cushion the size of a bed, feet crossed at the ankle, Buddy at her feet; the vision would waver, I could never get around the dark and the dank. Josie had a scar on her scalp, hidden under her hair.
"I fell out of bed," Josie's voice was watery.
"and nobody noticed for like hours that I was cut. Not until my hair was all bloody."
"Cool."
"I know. Beth,-- " It was there, inside my name, a chill like a fall morning.
I sat on the floor, Indian style. “What if you were a witch?”
“Well,” Her voice hitched. “I’d have a horse like Black Beauty.”
A horse was very important in sixth grade.
“You’d be a leader, right?”
“Yeah, maybe I could have wings. I’d fly.”
“Definitely.”
Eighth grade and I’d moved the family phone into my room for my phone calls. I lay on the comforter sprawled on my stomach, my ankles crossed in the air. To Kill a Mockingbird lay open and limp beside the phone.
“What happened?”
“Tim Horton’s truck. He was all over the road, not even a dog anymore.”
I’d never seen Buddy; she told me he was a Collie-mix with a bumpy tail. I tried to imagine a dog unmade, would it be paws and legs and teeth or blood and guts and mysterious shapes.
“I’m sorry.”
“Beth,--“The chill in her voice made my fingers tingle.
“What if you were a witch?”
“Well,” Her voice warmed. “Nick Gavin would take me to the prom.”
Nick Gavin was very important in eighth grade.
“You’d be a leader, right?”
“I’d fly. Would you?” She paused. “No, you don’t fly, you’d be an anchor.”
The summer between eighth and ninth grade, hung heavy. Heat shimmered off the roads; my hair clung to the back of my neck. I sat under a maple tree on the beach; Josie lay out with her head on my knees, mahogany hair up in a ponytail.
“I’m going to die; I’m going to melt into the ground.”
“Wear a t-shirt.”
She wore jean shorts, a pale long sleeved peasant shirt and a golden cross pendent between her collarbones. I squeezed her shoulder. She was like jello, she’d become boneless since Buddy died. I looked down at her. Her eyes were far away; the lake reflected in her sea-like eyes.
“If you were a witch?”
“Not today, it’s too hot.” She mumbled.
She was farther away from me, our friendship trying to stretch and accommodate the distance.
“I need the washroom, you stay here.” Josie stood up, the absence of her head stinging my knee.
I thought she would walk off the beach, over the grassy knoll, to the restaurant to use the washroom. She didn’t. She walked into the washroom building on the beach. A square of concrete, painted to be pretty, dropped onto the sand.
I waited, heat pressed into my eyelids. I slid down the tree trunk, until my head was nestled between the tree’s bark feet. I fall asleep, phantom head still stinging my knees. I woke to a dark red lake, the setting sun reflected at me. I was alone. Josie hadn’t come back. I stood up on stiff legs and walked towards the washroom. The concrete square was dark, stripped in the shadows of its colourful mural. The beach was empty, stray towels and upside down flip-flops left abandoned.
I pushed on the bathroom door; it didn’t open easily. The floor was concrete, hard and cold after the heat of the sand.
“Josie?”
There were three stalls, doors closed and no answer.
“Josie?”
I peeked under the stall doors, empty, empty—feet.
I rapped on the third door. “Josie, is that you?”
“Beth,” her voice was chilled. “I’m sorry.”
“Can I come in?”
“We’re getting picked up soon.”
I pushed open the stall door; Josie sat on the metal toilet, one sleeve pushed up. Her pale skin, from wrist to elbow, covered in a skin of paper towel.
“It didn’t stop.” She muttered.
I sat on my knees, before her, heels digging into my flesh.
“What happened?”
She said nothing; her cross pendent glinted.
I pulled the skin of paper towel away; tiny red scratches open on her skin. Wormy bumps, from wrist to elbow, so many healed scars. I frowned at the red scratches.
“It’s stopped now.”
I could feel something stretching out between us and snapping.
Josie wasn’t looking at me; she was listening, outside the shift of gravel. I stood up; she stood without me, pushing her sleeve down. Our mothers were out in the dark, talking. My mother leaned against our silver Cavalier; her mother leaned against their Ford.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” I asked Josie.
“Sure.” Josie answered.
She hopped into the Ford, waved once.
I waved back, seated in the front passenger seat of the Cavalier. The Ford drove off, away from me.
“What are you guys doing tomorrow?” My mother asked. It wasn’t her fault, she didn’t hear the snap. I shrugged. I leaned into the window, forehead to the cool glass.
“If I were a witch, I would be a leader.” I said to the window.
My mother nodded along.