Nadia Vasilyeva (15)
The Last Time
The lipstick is sticky and heavy on my lips, my cheeks stained with pink blush. I look pretty; it covers up the bitter, oozing mess on the inside.
She’d see right through it. If it wasn't here, if it wasn't now, she would grab my hand and lead me straight out of this place. I would be in her room, swaddled in the thick fluff of her blankets, holding the warm cup of tea that she would always brew.
There’s no tea at this party, no delicate cups with colors worn from years of use. Just the reek of punch and the crinkles of thin plastic.
Her eyes catch mine, over the shoulders of the crowd, through the spinning lights. Her torn sneakers stop moving, out of beat with the music.
I raise my hand, intending to wave, but it hangs limply in the air, and then I bring it back down. Her silence fills the room, yet the party continues. The waves of people bump against each other, breathing their hot breath into the air.
Stop, I want to scream at everyone, Stop going on with your lives. Stop enjoying this.
Her dress is hanging off of her, and her eyes are dull. Should a person look so pale under such bright lights?
Her eyes are worn. I can see the bags under them—
“C'mon, you can tell me.”
“I'm not supposed to, not yet. My parents said it's only a possibility…”
She starts to walk toward me, and her shoulders are hunched, making her seem so small.
“Moving? What do you mean, moving?”
She’s in front of me, and her cold hand is curled around my sweating one.
“We’ll still have Skype. That’s something, right?”
She leans into me, and we’re breathing in the same air.
“It's not enough. It's just... it's not enough.”
In a couple hours, she’ll be inside that scratchy car, driving toward the horizon. In a couple hours, she’ll be gone.
The hot air is in my throat, and I struggle to take a breath. I’m leaning on her now, and she doesn’t protest.
She starts to move forward, and I feel my grip tighten around her sleeve. Papery streamers wave back and forth, and the haze of the party only thickens.
Wait. No. Not yet.
But she’s still holding me. We move past the crowds of people, over the sticky floor, stepping past fallen drinks and empty red cups.
The screams of the music, the beats searing loud into my head, start to fade away—a constant pounding in the back of my mind.
The leaves are rustling as the cool night air rushes over us, sweeping our hair in a whirl of brown and blonde. As the water laps over the edge of the pool, my sneakers are soaked. She’s silent, and I copy her.
After all, what words do you say to a friend you'll never see again?
She starts to step forward but stops. She's waiting for me, for my words rehearsed on the walk here. Engraved into my head, warm and touching and bought straight off the Internet: 100 Ways to Say Goodbye to a Friend.
One hundred different ways and I can’t think of a single one. They’re gone now, the prepared, scripted words. Shadowed by the car I know is waiting only a couple feet ahead.
She’s waiting. For something, anything.
Wait. Don’t go. Not yet. Please. Not yet.
I can’t look up at her, and the night air hangs over us. Her clock is ticking, its soft ticks in my ears, and she’s waiting.
“You ready?” I whisper suddenly. She lifts her head a little, and I stay silent. I can feel the knot in my stomach grow, the voices inside my head, She's leaving, she's going, she'll be gone…
“Not really,” she whispers. She takes a step onto the gravel of the parking lot, my hand still on the coarse fabric of her sleeve.
I try to open my mouth, to say any last line, some perfect goodbye. But the lipstick is too heavy, and its weight presses down on the silence.
She’s waiting, and the watch on her wrist is slowly ticking away the minutes left.
Tick. The car is there, the doors open, key in the engine.
Tick. I can feel her turning, can feel my hand slipping from her sleeve, down the trim and past the stitches.
Tick. My hand hangs on empty air, and I realize I never heard her leave.
There’s nothing left of her now, I tell myself. Nothing left but a couple footsteps in the gravel, and a few words I never got to say still echoing in my head.
The Last Time
The lipstick is sticky and heavy on my lips, my cheeks stained with pink blush. I look pretty; it covers up the bitter, oozing mess on the inside.
She’d see right through it. If it wasn't here, if it wasn't now, she would grab my hand and lead me straight out of this place. I would be in her room, swaddled in the thick fluff of her blankets, holding the warm cup of tea that she would always brew.
There’s no tea at this party, no delicate cups with colors worn from years of use. Just the reek of punch and the crinkles of thin plastic.
Her eyes catch mine, over the shoulders of the crowd, through the spinning lights. Her torn sneakers stop moving, out of beat with the music.
I raise my hand, intending to wave, but it hangs limply in the air, and then I bring it back down. Her silence fills the room, yet the party continues. The waves of people bump against each other, breathing their hot breath into the air.
Stop, I want to scream at everyone, Stop going on with your lives. Stop enjoying this.
Her dress is hanging off of her, and her eyes are dull. Should a person look so pale under such bright lights?
Her eyes are worn. I can see the bags under them—
“C'mon, you can tell me.”
“I'm not supposed to, not yet. My parents said it's only a possibility…”
She starts to walk toward me, and her shoulders are hunched, making her seem so small.
“Moving? What do you mean, moving?”
She’s in front of me, and her cold hand is curled around my sweating one.
“We’ll still have Skype. That’s something, right?”
She leans into me, and we’re breathing in the same air.
“It's not enough. It's just... it's not enough.”
In a couple hours, she’ll be inside that scratchy car, driving toward the horizon. In a couple hours, she’ll be gone.
The hot air is in my throat, and I struggle to take a breath. I’m leaning on her now, and she doesn’t protest.
She starts to move forward, and I feel my grip tighten around her sleeve. Papery streamers wave back and forth, and the haze of the party only thickens.
Wait. No. Not yet.
But she’s still holding me. We move past the crowds of people, over the sticky floor, stepping past fallen drinks and empty red cups.
The screams of the music, the beats searing loud into my head, start to fade away—a constant pounding in the back of my mind.
The leaves are rustling as the cool night air rushes over us, sweeping our hair in a whirl of brown and blonde. As the water laps over the edge of the pool, my sneakers are soaked. She’s silent, and I copy her.
After all, what words do you say to a friend you'll never see again?
She starts to step forward but stops. She's waiting for me, for my words rehearsed on the walk here. Engraved into my head, warm and touching and bought straight off the Internet: 100 Ways to Say Goodbye to a Friend.
One hundred different ways and I can’t think of a single one. They’re gone now, the prepared, scripted words. Shadowed by the car I know is waiting only a couple feet ahead.
She’s waiting. For something, anything.
Wait. Don’t go. Not yet. Please. Not yet.
I can’t look up at her, and the night air hangs over us. Her clock is ticking, its soft ticks in my ears, and she’s waiting.
“You ready?” I whisper suddenly. She lifts her head a little, and I stay silent. I can feel the knot in my stomach grow, the voices inside my head, She's leaving, she's going, she'll be gone…
“Not really,” she whispers. She takes a step onto the gravel of the parking lot, my hand still on the coarse fabric of her sleeve.
I try to open my mouth, to say any last line, some perfect goodbye. But the lipstick is too heavy, and its weight presses down on the silence.
She’s waiting, and the watch on her wrist is slowly ticking away the minutes left.
Tick. The car is there, the doors open, key in the engine.
Tick. I can feel her turning, can feel my hand slipping from her sleeve, down the trim and past the stitches.
Tick. My hand hangs on empty air, and I realize I never heard her leave.
There’s nothing left of her now, I tell myself. Nothing left but a couple footsteps in the gravel, and a few words I never got to say still echoing in my head.
***
I take a step back and look at her house. It wasn’t my idea to come here, not really. I hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near the place. Nobody was inside anyway.
My fingernails click against the screen of my phone, and I frown. I don’t remember taking it out of my pocket, but there it lies, my palm cupped around its heavy weight.
I don’t look down. I already know what it says on that bright, glaring screen.
My fingernails click against the screen of my phone, and I frown. I don’t remember taking it out of my pocket, but there it lies, my palm cupped around its heavy weight.
I don’t look down. I already know what it says on that bright, glaring screen.
One new text message
Hey! What’s up? Listen, I think I dropped my necklace in the front yard.
Can you check if it’s still there?
Thanks! (By the way, my new house is so cool, you would love it!)
Hey! What’s up? Listen, I think I dropped my necklace in the front yard.
Can you check if it’s still there?
Thanks! (By the way, my new house is so cool, you would love it!)
A flash of anger shoots through me, and I shake my head to clear it. I had thought of calling her before, but what was the point? I couldn’t hear her voice without thinking of her smile, her laugh, her... and she wasn’t there anymore. But she seemed perfectly fine with that…
“My new house is so cool…”
Gritting my teeth together, I turn my phone off, my fingernails pressing hard against the screen. Fine. If she was fine with... with this, then I could be too.
Turning to leave, a flash catches my eye. Looking down, I see the necklace lying on the grass, the little turtle sparkling against the sun.
My phone is still in my hand, and I look down at the text again.
Do I really want to call her anyway? She seems fine.
I reach down and collect the necklace, its thin silver chain wavering back and forth.
She seems perfectly fine.
Unclasping the chain, I lower my head and bring the turtle to my neck. It lays there, cold as stone.
She seems perfectly fine. She could do without the necklace.
And I could be fine too.
Dropping my phone into my pocket, I turn away from the house and start walking back.
I would text her back. Sometime.
Nadia Vasilyeva is a fifteen year old who does horseback riding and enjoys reading mystery novels.
“My new house is so cool…”
Gritting my teeth together, I turn my phone off, my fingernails pressing hard against the screen. Fine. If she was fine with... with this, then I could be too.
Turning to leave, a flash catches my eye. Looking down, I see the necklace lying on the grass, the little turtle sparkling against the sun.
My phone is still in my hand, and I look down at the text again.
Do I really want to call her anyway? She seems fine.
I reach down and collect the necklace, its thin silver chain wavering back and forth.
She seems perfectly fine.
Unclasping the chain, I lower my head and bring the turtle to my neck. It lays there, cold as stone.
She seems perfectly fine. She could do without the necklace.
And I could be fine too.
Dropping my phone into my pocket, I turn away from the house and start walking back.
I would text her back. Sometime.
Nadia Vasilyeva is a fifteen year old who does horseback riding and enjoys reading mystery novels.