Young Writers Society

eulogy

She stole her brother’s Elites and wore them with her worn out running sneakers. A Timex watch curled around her thick wrist, splattered with white paint. Her shirt had “Not a Hipster” scrawled across the chest, and I could tell she wasn’t, because I could see the Hollister eagle on her shorts. She told me she doesn’t shop from Hollister, she buys her clothes from the thrift store no one goes to downtown. She told me that’s what makes her a hipster. She said hipsters never say they’re hipsters. Then I asked why she was wearing Elites. She didn’t respond.

For my birthday, she got me a pore reducing foundation from Clinique. I stared at her, and she told me she’d give me a makeover. I told her I liked the way I was. She shrugged and popped open the cap.

I told her I wanted a coffee from Starbucks and she just walked away. What’s your problem? I asked. She just held up her hand and called over a cab. She left me standing on Sixth Avenue alone. Then it started to rain.

She had her first cigarette when she was sixteen. She told me it tasted good, and when I started coughing she laughed, and stepped on the cigarette with her Converse, the same converse she ran around in the mud in to make them look “ghetto”. I told her I’d never have another cigarette in my life. She handed me another one. I let her light it for me.

I pulled out my phone to get a picture of us in front of the Toys R Us, and you ran away from me. You better not post that, she said, anywhere. I mean anywhere. I looked over at her, and she was dead serious. But you’re so pretty, I said. She just laughed. I’m pretty, she said, like a cow is pretty. Plus, she continued, don’t conform by putting that on social media. She pulled out her phone. It was a flip phone from like 2005, the same one she got when she started middle school. I don’t need, she said, an Instagram to be cool. She waved her phone around in the air and walked away. I waited a minute, then jogged after her.

I put on music in my room, and she started banging on the wall. I can hear your shit again, she yelled. Fuck off, I yelled back. She put on Nirvana and started playing it even louder. Someone from upstairs started jumping up and down, and she turned the music off. I put headphones on.

When I laughed, she would stick her finger in my mouth so I’d start choking. What the hell? I’d laugh. She’d shrug.

I bought my first push up bra in the eighth grade, and when we changed for gym, she started poking under my boobs at my bra, and yelled falsies, falsies! I crossed my arms over my chest, and she asked, What are you, a thirty two A? I blushed, and didn’t respond. She already had the body of a woman, but she chose to hide it under parachute pants and sports bras.

When she got a boyfriend, she kissed him right in front of me. She left her dark lipstick on the side of his mouth. I gagged, and she slapped me across the face. I shrugged. He dumped her a week after. She plotted to kill him for a while, and then she just cried all the time. All I could do was give her my shoulder.

For junior prom, she wore a dress shirt and jeans. First off, it was June, so no one was wearing jeans anyway, but she wore jeans to prom. She didn’t even have a date, she just stood by the punch bowl all night and told every bitch she hated how fat she looked in her dress. For senior prom, she wore a floor length ball gown, and left her hair curly and let it fall down her shoulders. She only did that to make the boys realize what they looked past all along.

In the third grade, she told me my mole was ugly. I told her my mom said it was a beauty mark. She told me I should remove it, because that’s what her aunt did. I told her I liked my mole. She pulled up her shirt all the way up to her chin and pointed at a mole right below her chest. I like mine too, she said.

When we were in the seventh grade, she told me my brother was hot. I almost threw up, and she just giggled, as I gagged and rolled off her bed. There was a knock at the door, and it was my brother to pick me up. She unbuttoned her flannel shirt all the way down to her bra, so all of her cleavage was hanging out. You’re disgusting, I said, and I grabbed my backpack. She wiggled her fingers at my brother, and all he did was sigh, and he took my hand and pulled me into our apartment right next door.

In our freshman year, we promised we’d be best friends forever. She said she could make me into a more interesting person. I told her maybe I’d slap some sense into her. She wrapped her arm around me, and I wrapped my arm around her. We didn’t have a secret handshake or anything, we didn’t need it. We were too close for a secret handshake or secret language. I told her I’d name my daughter after her. She told me she wouldn’t name her daughter after me. I shrugged. At least we’ll still be friends, I said. Hipsters don’t have friends, she said, but then again, I’m not a hipster.