Sorry Not Sorry: Dreams, Mistakes And Growing Up With Naya Rivera

BFFS, BAD GIRLS, BITCHES, AND MY MOM

Learning to Love the Ladies

I DON'T HAVE A ton of friends, and I never have. I don't have a gaggle of girlfriends that I go everywhere with, I don't wake up to forty-seven new messages in a group text every morning, and I don't have standing girls' nights where we drink wine and talk shit on everyone we know.

And you know why? Because I like it that way.

When it comes to friends, I'll take quality over quantity any day.

I met Madison, one of my best friends and partner in crime, in second grade. I honestly don't remember how we met, because positive classroom memories from that year are completely overshadowed by our creep of a teacher, Mr. Bonterra, who once plucked an eyelash off my cheek and then held it out in front of me on his finger and said, "Blow." So, so not appropriate.

Madison is white—and blond-haired gorgeous white at that—and her family had more money than mine, but at that age those differences paled in comparison to bigger secondgrade issues, like our aversion to people who ate gross food for lunch or who picked their nose.

However, I do remember going over to Madison's house after school. She lived in a suburb with a man-made lake and paddleboats, and she had all the American Girl dolls, accessories included! Still, I wasn't jealous; I was just stoked to get to play with that kind of doll at all.

Even though Madison and I didn't always go to the same school, we were always close, and by high school we were inseparable. We called each other Scoobs—we still do to this day actually—and I'd talk to her several times a day on my pink Motorola Razr (I liked the sound it made when it snapped shut) or on my Swarovski-crystal-studded Sidekick phone that she customized for me during her bejewel-everything phase.

We kept a notebook—our version of a Mean Girls slam book, though we were never that mean. We passed it back and forth all through high school. We'd write each other letters during class or at home in the middle of the night when we couldn't sleep. She'd write notes to hype me up when I was applying for a job at Red Robin, and then write another note consoling me when I didn't get it. (C'mon, Red Robin! Your restaurant is not that hot!)

The notebook Madison and I shared in high school—she's been my partner in crime since day one.

We filled the notebook with drawings and doodles of our summer plans (laying out on beach towels) or where we saw ourselves in ten years. We drew stick figures of ourselves with word bubbles coming out of our mouths. Hers said, "The name is M. Hees, interior decorator to the stars!" and mine said, "I'll take two Bentleys, please!"

In that notebook, we spent a lot, and I mean a lot, of time writing and drawing pictures about how much we loved Jamba Juice.

The one time in my life that I snuck out of my parents' house was with Madison. We were living in that shitty apartment by the railroad tracks, but Madison had come over to spend the night. We were doing what we always did in those days, which was watching and rewatching The Notebook.

That was when there was that weird trend where everyone was painting their house keys—why?—and I had painstakingly coated mine with pink nail polish with green polka dots. Madison was flipping through magazines and wouldn't stop talking about how she wanted bangs.

Finally, after an hour of this, I was like, "Fine, I'll cut your bangs!" but then I couldn't find any scissors. Madison was so excited that she suggested we just go to CVS and get some, even though it was eleven thirty at night and my parents were already asleep. I was nervous, but Madison had a car and insisted everything would be fine.