My Ex-Bestfriend

Thunderstorms

He wasted no time in patching up his fragile new friend. Michael scurried inside his house and retrieved a first aid kit. He met me on the porch as he examined my wounds.

I had faint memories that were fading each passing day of my mother's gentleness as she kissed my boos boos. Since her passing I handled my own first aid dilemmas, until today.

"This might hurt," Michael said as he squeezed antiseptic on my scrapes. I've always had a high threshold for pain but even if I didn't the warm sensation filling my chest cavity numbed any possible pain.

Michael cleaned it gently and then he methodically placed triple antibiotic cream on. Next came the looney tunes band aids strategically placed. When I noticed the cartoons his cheeks blushed, "I know it's kiddish but it's what my Mom buys."

He tidied up his supplies before retrieving his basketball.

I watched him play basketball til the street lights came on. I did that every night for a week. He later started teaching me the basics of basketball. Although I clearly lacked his height I made up for it by being scrappy. We spent our days playing horse and around the world. We played every day till summer was almost over.

We wouldn't be going to the same school. He had a fancy private school and I would be going to whatever public school we were zoned for. I was nervous thinking of how I would survive without my fearless protector. It was still weeks away so I tried to enjoy the time we did have together.

We would head home to our prospective houses for lunch but meet back at his driveway. One day after lunch  I climbed the fence via the rope ladder when I heard voices. I followed the voices to the front porch. I recognized Michael's voice  immediately and the other was his Mothers'. I only ever heard short clips of her voice, "Michael Lunch!, Michael Dinner! Time to come in Michael!"

She never came to introduce herself to me just had lingering disapproving glances. She would always peep her head out from the screen porch door and eye me up and down before shaking her head dismissively. I don't know what she held against me as I never was given the opportunity to offend her. It was as if my mere existence on this planet bothered her.

"Mom, come on?!" Michael pleaded.

I snuck closer using the bushes to my advantage to hide.

"No Michael. I won't hear it any further. You start school soon and it will be easier this way."

"But I like her," Michael insisted.

I tried to be inconspicuous. My skills as a reporter required it. To not be seen or heard just make observations. I believe I was the "her" he was speaking of. I knew he was an only child and I hadn't seen any other kids he played with other than me. His neighborhood lacked kids our age.

"I don't care if you like her, she is WHITE TRASH! We don't mix with her kind," she spat.

"Mom, she is my friend," Michael replied sounding defeated.

"I don't want to hear any more Michael. It's carried on long enough."

I scurried back to the fence as quickly as my tiny petite legs could carry me. I ran to my porch and stewed over what she said. What was white trash? I didn't know at the tender age of 7 what that meant but the tone clearly conveyed disgust. Well trash does smell....Do I smell? I wasn't going to deny that I looked worse for wear. I didn't have a mom to show me how to smooth my curls. Most days my curls looked more like tangled knots and I hadn't seen a salon since my mom died.

My dad did his best with the laundry but I wore the same clothes numerous times over before they landed in the wash. Maybe if I could fix all these things on the surface I would be just white not trash. I couldn't help being white could I? I rubbed my fair complexion thinking of how no matter how much time I spent in the sun it didn't seem to make a difference of the hue.

I sat there contemplating when I heard the fence rattle. Michael climbed over and landed with a thud. He hung his head low.

As he approached the porch he met my eyes. I could not meet him though as I was now focused on the impending doom that loomed over his shoulder. Fear and panic riddled my face.

"What's wrong?" Michael knew instinctively.

I scanned the road to see if my Dad's vehicle was approaching. He knew how much I hated the rain and made every effort to be home if a thunderstorm was to roll in. There were no signs of his sputtering red truck coming down the road.

The darkness was quickly moving through the sky like a plague. I curled my legs to my chest and began rhythmically rocking back and forth.

"Are you afraid of rain?" Michael inquired.

I shook my head no. It wasn't a lie. I didn't mind the rain. It was the lightning and thunder that sometimes accompanied the rain. Although we saw each other everyday for weeks it never rained untill now. The day we were to be ripped apart.

Michael looked me over and read me like a book.

"Are you afraid of lightning and thunder?"

I nodded.

He came around and slipped his hand in mine and gave it a squeeze.

"Can we go inside and watch TV then?" He asked.

I nodded again. I opened the door as Michael swept the room with his eyes. My dad's decorating style would be more bachelor pad than anything else. There were just the essential pieces of furniture. No throw pillows or decor that littered the walls.

Michael smiled, "I like it."

He led me to the couch where I found the remote buried in a cushion and we started to watch cartoons. We sat next to each other as my death grip wrapped around his fingers. Then the inevitable happened: the lights flickered then ceased to be on.

I lunged my body weight at him and he caught me in his lap. My knees pulled to my chest as I wrapped my arms around them. He took his arms and wrapped me in his. I rested my head on his neck. I was breathing wildly but I could hear his heartbeat. It was firm, steady, without fear. I felt the rise and fall of his chest. Slow and relaxed. I attempted to match my breathing to his. I focused on that. He gently caressed my hair.

I can't imagine what my Dad's face looked that day when he barreled through the door and saw his 7 year old on the lap of another boy (who looked closer to 10-11 years old due to his height).

"You the neighbor boy?" My dad growled.

Intimidated by my dad Michael only nodded yes.

"Lets call your parents so they don't worry."

He nodded. I don't know what his parents said to him on that phone but my dad had a surly face when he returned from the call.

The storm had died down and I had managed to scoot off Michael's lap but still sat next to him. He got up so my dad could walk him home when I grabbed his arm. I don't know how I did it or why that day my brain decided to fix the connection from my brain to my mouth but I said, "Thank You."

The first words spoken in over a year from my trauma was said to Michael James and it was thanking him. His face beamed and my heart glowed. It would be a week til I saw him again as his mom him grounded for his disappearance.