Next Best
As I quietly sobbed in 1 am’ darkness, I reached this realization: My life can be told as a series of best-friendships.
My first best friend was Rachel. She and I were the only girls in our entire preschool class, so naturally, we were best friends. Jane was next. I envied her higher-pitched voice once tried to adopt it, but as soon as my sister heard me, she wisely shut me down. “What are you doing?” she said. Number three was Tatum, a red-haired girl one year my junior. The moment she told me she’d learned to tie her own shoes, I remember I suddenly felt obsolete. In second grade, Jonathan was my best friend. At lunch, we’d play with our food, making pretzel houses and forts. Years later, he asked me to prom and I said no. I befriended a Korean girl, one year younger than I, named Claire in the third grade. Our friendship was tighter than others I’d had, but sometimes, I’d call her annoying for no good reason and we’d fight. When I moved on to fourth grade, I befriended a boy named Hansen, whose pre-pubescent voice could sing the entire Russian national anthem, whose wiry fingers could solve a Rubik’ cube in minutes, and whose brain would eventually move him ahead a grade.
Genevieve changed my life. We met in 6th grade in math class. Both academically-minded, both atheists, and both unathletic. We were perfect for each other. She took me to New York to see museums, walk the Highline, eat at nice restaurants, and she exposed me to the world of online video and music that I still consume. But in 8th grade, we fell apart. Over the years, I started comparing myself to her, noticing how she seemed to excel more than I did in almost every area: writing, reading, art, tennis, and making friends. When she chose to attend a prestigious private school, I cut her off. I took offense to her rejection of the public school that I loved and respected, at which I’d chosen to stay.
As she drifted into painful memory, I formed new connections. I had a year-long text relationship with a boy from my school who feared talking to me in person. In my freshman year of high school, a junior named Albert grew attached to me and drove me mad with his unfixable problems and self-pity until my sister finally confronted him. My sophomore year, I befriended another boy two years older than I was, Ian, whom I met through improv club and who would walk home beside me after school. This time, I was the one who became too attached, which I think he sensed. He graduated that year, with the expressed expectation of losing touch.
Junior year, I became friends with the person who remains the best friend I’ve ever had. I met Evan in sophomore year in humanities class. I could tell he was funny and very dedicated to education, but unlike me and others I associated with, he cared little for grades. We started eating lunch together in junior year, and then we started texting and video chatting almost every night. He was fascinating to me, and made me realize how little I understood politics and music. At his request, I listened to music I never had rap, experimental pop, free jazz‚ and I grew an appreciation, if not love, for much of it. He showed me Annie Hall, The Shining, and Tim & Eric, and I exposed him to Lord of the Rings, Monty Python, and Master of None. We fell in love: him platonically, but me, not so platonically. He had an irreverent, but thought-out sense of humor I’d never experienced before and a commitment to learning and discourse that I envied. Like many, I struggled with debates, feeling too unqualified to say anything unless I held all the facts. But when Evan had opinions, he would voice them with intimidating certainty that hid his real openness to new evidence. I think it’ close to the truest, best model for discourse and I try to practice it and pass it along as best I can.
Video calls grew less and less frequent over the course of our senior year, the getting-to-know-you phase having ended. But as much as I missed the late night talks, our friendship was very much thriving in person. We’d hang out at each others’ homes, laughing, eating, and TV-watching.
Meanwhile, graduation came and went and I was still crushing on him. But after two years of friendship, having listened to him describe his past relationships and make masturbation jokes, his lack of romantic interest in me was quite proven. I had to get over it and hoped ending my secrecy was the key. His response to my confession was mild and understanding, but uncomfortable enough for me to sometimes regret the admission.
hat conversation is not why we don’t talk so much anymore. In addition to college busy-ness, it’ the 2000 miles that separates California from Massachusetts, the 3-hour time difference, and the bad video-call connection. As much as I wish I could call him every day forever, I can’t think of a more intrusive imposition than demanding everlasting and frequent correspondence, even from my closest friend.
Coming back to that night of crying, there was one question and its answer was keeping me up: Why do I feel so lonely sometimes? Because I’m not just homesick for Connecticut. For the first time in my life, I live a six-hour plane ride away from every best friend I’ve ever had and I’m afraid I’ll never meet the next one.