#and it’s a school that inexplicably has recess every hour

[phoenixkaptain]

Fuckin wild to me that Aqualad in 60s Teen Titans just straight up did not have a name. Like, his name was just Aqualad. Imagine your name just being Landkid, that’s what Aqualad is going through.

#aqualad #dc #teen titans #60s teen titans #the inane ramblings of a madman #i think his name later on is garth or smth #idk his name was just aqualad for like a decade #aqualad has no civilian identity #he goes to school as aqualad #he has to jump into the ocean every hour so he doesn’t die #aquaman going out of his way to help aqualad get into a school was very cute tho #and it’s a school that inexplicably has recess every hour #school in the 60s was corker

[the-demelza-robins]

never understood you before (but i do now) part vi

guess who’s back!! and with the final chapter!! sorry for the wait, and hope you enjoy!

you can also read this on ao3

THANKSGIVING BREAK PASSES in a flurry of turkey, potatoes, and disapproving glances (courtesy of Petunia). When it finally comes to an end, standing next to her parents and waving halfheartedly at Vernon’s car as it backs out of the driveway, all Lily feels is relief.

The moment is short lived. “Lily, dishes,” Laurel says, more of a statement than a question. Lily sighs and walks back into the kitchen. She’s about ten minutes into the seemingly endless pile of plates and tupperware before her mother joins her.

“What did you think of Vernon?” Laurel asks, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Lily pauses, faucet still running. She calculates. Honesty is not the solution here, but neither is an outright lie.

She settles on saying “I think they’re a good match” while sponging the pan she’s washing a little too aggressively.

Laurel hums. “Petunia’s always been more — conscientious of the future. It’s one of my favorite things about her. She plans and she plans and she plans.”

She’s planning with Vernon, Lily translates. Her future is safe with Vernon.

“I think there are some things you can’t plan,” Laurel continues, smiling slightly. “Your father and I… never in my wildest dreams would I have predicted marrying him. I just — I just worry for Petunia, that she won’t be able to experience that.”

Silence, except for the faucet.

Lily clears her throat. She wishes she could respond I worry for Petunia, too, but the fact is that she and Petunia have never been close, not since they were children, not since — well, not since Severus. In the dim recesses of her mind, Lily can scrounge up some happy memories of her sister — shared Halloween costumes, Petunia’s protective stance on the playground — but they’re both rare and fleeting. Petunia is Petunia, and Lily is Lily, and the former will forever disapprove of the latter in the way that only sisters can. She can’t vocalize this truth, though — even if her mother already knows. Instead: “I think Petunia doesn’t want anything to be unpredictable. I think she’d hate falling in love with someone unexpected.”

Laurel nods, standing up a little straighter. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’ve been branching out this year. I know you don’t tell me everything, but the Parents’ Association moms are very chatty. I never would have imagined you with Roger Davies, that’s all. I was surprised.”

Lily knows that she’s started to blush, but she can’t stop. She and her mother never talk about these things. “I really don’t think I’m in love with Roger, if that’s what you’re getting at, Mom,” she says, thinking of the last time she really spoke with him. The last yearbook meeting, maybe? Anything they’d had had fizzled out after that first date, after she’d somewhat clumsily executed a slow fade. “I haven’t even spoken to him recently.”

“Well, I guess I’m behind the times. Want to catch me up? Anything going on lately?”

“No,” she says, more forcefully. “Nothing.” Inexplicably, Lily pictures James, sitting on the kitchen counter just days ago. She pushes the thought down — she must have had too much wine at dinner, to be randomly thinking about him like this.

“Just checking,” Laurel says, a glint in her eye that Lily can’t interpret and feels vaguely threatened by. “I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow morning.”

“Love you,” Lily calls automatically, already back to the soapy water, her mother’s words echoing in her head. You’ve been branching out lately. Had she, really? Yes, she’d spoken to Roger. Become friends with James. She supposed she had more people to say hello to in the halls now, but that was really just because of her position as head of the yearbook. The fact was, she still felt like the same old Lily, truly open to only a few people, closed off to the rest of the world behind a veil of awkwardness and, at times, imposter syndrome. Her thoughts pull towards James again: how comfortable she feels in his presence, how easy it is to do away with the layers of caution that seem to smother her other social interactions. She shakes her head, turns the water off, examines the now clean kitchen. No more thinking of James Potter, she tells herself firmly. The thought echoes through her head as she gets ready for bed, self defeating by nature.

***   Marlene comes back from Thanksgiving break with a new friendship. She and Remus, she explains, had been volunteering at the same soup kitchen over break. Long hours ladling soup and tearing off bread had created (by Marlene’s telling) an unbreakable bond. “All of this is to say,” she says now as she swerves past a mailbox, Lily hanging on for dear life in the passenger seat of her friend’s car, “that Remus invited me over to watch a movie at James’s on Friday. It’s so funny how they — all four of them, you know — just invite people over to each other’s houses. Squad goals? Anyway, he said the invite was for me, you, whoever else. Dorcas has those damned violin recitals, but hopefully we’ll be able to spring her free — watch it! —” (a pigeon had dared hop into the road, and flew away hastily) “— and Alice and James and Sirius and Peter too.”

“Oh,” Lily says.

Marlene shoots her a look. “I thought it was a wonderful idea, seeing as you've started to become completely platonic, innocent friends with James Potter —”

“— every day, I regret telling you about Halloween more and more —”

“— and there’s nothing like a movie on a Friday night to solidify a friendship, is there, Lily?” Marlene smirks, and Lily can do nothing but silently fume as they pull into the high school parking lot. “Come on. You know it’ll be a good time.”

“I do, and I hate you for it,” Lily grumbles, getting out of the car. “And, for the last time, there’s nothing going on with James. Stop smirking.”

“Speak of the devil,” her friend says in lieu of a response, motioning to where James is approaching them from across the parking lot. For a second, all Lily can do is stare. He looks tanner, she thinks, briefly, before dismissing the thought; he didn’t even travel over the break. She must be seeing things.

He stops in front of them, holding onto his backpack straps and squinting against the sun. “Just the girls I was hoping to run into.”

“Oh?” Lily asks, tossing her hair over her shoulder and glancing up at him before she loses the nerve. Just James. Just a slightly tanner James. Nothing you haven’t seen before.

“For the movie on Friday: Peter and I want to watch Jaws and Sirius and Remus want to watch Love, Actually. Thoughts?”

Lily finds herself sputtering, “But — I barely just agreed to go, how did you —”

Marlene’s dangerously close to smirking again. “I may or may not have told James you’d be a sure thing,” she says, not noticing (or not caring) about James’s hair, or his tan, or the way his biceps flexed slightly when he ran a hand through his hair. How could someone not care about those things? “Have a nice break, Potter?”

“Perfectly fine. Did you like the flowers, Lily?”

Marlene shoots her an incredulous look, and Lily doesn’t know who she wants to murder first. “My mom really appreciated them. Tell your mom she said thanks.”

He pouts. It makes his mouth look — good. Shut up. She knows what it’s like to kiss him. Shut up. To feel his lips on her skin, on her neck, against her pulse point. Shut up.

“— game on Friday,” James is saying, and Lily’s not listening, but it doesn’t matter, because now he’s talking to Marlene. Lily trails behind them, watching as her fellow students move aside to let him pass through the parking lot, through the school entrance, through locker-lined hallways.

“— coming, Evans?” he asks, snapping her out of her stupor. They’re standing outside what she belatedly recognizes to be the math classroom, Marlene long gone.

She blinks once, twice. He raps her temple gently, that teasing glint in his eye again. “Lily?”

She’s so stunned by the fact that he’s touching her — granted, his knuckles are touching the side of her head, not a particularly romantic gesture — that for a second, she can only stand there, scrambling for some excuse, something to fill the suddenly heavy air between them.

Before she can come up with a suitable response, Gretchen Prewett shoulders between them to step into the classroom, breaking their contact and bumping into Lily a harder than strictly necessary. And that’s when Lily remembers — James and Gretchen. Gretchen and James. Gretchen with her curly blonde hair, her brown eyes, and her kindness, her infallible goodness, ever since kindergarten when she offered Lily a turn on the swings — Gretchen ensconced in James’s embrace after the soccer game, Gretchen whispering in his ear at the Halloween party, Gretchen with her arms around his waist at that one house party at the start of the year….

“Lily?” James repeats, this time with more concern. “You okay?”

She blinks again, suddenly unable to make eye contact. “Um, yeah.”

“Thought I lost you for a second there,” he says. “Shall we?”

He steps through the classroom door, and all Lily can do is follow.

***

That night, Lily sits on her bed, calculus notes spread around her, and texts the group chat.

i don’t think i can do this movie night thing on Friday

She exhales, the lie settling in her brain. She adds: something came up

Marlene responds almost immediately.

Marlene: was that something the realization that ur so desperately attracted to james samuel potter, you can’t be in the same room without wanting a repeat performance of halloween night?

Dorcas: i don’t think james’s middle name is samuel

Marlene: semantics

Dorcas: you don’t have to go lily

Marlene: oh yes you do

Lily: his middle name is Fleamont after his dad

Marlene: …

Marlene: why would you ever know that if you didn’t want to submit to the sexual tension that seems to follow you both EVERYWHERE

Lily: i’m a normal person who pays attention to things, that’s how i know his middle name!!!

Lily: and we do NOT have sexual tension

Marlene: pish

Marlene: i saw the way you were looking at him in the parking lot today

Marlene: you were feasting ur eyes

Alice: i wasn’t there but i believe marlene

Marlene: it’s okay tho because he was checking you out too

Lily’s blushing uncontrollably now. She’s always loved Marlene’s relentless determination, her stubbornness; however, it’s almost never been turned on her. What makes her friend’s insistence all the more infuriating is the fact that she’s right. Lily is plagued by flashbacks to Halloween night whenever she’s close to James. She can’t help, really, but admire how smooth his jawline is, or the shape of his collarbone, or the curve of his biceps, which sometimes show, depending on what shirt he’s wearing —

Even his once-annoying habit of constantly messing with his hair has grown on her, if only because she knows what it feels like to run her fingers through it, and wants desperately to repeat the experience.

Lily: okay even if i were a smidgen attracted to him it doesn’t matter because i completely forgot that he had a thing with gretchen

Alice: omg gretchen

Marlene: i thought they were just hooking up???

Lily: idk but she was really aggressive to me today right after i spoke to him

Marlene: huh i didn’t think she had it in her

Alice: go gretchen honestly

Alice: it’s about time she developed some backbone

Dorcas: yeah not with lily tho???

Lily: i don’t want to be a homewrecker

Marlene: you are literally so dramatic

Marlene: just ask James where he’s at with Gretchen

Marlene: on Friday.

Marlene: when you’ll be at the movie night, because you’re coming with us, because i’m picking you up at seven

Marlene: :)

***

At 7:05 on Friday night, Marlene pulls into Lily’s driveway.

“Surprisingly punctual,” Lily comments as she slides into the passenger’s seat, the familiar hum of the engine calming her nerves slightly. There’s a bitter chill to the air, to be expected in early December, and she wraps her coat around herself more tightly.

Marlene shrugs. “I do what I can.”

Then she floors it. All too soon, Lily finds herself standing in front of James’s door, hand hovering over the doorbell. “Is this really —”

Marlene rolls her eyes and jams her finger against the bell. “Yes. It’s really necessary. Talk to him and then ride off into the sunset together.”

Just then, the door swings open, and there he is: hair wet from a post-game shower, wearing a shirt that brings out the green in his eyes — eyes that flick up and down, taking her in, so quickly she almost could’ve missed it.

“Lily, you look great,” he says, then clears his throat. “Um, we’re downstairs. Movie’s about to start.” For the first time, he seems to notice the girl standing beside her. “Hi, Marlene.”

Marlene whistles lowly as they head downstairs, and Lily prods her with her elbow, cognizant of the fact that her cheeks are turning more and more red. She tries to take her mind off of James by focusing on her surroundings; she hasn’t been in his house since elementary school, when it was common procedure to invite the whole class to every birthday party. It’s nice — that’s no surprise, considering his family’s considerable wealth — and looks fairly lived in. As she and Marlene step into the basement, fully finished with a giant television and an assortment of comfy chairs and couches, Lily begins to regain her composure.

Sirius and Remus are cuddled up on one end of the couch, with Alice and Dorcas sitting on the floor in front of them, flipping back and forth between Jaws and Love, Actually. Marlene immediately walks over to Remus, and Lily trails behind, dismayed to hear that the two have already begun talking about a class that she doesn’t share. She turns towards Alice and Dorcas, but is stopped by the prickle at the edge of her vision — some subconscious mechanism alerting her to the fact that she’s being watched. Sure enough, Sirius Black is staring at her, eyebrows raised. The almost challenging expression is new to Lily; the Sirius she’s always known has been laid back, easygoing.

That is, before she accused him of trying to take advantage of her best friend on Halloween night. She cringes internally at the memory; she won’t apologize for worrying about her friend, but perhaps she had jumped to conclusions a bit too quickly. She clears her throat and veers towards him, steeling herself.

“Lily.” Sirius inclines his head ever so slightly, watching as she perches awkwardly on the couch’s arm.

“Sirius. I, um, probably should apologize for Halloween night.”

“What part?” he says, and something’s wrong, here, she thinks. “The part when you accused me of taking advantage of Marlene, or the part when you stuck your tongue down my best friend’s throat, then abandoned him?”

She’s so floored she almost falls off the couch. He’s speaking quietly, tone monotone, and if she hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought he was bored by the whole thing. But his gaze hasn’t moved from her face, and she realizes for the first time that Sirius Black, while angry, is worthy of fear.

“I — well — I’m sorry for assuming your intentions with Marlene. I didn’t know you —” she looks towards Remus, still chatting away obliviously with her friend “— I didn’t know you were in a relationship, and I overreacted. As for the James stuff, I — I really don’t know what to say. I thought he just wanted to be friends.”

“Yes, when Remus kissed me for the first time, my first thought was, ‘Oh, I bet he just wants to be friends,’” Sirius mutters acridly, but his expression has softened slightly, and Lily allows herself to relax, just a little bit. “Jesus Christ. This is worse than I thought.” “What is worse?” Lily asks, feeling strangely defensive. “James and I —”

“James has had a crush on you since seventh grade, Lily,” Sirius all but hisses. “It’s so incredibly obvious, I never even considered you didn’t know. I thought you were —”

“Some manipulative bitch stringing him along?” Lily finishes, arching an eyebrow at him, hoping she can disguise the shock reverberating through her. Since seventh grade.

“You’re kind of scary, Lily Evans,” Sirius says drily. “And sharp. Emotionally aware or some shit. It’s intimidating. The poor fool was just happy to have time with you, even if you thought that him fucking kissing you was an expression of platonic friendship — ”

“That’s not — I’m not — I — he was with Gretchen!”

Sirius scoffs. “I can’t explain all his choices. But they were never together, never officially. Gretchen was hooking up with Michael Goldstein at the same time. She can get kind of territorial. I told him not to get mixed up in it, but he was so hung up on — well.” He pauses. “I’ve said too much.” His tone is not apologetic or regretful in the slightest; in fact, Lily can see the beginnings of a smirk on his face. She doesn’t focus on it for too long, though; there’s too much to process. For the first time, the possibility of James — of really being with him, of holding his hand, of FaceTiming with him late into the night, of walking down the hallways together — cements in her head. Her head swims, imagining the potential of it all. “Where’s James?”

“Getting drinks upstairs,” Sirius says, eying her with suspicion. “Why?” “I think he and I need to have a talk.”

***

Lily finds James in the kitchen on the main floor, trying and failing to carry seven beer cans at the same time. When he sees her, they come crashing to the floor, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s helping him pick them up, avoiding eye contact.

“What are you doing up here? Is something wrong?” James asks once the cans have been dealt with.

She leans against the kitchen island, wiping her palms on the sides of her jeans. His gaze follows the motion before he blinks and makes eye contact again, clearing his throat. Waiting for her to speak.

So she does: “Nothing’s wrong. I just — I wanted to ask you about someone.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Really? Who? Sorry. Whom.”

Lily can’t help but roll her eyes, his impeccable grammar relaxing her nerves. “Whom? Really, James?”

He scoffs and shakes his head, but there’s no real heat to it. “Only the best for my yearbook editor.” He’s leaning against the wall opposite her, hands in his pockets. When he looks back at her, the air feels like honey: thick and slow-moving, sweet. She’s never had someone look at her like that before. Her heart speeds up. Get back on track, Lily.

“Right. Uh, anyway. I was thinking about Halloween —”

There it is, again. That look. Followed by a brief glance at her mouth — he’s quick, but she’s attuned to his every movement, now — before his eyes flick back up to her face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I realized that I completely forgot about Gretchen.”

James breaks eye contact. “What about her?”

One deep breath, then two. “Well. Were you seeing her? Was I — helping you cheat, or —”

“God, no,” he says. “Lily, I would never — we weren’t exclusive, or together, and she was mostly using me to make Michael Goldstein jealous, anyway.”

“Oh.”

He clears his throat again, runs a hand through his hair. It’s dry, now, and looks impossibly soft. Lily’s fingers clench automatically.

“Well,” she says, heart pounding. She senses she’s very close to something, something big; it’s like she’s standing on the edge of a cliff, crystal-clear water below, and she’s terrified of how deep she might fall. No matter that jumping off that cliff is what she’s been wanting to do for months now. No matter that jumping off that cliff might simply mean closing the two feet of separation between her and the boy she so desperately wants. “See you downstairs, then.”

***

Lily bolts.

There’s no other word for it; she walks out of the kitchen as fast as she can, pretending not to hear James calling her name. She knows she’s a coward. She knows that if she’d crossed that final threshold, if she’d turned back around, if she’d stayed, her life might look very different. But she can’t do it.

The fact of the matter is, Lily Evans has been Lily Evans, undesirable, longer than she has been Lily Evans, as-crushed-on-by-James-Potter-since-the-fucking-seventh-grade. She needs to let the notion sink under her skin. She’s out of first moves; she’s out of soul-searing confidence. She asked about Gretchen. It was a baby step. Now she can go downstairs and watch the fucking movie, and bear the brunt of Marlene’s disappointment, and fall asleep fantasizing about James’s lips and hands and body instead of experiencing the real thing. It’s fine. It’s what she’s used to doing, and so far, she’s done perfectly well.

It’s not that she doesn’t like James; no, the opposite holds true. She very much likes James, to an extent that is unfamiliar and sticky and all too attainable. James Potter — the disco ball that’s sharp around the edges, except lately it seems as if they’ve both been childproofing the jagged parts, making them soft and round and welcoming. She doesn’t know how this works, how to navigate a minefield that’s been disarmed and paved over.

Besides, she thinks as she begins to walk down the stairs to the basement, how is she supposed to hold up to the idealized version of herself that must have been growing, festering, in James’s head for the past five years? Lily, who’s only kissed three people, and never done more; Lily, who doesn’t know how to be in a relationship, especially one with one of the school’s most visible students; Lily, who, despite all her newfound confidence, still can’t wrap her head around the idea that James would like her. Would want her. Would —

“Lily?”

Instinctively, her head snaps towards the voice’s source. It’s James, of course it is. He stands at the top of the stairs, the soft glow of the overhead light making him look practically angelic. She nods at him.

“Can I join you?”

“Yes.”

He walks until he’s standing on a step two feet away from her. The trek down to the basement involves two flights of stairs, with a landing in between; on the first staircase, therefore, she and James are hidden from the basement’s occupants, from outside influence, from the world.

“What is it?” she asks, going for unbothered and confident and failing miserably. She can’t meet his eyes.

“I was just wondering — now that we’ve, um, cleared up the Gretchen thing — well, the thing is,” he says, running a hand through his hair and smiling apologetically, “I’m, um, rambling. Sorry. Um, what I’m trying to say is that I’ve really enjoyed being your friend over the past few months. But — and it’s only fair you should know — I’ve really, really liked you for the past few years. God, that makes me sound creepy. It’s not that, I swear. I just — you’re so — so poised and kind and sharp. I always, well, I always thought you were too mature for me, too smart. You — you really don’t suffer fools, Lily, and I am one, but, well, in spite of that — in spite of everything — will you go out with me?”

She looks up at him, eyes wide, heart beating wildly. “You are a fool, James,” she whispers, words almost catching in her throat, because there it is. He’s just given the final confirmation, the truth: that he, James Potter, likes her. Wants her. Wants to be with her. She can’t stop — fuck, she keeps remembering Halloween. His hands on her skin. “I — you’re a complete fool, and you’re also ridiculously charming and intelligent and social in a way I can’t fathom, and I respect you. I really do.”

James’s face falls. “Right. Well, I’m glad you respect me, and I’ll just — I’ll just go now, I guess —”

“I don’t want you to go,” she bursts out. This conversation is getting out of her control (when had it ever been in her control?), the words slipping away from her. You can’t do first moves, grand proclamations, the voice in her head whispers snidely, but she ignores it. “I want you to stay. I respect you, and I like you, and I want to be with you. See?”

It’s his turn to look gobsmacked. “Oh. As friends, or —”

She pounces on him. There’s no other word for it, not really; she reaches the staircase step below his, and then she guides his mouth down to hers, hands around the back of his neck, back arching under his. If she stands on her tiptoes she can make the angle better, and… there. Something like a sigh falls from James’s mouth. His hands wind through her hair, glasses bumping slightly against her forehead. It’s not a perfect kiss. But it does accomplish the most important thing, for James Potter, jagged around the edges, and Lily Evans, sharp to the touch, have changed.

Both are now soft, malleable, in each others’ arms.

#jily #jily fic #jily fanfiction #harry potter #james potter #lily evans #american high school!jily #harry potter fanfiction #james x lily #James Potter x Lily Evans #mine #my writing

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Baby You Were My Picket Fence [Chapter 6: Have You Ever Seen The Rain]

You are a first grade teacher in sunny Los Angeles, California. Ben Hardy is the father of your most challenging student. Things quickly get complicated in this unconventional love story.  

Song inspiration: Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (not smutty).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing) HERE

Taglist: @blushingwueen @queen-turtle-boiii @everybodyplaythegame @onceuponadetectivedemigod @luvborhap @sincereleygmg @stormtrprinstilettos @loveandbeloved29 @ohtheseboysilove @jennyggggrrr @vanitysfairr @bramblesforbreakfast @radiob-l-a-hblah @xox-talia-xox @killer-queen-xo @caborhapch @kimmietea @asquiresofftime @hardzzellos @sleepretreat @ramibaby @jonesyaddiction @ixchel-9275 @omgitsearly @lovepizza-cake11 @deacy-dearest @shishterfackisback @mrbenhardys @deaky-with-a-c If I forgot anyone, please yell at me :)

Something’s wrong.

You know that even before you open your eyes; the house is far too quiet, too still. Dazedly, blinking in the sharp early morning light, you unravel from the tangle of blankets and couch cushions, pushing yourself up with your palms. Your thoughts are misted and clunky, like stumbling through a dark room.

Why am I on the couch?

Oh right, because your bed is littered with the kids’ science projects, because you and Ben had been in too much of a hurry to carefully relocate them, and so the couch was the next best thing; and you had both laughed about that—red-faced and gasping in each other’s arms, Ben pinning your wrists above your head against the hallway wall, his teeth grazing your throat—about how one can’t simply tell a first grader: So sorry Winston, your meticulously-done collage on marine mammals suffered a terrible accident but it was all for a good cause, Miss Teacher got LAID!

But there’s no uninhibited laughter echoing through your hallway now. You peer blearily around the living room: papers and plants and books stacked on every surface, seashells and pebbles scattered on windowsills and shelfs. There’s no sign of Ben. You drag your iPhone off the coffee table. It’s 6:57 a.m., three minutes before your alarm is due to ring. With a few inartful swipes of your thumb, you’ve disarmed it. And there’s something else: no calls, no texts, resounding radio silence. 

Your bare feet hit the rug, visions from the night before flaring through your mind like flashbang grenades: Ben pushing your thighs apart with smooth seeking palms, your fingernails biting into his back and shoulder blades, your taste dripping from his tongue; flesh and heat and passion and inexplicable ease, like sinking into a dream; tumbling into sleep with your face buried in his chest. You remember what he asked you—“Don’t you want to look at me?”—once all his clothes were wrenched away, his voice heavy with resignation, as if every encounter of his life would be tinged with the menace of stardom, of crash diets and five-hour workouts, of worth being measured in landed roles and muscle definition. And he smiled when you answered, your fingertips resting against his cheeks, your eyes not tearing from his: “I am.”

You soar through the living room and to the kitchen window. Ben’s black Lexus—which he’d left in your driveway before you both caught an Uber to the club—is gone. He’s gone.

“Oh no,” you breathe, without knowing exactly what you’re feeling; it’s some breed of deep, instinctual trepidation. Is this bad? Is this normal? He’s a busy guy, after all; movie stars live whirlwind existences. You know that Ben’s mom was watching Eli; maybe Ben hurried home to take him to school. You stare at the phone still in your hands. Should you text him? No; Ben never texts you, only calls. Should you call him? Is that desperate, is that weird? Goddammit daddy demon, I didn’t realize I’d need a fucking instruction manual for the morning after.

And then you turn and see the refrigerator. The magnets spell this: I’m sorry.

Cold confusion and dread roll down your spine. Sorry? Sorry for what? Sorry for leaving without saying goodbye? Sorry for the earth-shatteringly brilliant sex that undoubtedly ruined every other potential romantic interest on earth for me? Sorry for the multiple orgasms? Sorry for WHAT?

“This is fucking textbook demon behavior,” you say to your empty house. The plants and painted walls and vinyl records have no wise words to offer whatsoever.

What did I do wrong?

It’s 7 a.m., and rays of sunlight are pouring through the kitchen window. Birds are chirping carelessly in the trees outside. If you don’t start getting ready now, you’ll be late for school. And the kids are expecting thoughtfully-coordinated accessories.

You piece yourself together, your eyes infuriatingly transfixed by your persistently soundless, unilluminated phone.

~~~~~~~~~~

The class is clamoring in “eww!”s and “cool!”s, elbow-deep in loose, sifting soil. You’re on your hands and knees next to them in the Dolphin Cove Elementary School garden, surrounded by herbs and sprouting fall vegetables, pumpkins and beets and carrots and cabbages.

“There are worms,” Maisy moans, her lips quivering.

“Yes,” you concede, “but worms are friends to the garden! Worms help our vegetables grow.”

“Really?” Winston asks, his forehead crinkled with skepticism. Rachel Lynn, a prissy little thing who’s already in training to be a fourth-generation trophy wife, frowns and wipes her hands on her pink skirt.  

“Worms are the best!” you gush enthusiastically. “Worms dig tunnels that help air and water enter the soil, and they eat up all the dead stuff, and they even make natural fertilizer—”

“With their poop!” Brayden shouts, and all the students burst out laughing.

You smile. “That’s right, Brayden.” Then you scan the group until you’ve found Eli. He’s painstakingly collecting worms; as you watch, he plops a seventh into his open palm. Then he begins creeping towards Rachel Lynn, whose back is to him. You stand and prop your hands on your hips. “Eli, dearest?”

He freezes, his fingers pinching a wriggling worm. “Yes, Miss Teacher?” He almost always refuses to use your name.

“What are you planning to do with those?”

“Uhhh...” His eyes flick to Rachel Lynn, to the worms, to you, back to Rachel Lynn.

“Gross!” she screeches.

If he starts flinging worms at future Miss America, her mother will flay me alive.

“Eli,” you say calmly. “Worms are happiest when they’re in the dirt. And they can’t help the garden grow if they’re in our hands. Maybe you could do the worms a favor and find a nice soft patch of soil for them to live in?”

For a long time, Eli just glares at you; you’re enmeshed in the world’s fiercest standoff with a six-year-old. After what feels like an eternity, he tilts his hand and the worms somersault to the earth. The muscles that have tensed all across your body release like cut strings.

“Thank you, Eli. Now, who wants to try a carrot?!”

“Me me me!” the kids bellow, leaping up and down.

You dig a few ripe carrots out of the ground, wash them off with water from the purple-painted hand pump, and start distributing pieces to the students.

“Are these organic?” Frances sniffs disdainfully. “My mom says I can only eat organic vegetables.”

“Yes, Frances. They’re organic.”

“Can I have some hand sanitizer?” Rachel Lynn asks.

You sigh. “There’s some in my teacher bag, dear. Help yourself.”

“What’s this?” Kayden inquires, tugging a leaf of basil off the stem. He mashes it against his knuckles as Brayden and Brendyn look on. “It smells like pizza!”

“Awesome job, Kayden! That’s basil. It’s an herb that’s used in tomato sauce, so it might remind you of pizza or pasta dishes, like spaghetti.”

“My mom makes spaghetti sometimes,” Eli says softly, and your mind goes utterly blank, like a chalkboard wiped clean, like a starless sky.

You turn to him, trying not to betray shock. So she’s not ENTIRELY out of the picture. What does that mean? You’ve tried Googling Ben, of course; but his low-profile initiative appears to be almost ludicrously successful. There are a few red carpet photos of him posing with assorted models, but no information about ex-wives or girlfriends. There’s barely even any digital footprint for Eli. Wikipedia knows that Ben has a young son, but not his name or birthdate. Who is she, Eli? What did she do to you both? You sputter haltingly: “And...do you...like when your mom makes spaghetti...?”

Eli nods, but he seems troubled. You swiftly pivot topics.

“How about pizza, Eli? Do you like pizza?”

“Yeah,” he answers, grinning now. “Especially pepperoni.”

“Good taste, kiddo. Me too.” And he peers up at you through curly russet hair with something like gratefulness. Your dad and I are going to have a lot to talk about if he ever stops ghosting me, demon kid.

After science it’s time for math, and then lunch, and then recess. You check your phone once you’ve walked the kids to gym class, and there’s a blessedly welcome notification on your screen. “Oh thank god,” you murmur, and then listen to the new voicemail.

“Hi, it’s me. Ben. Daddy demon.” His voice is as it always is: deep, reverberating, warm like an open flame. “Sorry for rushing off this morning, I had a...a work thing. But I miss you already. Hope you’re having a good day and my kid isn’t making you want to jump off a cliff. Eli mentioned being excited about gardening. Watch out for his worm obsession. Anyway, give me a call when you get home. Okay, talk to you soon. I love you. Bye.” And then: “Oh fuck. I didn’t mean to say that. I mean, I meant it, but I didn’t mean to say it over the phone the first time, and I...fuck. Bloody hell. Just call me. Okay, bye. Love you. Bye.”

Your lips curl up at the edges, the relief flooding through you like frothing waves, like birds taking flight. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to worry about him being a good guy. “I love you too, Ben Hardy,” you whisper.

There are clicks of high heels out in the hall, and then Sasha appears in your classroom doorway. The third graders are with the librarian. “Hey, babygirl.” Sasha is tall and willowy, with immaculate sienna skin and a massive cloud of inky ringlets. She’s wearing a loud orange dress with golden geometric patterns.

“Hi, Sasha! Come on over.”

She tiptoes into the room, weaving between desks as you dish out fresh alfalfa pellets for Creampuff. “So...have you heard from daddy demon yet? Or do I need to figure out if Vice Principal Lucetti has some Italian mafia connections we can exploit?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. Your earrings jangle against your neck. “No need for daddy demon to sleep with the fishes. He left a voicemail.”

“How 1990s.”

“We like old-fashioned things.”

Sasha slips into a student desk and grins salaciously, her black eyes glittering. “How was it?”

You collapse into your plushy rolling chair and spin around once, then set your elbows on the desk and rest your chin on the back of your hands. You sigh dreamily as a response.

Sasha gasps, covering her mouth with long elegant fingers, her eyebrows raised. “That good, huh?”

“He’s amazing, Sasha.”

“Well I want details. Not now, of course, not here. But soon. Maybe this weekend? Do you have plans?”

You think of Joe’s promise to teach you how to play baseball, of your phone call with Ben in the not-too-distant future. “Nothing set in stone yet, but I suspect my schedule will fill up. I’ll reserve Sunday brunch for you.”

“You are a treasure.” Sasha stands and smooths her dress. “How was the garden lesson?”

“It went swimmingly until Eli hurled a cabbage at Brayden’s head. His hand-eye coordination is terrible, fortunately.”

“Demon kid strikes again!”

“I think we’re making progress.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” You smile faintly. “Slow and steady, but we’ll get there.”

“I believe in you, lady. Hang tough.” Sasha strolls to the doorway, then pauses and turns back around. She points to your earrings. “Those are cute. What are they?”

“Oh.” You touch them. “Thank you! Megalodons.”

She laughs. “You’re a trip, Y/N. See you soon.”

“Bye, lovely.”

You spin in your chair, tapping a pencil absentmindedly against your lips, wondering if it’s possible to sieve everything you’ve felt in the past three weeks into words: shock, apprehension, bliss, recognition, homecoming. And who knows how much more you’ll have to tell by Sunday.

Reading and writing pass uneventfully, and the kids perform adequately on their weekly spelling tests; not a single one bungles the word throw. When the time comes you herd the students out to the pickup area under a clear, sweltering sky. The sun is so bright it hurts to glance towards the West. You watch as Eli disappears into an SUV driven by a neatly-dressed, middle-aged blond woman who must be Ben’s mother. You wave as Eli peeks through the tinted windows, and after a moment of hesitation he lifts a hand in reply.

Fifteen minutes later you’re barreling down the highway with your windows down, wind whipping your hair, singing along to AC/DC’s Back in Black album. When you’re a few blocks from home, you swing by Trader Joe’s to peruse the sushi selection, then unwittingly end up with a cart full of cookies and gourmet ice cream. “Freaking...delicious...reasonably-priced...organic dessert items,” you mutter as you stroll through the aisles. Frances’ crunchy granola mom would be proud.

As you finally arrive in the fresh produce section, your eyes catch on a familiar silhouette like fabric snagged on a nail. It’s Ben. He’s standing in front of a vegetable display, turning a green pepper over in his sturdy fingers, examining it like a foreign language. And he looks so perfectly ordinary, so domestic; you can imagine dicing peppers and onions with him in your tiny unremarkable kitchen, sizzling chicken or shrimp in a skillet, warming corn tortillas on the stovetop. You can imagine living every gloriously commonplace sliver of life with him.

“Hi, Mr. Hardy,” you tease as you approach.

He whirls and spots you, and for the second time today you know something is wrong; because Ben doesn’t smile, he doesn’t look happy to see you, he looks stunned and horrified and haunted. The pepper drops out of his grasp and rolls across the floor until it comes to rest under an elderly lady’s shopping cart. His jaw is hanging open like an unhinged door.

“What...?” The words catch in your throat, burn there, disappear completely.

A woman appears at Ben’s side carrying a small plastic tub in each hand. “Hey, remind me, is Eli obsessed with the edamame hummus or the roasted red pepper...?”

She’s Eli’s mother, she has to be, she looks just like him: flawless olive skin, voluminous dark curly hair, eyes like the Pacific Ocean. She’s Italian or Greek or Portuguese, a jewel mined from the salted cliffs of the Mediterranean, an idol ripped out of the pages of myths, Artemis or Aphrodite or Venus or Diana. On her left hand is a ring with a dazzling stone only slightly smaller than the Hope Diamond.

She spies you and recoils, blinking. “Hello...?”

“I’m so sorry,” you stammer. “Hi, hello, I’m Miss Y/L/N, Eli’s first grade teacher, and you...” You point to the woman, to her expensive red dress, to her faultless body. “You must be his mother.”

She’s wearing a ring.

Ben isn’t looking at you, at either of you; his eyes are cast upwards, towards a mural of the ocean shoreline painted on the store wall. He’s biting his lower lip and shaking his head so subtly it’s almost imperceivable. The expression on his face is disbelief, and mourning, and unfathomable rage.

Why is she wearing a ring.

“Yes, that’s me, I’m his mom!” the goddess chimes, beaming, her sapphire eyes flashing like blades. And suddenly, you know exactly what she is going to say. The sound blaring through your skull is like fingernails raking a chalkboard, like a scratched record, like a scream. “And Ben’s fiancée.” 

#ben hardy #ben jones #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap fic #borhap imagine #borhap #bywmpf #baby you were my picket fence #baby you were my picket fence series

[trialtribandtestimony]

His Mercy

A lot of the time we find ourselves asking, "is there really hope for that person?". Usually not thought aloud, but we can see someone so deep in despair it's almost impossible to imagine them any other way. When I look back on my life, that's how I view where I was at.

What was my life like before Christ? Well defining what that means is difficult. Honestly my story starts even before my birth. I was conceived out of wedlock and I was born to my mother when both of my parents were 19. A wedding was set in place before my birth but was canceled at the last second by the grace of God. My mother had been made aware of how disgusting a man my father, Michael, really was and didn't even want him in the room when I was born quite understandably.

Of course when I was born many a court case took place. My last name, custody rights, and etc. My mother was genuinely scared for my safety, along with my grandparents, because my father already was a drug user. The judge decided that, and he stated, my father would "grow out of it", and granted him visitation. The judge was wrong, and this decision has affected my life ever since. But I believe that this decision was not an accident, I don't believe God's plan is an accident at all. He works all things for good.

Despite the chaos of events when I was a baby, my early childhood years were not anything particularly bad. All of my special talents started emerging, I loved to act, sing, and paint. I had a vast inner world which still exists. I was quite outrageous and special to my family, out of a difficult situation I felt like a blessing. I would sing to strangers in the grocery store and capture the heart of everyone I met. I was saved at four years old, my grandmother genuinely believing I knew what I was asking for and I believe she was right. That's why my testimony really isn't about my life "before" Christ. He died on the sins for all of the world, my name was written in the book of life before the earth was set in motion, Jesus was always there because according to Calvinism (a philosophy I heavily agree with) he knew the decision I would make to follow him. Unfortunately tragic events would make me question that decision in a few years to come.

When I became about 8 years old it seemed like everything started hitting me at once from every possible angle. My mother would get divorced from her husband whom was the father of my sister. My third grade teacher noted to my mother that every-time id come home from Michael's house I would become extremely pale. I physically started to become extremely thin. At this age my father's controlling tendencies consumed him and increasingly became worse. He would force me to watch demonic horror movies, I'd cry because of how traumatizing it would be and tell my mom, but unfortunately she didn't have much control over those things which terrified me. My mom was always my superhero, and realizing that not even my mom could protect me rocked my world. I believe this is the time period he started using heavier drugs, but many memories are fuzzy and still blocked out to this day. This is when his behavior became worse, but the true intentions and twisted behavior started to appear. He pawned all of my Christmas presents, begged people for money on the street, stole children's bikes for drug money

How did I cope with feeling utterly powerless? I became obsessed with weather. I would check the weather on my computer every day before school. I recall writing a goodbye letter to my mother during a storm in third grade one day because I genuinely thought I was going to die. I was consumed in fear and weather was the only way my child brain could rationalize it.

Another difficulty at this age was that I had undiagnosed ADHD. I have type two, which is inattentive, which means I'm not hyperactive, just deeply consumed in my own world at all times. I have always felt I was on autopilot about 75% of my life. A combination of both adhd and anxiety meant I failed to thrive at school. I had to sit out during recess every day because I couldn't do my homework. That's when I remember first feeling depression in my life. So because I had to sit out, and visitation every other weekend with my father, I was not socialized at all. In fact, when I was at my father's house I wasn't allowed to even play with my cousins. I remember looking out the window crying and crying because I was not allowed to go into the backyard on the trampoline. Ever. I still suffer with social integration, I've always wanted many friends and to talk to people, and I know what to say but it always comes out odd to me. I missed out on fun adventures and bonding with kids my age, and that lead to me never really having any friendships, honestly to this day I'm still not sure how to make friends which is horribly embarrassing to me and always was. The one time I was allowed to have a birthday party at Michael's house, a few friends from my elementary school came to a pool party I had. We jumped on the trampoline in our bathing suits, as Michael pulled out a random camera to take pictures. My step mom told him it was odd but he wouldn't stop taking pictures of me and my friends.

This would continue into middle school, when the abuse also started to happen. At first in my elementary years it was psychological. "Always make sure to lock your doors, someone will break in and kill you", I can still hear my father say over and over. Forcing me to watch the lovely bones, a movie about a girl getting kidnapped and molested as I panicked watching it as a young child in absolute fear. Now he became physically and sexually abusive as well as psychological. What went along with this was people being invited to friend's sleepovers which I was NEVER allowed to attend, and watching other kids my age form groups as I sat alone for lunch every day.

Around this time I recall starting to self harm, I didn't even really know what it meant at that point. I would get a comb and scrape my arms with it just to relieve intense fear I experienced. I had frequent stomach aches, not knowing what the concept of anxiety even was. I was skinny, pale, and always felt sick. I barely ever ate. My two younger siblings were born and he threatened to throw them down the stairs, and often neglected them. When my stepmom would leave for work I had to change their diapers and feed them. If I didn't, Michael would let them sit in their filth all day. One of my brothers developed selective mutism from the abuse and fear caused by Michael. I tried to care for them as much as a 10 year old could.

In this time period, about 6-7th grade I remember Michael using drugs and alcohol clearly. He would talk to himself while intoxicated and make absolutely no sense. He would claim to see demons, which may have actually been considering his involvement with psychics and satanic movies and music and necrophilia he watched. This is when the actual event of molestation happened but I will save the gory details on that. He would often tell my stepmother at the time odd and inappropriate remarks about my appearance as I grew older, and that I would grow up to be a prostitute. One time I wore skinny jeans and he talked to me for hours about how inappropriate that was and what boys at school would think. I was not allowed to wear shorts that were above my knees or any colorful clothing.

At this point I found a youth group I loved. I was supposed to see Michael on Wednesday nights, but I told him I just wouldn't go. He'd have to move it. So he demanded I see him Tuesday AND Thursday instead. I said fine, because this feeling I got from God is something I'd never had before in my life. I remember listening to "How He Loves" and bawling my eyes out as my father sent threatening texts to my mom. I brought a friend that night, and somehow he found her parent's phone number and called them saying that my mother took us to church on his visitation time. Because of his psychotic actions she was no longer allowed to hang out with me. But just in that chaotic moment and listening to the song "How He Loves", That became God's love song to me, and he has played it during significant times in my life ever since. God gave me this comfort that I could cling to, a comfort of hymns and nursery rhymes and bible stories like I had as a child. I experienced His absolute precious love which is just inexplicable.

During this time the abuse increasingly became worse with the drug use. He would drive me and my siblings around drunk in the middle of the night. He would stalk me as I slept and never really leave me alone. He would walk into the bathroom and stay in there while I showered. At this point I had developed severe depression and anxiety. All I could think about was escape. I escaped with boyfriends and art and music. I had one boyfriend who my father found out was African American, and called his number leaving a message of racial slurs on my phone to his number. A phone my mother bought me that he stole from me when I tried to bring it with me to his house.

My mom called CPS (again) when I told her I'd kill myself, (at age 11), if I ever had to see Michael again. There was not enough evidence to support a case so it was dropped. I prayed and prayed, and mentors in my life had prayed for me as well. This may sound odd but I could feel certain times where they currently prayed for me. And then, a miracle happened. Michael signed over his rights.

My family on his side no longer talked to me. During this time my ex stepmom divorced Michael and took my two brothers and had a restraining order filed. My family on that side didn't support her, and I was not in contact with her yet, she was forced to live in a shelter for a while because of the absolute neglect on my father's side of the family. Luckily now we got back in contact and she is my absolute best friend and I get to see my brothers whenever I please. But back to the fact that they divorced- Michael had an arrest record made public online of his drug use. It was getting worse. He became homeless, voluntarily living on the streets, but still using payphones to harass my mother and ex stepmom. He would steal pictures from my mother's Facebook of me and say, "she has my eyes" and post them online, which still haunts me. He would threaten to break in or harm us, and he threatened to kill his own parent's dog. His mother tried to get in contact with me, she told my mom that he got into an accident, looking for sympathy or something. The accident was that he overdosed on drugs. They claimed he fell off a bridge, but later confirmed to me it was drug related

The one friend I did have was my cousin, who to this day has no communication with me. She was my only friend when I had none. Even after my mom trying to make contact, and seeing them at my grandfather's funeral, no one believed my story of abuse.

I thought my pain was over. I was FREE. I could forever live with my mom and go to church and have friends. Unfortunately it just didn't turn out that ideally.

I still had depression and anxiety. It didn't go away. I still didn't know how to make friends, I started to become bullied and changed schools frequently. Now the suicidal ideation would come to play at age 13-14. I still believed in God but I just felt so hopeless. I believe the only reason I never fully attempted suicide was because the Holy Spirit left this lingering light in my heart. It was inexplicable, but it was there. Something just told me to look up to the heavens, no matter how dim and dreary the sky may be.

Despite this hope my mind was broken. I started my 9th grade year in an outpatient school, where I met my therapist who has been a gift from God. This school was for high risk suicidal adolescents, no phones were allowed and we were patted down on the daily. It was quite dreary but here I learned about coping skills and boundaries which were crucial for me to learn, I still didn't get the concept for a few years and honestly I'm still improving on these things. I was quite codependent on boyfriends I had and didn't know how to talk myself down from panic attacks that produced frequent vomiting and dizziness almost daily.

After outpatient I went to high school, but not much changed. I felt so alone, even with the few friends I did have. I felt like no one really still understood me, I felt suicidal again and went to inpatient. This honestly didn't change much for me, and I had to go to inpatient again not long after. It's basically just 24 hour supervision for high risk patients.

I just couldn't cope with feelings of isolation and not receiving the love I would find in Christ. I hopped from relationships which made me feel even worse, although I regret nothing and I learned quite a lot, some of which as a teen produced lifelong friends. I started to hurt other people, something I NEVER wanted to do in my wildest dreams. I didn't even know who I was anymore.

I started experimenting with different things and engaging in risky behavior. I just kept trying to fill the hole in the pit of my stomach. On a bad trip I had with a drug I tried, I had to go to the hospital. I never was addicted to drugs but recreationally tried things at parties which I shouldn't have dabbled with, but God used it to bring me back to him. All I remember with this trip is feeling so far from God and so so scared. No thoughts went through my head and I thought I would have a seizure. My mind was completely blank. When the ambulance arrived I sobbed as I called my grandfather and family to meet me. Their disappointment was the worst thing I would ever face in my life. The still loved me, but they were heartbroken. In the ride to the hospital I cried out to the EMT, "is God going to forgive me?" It's all I could ask as I sobbed and violently shook. He told me God will always love me in response, and I will always be grateful for the sensitive nature of that man, I could almost start bawling while even writing this. The sedative they gave me was supposed to make me forget but I never forgot that man's kindness.

You would think this would revert me right back to God but not entirely. I faced YEARS of abuse, and it would take years to know who I even really was, being allowed to be myself. I never tried anything like that and will never again, but then codependency reared it's ugly face into my life. Luckily in this time period though I still searched for God and prayed to Him. I read a book called The Shack which forever changed my view on Him, (highly recommend it.). I felt the Holy Spirit in my life but I couldn't let go of the control I needed. So what did I do? I ran.

First I ran to a new school. It was an alternative school but you could go at your own pace. For once I could do work in the way my brain functioned and I made A's, and graduated at 16 years old. I then went to cosmetology school, swicthed schools again, and finished it out even though the environment there was extremely toxic and self-indulgent in an appareance and narcissistic way that I started to loathe. During this time my paternal grandfather passed away. I attended the funeral along with my stepmother and brothers, mother and sister. We weren't allowed to sit with the family during the funeral. My paternal grandfather was extremely racist and homophobic, and also a Baptist Sunday school teacher. The whole funeral they bragged about how godly he was. I just wanted to shout "if only you knew the vile disgusting secrets of this family!" But God gave me the grace to be respectful during this time, so I was silent. When my father was notified of his father's passing, he stated "I'm hungry. I want Arby's." Shortly after the funeral my paternal grandmother took me out for my 18th birthday to Chili's. I thought this was a time to reconcile, so I accepted trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. During the dinner she tried to claim it was my fault Michael turned out this way, and it was horrible of me to not speak to them before my grandfather's passing and not to see Michael after the "accident". She said a phrase I've heard all throughout my life. "You need to forgive and move on." How could I possibly move on from a thorn that grew with me as I aged? This pain had become who I was. But I told her the honest truth. "I did forgive him long ago. I wish no harm upon him. It's just unsafe for me to speak to him." She couldn't grasp the concept of forgiving at a distance, which is something very important to learn, and it helped me move on in a sense, but some tragedies cannot just be forgotten. After that she has tried to make contact with me, but I have not spoken to her. This decision was not because I have any ill intentions towards her, I really hope she gets help. I just can't be the one to help her learn about boundaries, and she shows no remorse for her involvement and defense of Michael. I don't need an apology but I feel that would be necessary to move on in a relationship with her, just so I know she wouldn't be toxic for my health and well-being.

I moved out of Texas to Colorado with my parents. I felt alone, so I ran to Chicago at age 18 with a man I barely knew. Then something just clicked. I will never get this love and attention I seek from a human being, it's just not possible. I moved back to Texas and jumped into another relationship even with knowing this information. I wanted to date around but on the first date I fell absolutely in love.

This person often ignored me and abandoned me for days, yet all I could do was try to make him love me for so long. I would sit in my room and sob. Who could help me? Not a hospital, not a drug, not even my own family or myself. After he broke up with ME, (thank God because I wouldn't have broken up with him at the time), I started going back to church and I found a job. I became a hard worker and just started to seek God and pray everyday. What's to lose? My skepticism and cynical heart started to burn off like deadwood.

This job became extremely stressful, so I sought God even more (along with returning to see my therapist who I saw for years). One night after a particularly stressful Wednesday afternoon a call was made to the altar, and something just told me to go. I asked my grandma to go with me though because I was too scared to go alone, which she did. I started sobbing because once again, God spoke to me. "Why don't you trust me like you did when you were a child? Don't you know I will hold you? Just lean on me, I won't disappoint you.". I figured hey I had nothing to lose, and decided to take that risk.

I met a pastor at my church named Dr.Marti, and started many amazing friendships as I was prayed over after a service of other's testimonies. Dr.Marti stayed many prophetic things about me that night and wanted me to take part in Bethesda School Of Ministry, which I desperately wanted to do, but was unable to because of my job. Then came a blessing in disguise- I was let go from the job. When I was let go I asked God "what am I supposed to do?, I know you work all things for good and this has some kind of meaning but what do I take from this?" , and I heard a clear voice state "remain in me". Odd. Not a way I'd word something in my head, quite frankly I didn't understand. The next day on my Bible app a scripture I didn't recall every reading was John 15:4 "Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me." Needless to say I was shocked. I see now I lost this job in order to take part in ministry school at Bethesda while I could. I learned not only how to minister to others, but these codependent tendencies were restored into learning about healthy boundaries and how to be happy AND alone with God. (Also confirmed by Dr.Marti who stated she had a feeling God wanted me to be like a nun for a while. I laughed because if only she knew how true I knew that was.) So many behaviors in my life started to change, along with perspectives. I became patient, enduring, developed a sound mind, and fruits of the spirit. I learned not how to be normal, but how to find my unique identity in Jesus. The raw, blunt yet sensitive, fighting-for-the-underdog, intellectual, philosopher, artistic yet gentle and kind person I was designed to be.

In the school of ministry one night I remember asking God to heal me, to make me who I was meant to truly be at last. I love God's sense of humor. Dr.Marti after giving a message on healing that Sunday night called all of the students to pray over anyone who needed it. I was shaking in my flats. I'd NEVER done that before. As soon as she called us, I heard a voice from God which made me laugh in awe. He said "You will be healed not by being anointed with oil, but by anointing others with oil." This symbolism showed that when I take the first step to seek God He will reward me and I will be made available to find His presence even more, which heals and delivers. I prayed for an elderly man, spilled a little too much oil on his face as it almost dripped in his eye, and smudged it in with my thumb sheepishly and cracked up about it later, but it was such a sweet moment.

So through God healing me, what's changed? Well, I still have depression and anxiety, and adhd. Could God deliver me from it? Yes. Will He? Maybe. But if it's in His will I carry these things so I serve others and am reminded to think about myself less and others more, than these things will remain until I'm given my new body and these illnesses did with my old body. However, my daily vomiting panic attacks turned into at most bi-monthly anxiety attacks, and suicidal ideations turned into bouts of random melancholy. After being told I functioned at a rate of 15% out of 100% at a mental hospital, and being told be a psychologist he's surprised I still function in society and haven't lost my sanity is pretty astonishing. When I told the psychologist my backstory he was amazed I was still standing, and quite frankly so am I. I believe with my whole heart it's only by the grace of God, and the help of my unconditional loving and supporting friends and family. I have a new job at the church daycare which I love, and I would like to pay off cosmetology school debt and start college soon to continue healing other's through Jesus's name and prayer like He called me to do in more abstract means like psychology, reaching every kind of person there is, innocent children or addicts and thieves.

I was promised life more abundantly and that promise was fulfilled more than I could ever imagine. God gave me impossible endurance, yet didn't make my heart cold and cynical despite all of life's circumstances, I give all glory to Him for always keeping me close and loving me no matter what. I don't know where we'll go together in the future, but as long as God is with me I will march on, praising Him for his one million "second" chances and grace. I feel that my "rebirth" was more of a process. It didn't happen overnight, but over a long stretch of time. I feel I have the freedom to actually chose who to be and what I want to do, and I am so grateful for this new chapter in my life.

#testimony #Christian #jesus #christ #easter #abuse #passover #trial #tribulation #god #lacey sturm #flyleaf #skillet #reflect love back

[truthofherdreams]

please don’t stop the music (3)

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There is something almost comforting about classes starting, even though Lara Jean has to get acquainted with a whole new set of professors and fellow students. But there is something to be said about waking up every morning with a purpose, and keeping her mind busy with lectures, readings and homework. Chris thinks her crazy for how organised she is – from her pastel highlighters to her neat notes to her pretty schedule above her desk –, not that Lara Jean pays her mind. They might get along, but it soon becomes clear Chris and she have opposite views on their academic performances. Which is fine with Lara Jean, really. Nobody can be at the top, that’s why it’s the top.

At least she gets one week free of acapella before auditions are held, and so one week away from Gen’s deadly stares. The girl doesn’t scare her, not really, still Lara Jean is careful. Even more so since Chris dropped the Peter bomb on her.

She hasn’t seen him around since the activities fair, which obviously means that he’s right there in the food hall on Wednesday when she gets her breakfast before her 9am econ class. She toys with the idea of running away for a second, but then he’s raising his head from his plate, his eyes meeting hers, all surprised glee and boyish smiles, and she knows she’s done for.

She piles more pancakes that is probably healthy on a plate, pours herself a cup of tea, and goes to pay. All in slow motions. All to push down the inevitability of having to sit next to Peter Kavinsky.

“Hey, Covey,” he greets her when she finally plops down in the chair opposite his. “Bright and early?”

She steals some time by sipping on her burning hot cup of tea, and it only makes him grin more. Idiot. “You’re one to talk,” she manages to reply after a while, nodding to his still damp hair and flushed skin.

He obviously already took a shower, while she’s still in her pyjamas. They’re on two very different levels of early-birdness right now.

Peter only shrugs. “Morning training has me up at 6 every morning.”

She lowers her cup, eyes a little wild. “What.”

Everyone and their mother told her it was madness to take a 9am class and that she soon would regret it. Lara Jean always replies that she likes waking up at the same time every morning, as part of her routine, so it really is not a problem. She would be awake anyway, so might as well be productive about it.

But six am? Every morning? That is madness, indeed.

Peter simply shrugs with one shoulder, before he shoves another spoonful of cereals in his mouth. “The gym is always empty this early in the morning.”

“I wonder why,” she replies.

He only grins for a moment, head tilted to the side like a curious puppy. There is something too soft about his features, and his eyes, and his smile. Lara Jean has to look away.

“Well yeah, that’s the point. Nobody to steal the treadmill from me or to judge me when I’m lifting weights.”

“But why?” she wonders out loud. Why would he put himself through such a drastic regimen every morning, when he could just sleep in and probably still looks just as good. She doesn’t say that out loud, though.

“I’m part of the Lacrosse team,” he explains. “Scholarship.”

Her mouth opens in a small ‘oh’ of surprise as understanding dawns on her. She has vague souvenirs of Peter playing Youth Lacrosse when they were in primary, jokingly calling it 3L – Little League Lacrosse. It makes sense that he would keep with it in high school; Peter has always been an outdoor kind of boy, when she was just fine reading inside. The neighbours’ tree house had been a happy in-between for the two of them.

“So you’re a masochist,” she comments.

Peter presses a hand to his hand, faux offended expression on his face. “Damn, Covey. Since when are you so savage?”

She’s the one to grin this time, hiding her giggle in a sip of her tea. It reminds her of primary school all over again, of the recess time spent playing games together and the play-dates watching Harry Potter and Disney movies and running around her garden, yelling like animals. It was a simpler time then, without having to worry about her father and Kitty, or helping Margot with chores, or writing down meal plans for the week. A time when all three Covey girls were just that – girls, who knew nothing of heartbreak or maturing too soon.

It’s always been easy, with Peter. He was her first friend, from the very first day of school, sitting next to her and telling her how he liked her little combat boots. She wasn’t used to be friends with boys then – it was Margot and her, for the most part, and she was fine with it – but Peter made it easy. Comfortable. Fun.

And he still does, telling her about his Lacrosse career and his daily training sessions every evening with the team, and how all the other dudes are so much more buffier than him. Hence the extra training in the morning, to keep up with them. In return, she tells him about Margot in Scotland, and Kitty being such a little feminist warrior, and how she loves to bake whenever she can. Which isn’t all that easy when she’s sharing nothing more than a kettle and a microwave with an entire floor of college students.

“I remember you mom used to make those little Korean pastries,” he says, using both his hands to mimic a round shape. “With like, red bean stuff or something.”

“Hwangnam bread,” she replies, and hopes he doesn’t notice how her whole body went tense for a second there, a little startle of surprise at how casual he brought her into the conversation.

But of course, it’s Peter, and he notices. Eyes a little sad, shoulders slouching ever so slightly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” she cuts him off with a wave of her hand. And, truly, it is, in some weird, probably inexplicable way. The hurt will always been there, at the back of her mind, but. It’s less painful now, dulled with time. “I’m just not used to people talking about her so casually.”

Usually, people are very good at toying around the subject. They’re not very good at being casual about it, though. Too many teachers being so awkward around them when it was time to make a Mother’s Day present, so many people apologizing too many times about it like it was somehow their fault. And dad, who’s so good at just keeping it all in to the point where Kitty once asked her if he didn’t love mom anymore. It’d broken Lara Jean’s heart so much she’d cried herself to sleep that night, unable to explain that dad does that because he still loves mom so damn much it hurts.

“Well, her pastries were great. And she was, too.” A pause. Then, “dad left us like, a year after you guys moved out. Got himself a new wife and a new house and a new family. They even got a dog and shit.”

Lara Jean’s mouth opens but, for a few moments, no word come out. She has no idea what to answer that isn’t the damn hollow apologies she hates so much. So instead she says, “Oh Peter…” and her voice goes lower, softer.

“It’s fine, really,” he replies, even though his tone makes it everything but. “It’s just, I know what it feels like. People being weird at you trying to act like the situation is normal even if it isn’t.”

Lara Jean remains silent for a while, her pancakes abandoned in favour of staring down at her hands in her lap. She doesn’t have many memories of Peter’s parents or family life, only that his mom runned the local antiques store that Lara Jean loved so much as a child. There was this one necklace she always admired, and Mrs Kavinsky even let her try it on for a little while once. But, beside that, Lara Jean can’t remember anything. Can’t remember if the Kavinskys looked happy or not.

When she still doesn’t speak up, Peter simply adds, “Well, that was deep,” and it makes her laugh out loud, a little nervous and breathless. He’s grinning again when she looks up at him, eyes crinkling and dimples in his cheeks, and she finds herself blushing for no reason. She coughs, then shoves some more pancakes in her mouth.

Chewing and swallowing, she decides it’s time to move on to things that are a little lighter and less awful. “Owen must be so grown up now.”

Peter groans, head tilting back. “He’s driving mom fucking crazy, doing nothing of his days beside playing Fortnite and watching videos of like, David Dobrik.” He shakes his head, like he him can’t believe it. “She keeps wishing he took after me and was outside all the time.”

“We can’t all be kind of the lunch hall,” she comments as an educated guess. Something funny twists in her stomach when Peter is the one to blush. Maybe not such a guess after all. “Too bad they live far away from each other, Kitty could force him to go outside once in a while.”

“Oh I remember the little monster,” Peter grins.

Kitty was barely more than a baby when he last saw her, running around the house and screams like a banshee. Nothing much has changed on that subject, comes to think about it. Lara Jean wonders how long it took her this time, to hack the TV’s parental control and gain access to HBO all over again. Two days? Three at most? Damn, but Lara Jean misses her already.

She thinks of sending her baby sister a quick good morning text, and so grabs her phone from her pocket, only to notice what time it is. Her class starts in half an hour, and she still needs to shower and get ready.

“Shoot,” she softly curse, which of course makes Peter laugh. “I have to get ready for classes.”

“Yeah, sure. Let me go back up with you.”

Which is how Lara Jean learns that he lives on the fourth floor, while she and Chris are on the third one. Not so far from each other, especially since they can hang out in whichever floor’s common room if they feel like it. Which, Lara Jean doesn’t want to sound presumptuous, but maybe they do.

(She refuses to think of Gen right now.)

Peter holds the elevator’s door open as she gets off and turns toward him, fishing for her door card in the pocket of her cardigan but not moving down the corridor. Like she wants to enjoy any spare second with him she can get.

“That was nice,” she comments.

“It was,” he agrees. “Guess I’ll see you on Saturday, then?”

“What?”

“The party after the audition?” When Lara Jean doesn’t react, only offers him a blank face, he explains, “I’m part of the Ransom Notes. So I’ll see you at the acapella party.”

The elevator’s doors close on his wink.

Chris has a lot of explaining to do.

#covinsky #covinsky ff #covinsky fanfic #to all the boys I've loved before #fanfic #ff: tatbilb #ff: please don’t stop the music

[rilenerocks]

Back in the old days, when  I listened to music, except for radio time, I listened to whole albums. This was before the internet, before mp3’s, just plain old before. Over the years, Michael began to compile cassette tapes and then CD’s that were eventually called House Favorites.

They represented the tastes of all of us in our family with something on them for everyone. We listened to these on road trips and eventually, I got used to the order of the songs on them, which replaced the order of songs I expected on the albums from which they’d been extracted. Then the IPod came and along with that was the “shuffle.” So any song could come along at any time until there really wasn’t any order at all, no expectations for that next tune. That was okay. Ultimately Michael loaded 2502 songs on one of those 30 gig early version IPod devices with the scroll wheel which miraculously still works after too many years to count. Although I now have the contents of that IPod on an external hard drive, I don’t think I’ve ever heard all the songs on it. That shuffle just does its random thing.  The summer after Michael died I listened to it every day as I prepared exhibits for his celebration of life.

I discovered Pete Yorn, someone I’d missed during my busy mom and work years. I wound up buying his CD’s which was ironic as we’d sold Michael’s vinyl and CD collection which numbered in the thousands, only the year before. 

He’d saved a few hundred of our absolute favorites but, after listening to the Ipod, I realized that there would be hidden gems I’d discover as I moved through his collection which had burgeoned over time. I actually when to St. Louis to see Pete Yorn this past year, a posthumous gift from Michael to me.

I’ve just returned from a road trip. I’ve set a goal for myself – to see all 50 states in this  country before I die. I only had two left in the eastern portion of this vast space, Alabama and Mississippi. I can’t say I was particularly eager to go these last two as I have really negative feelings about their political persuasions, but a goal is a goal. So I took off with my sister as my companion, along with that trusty Ipod. Recently, I wrote a post about feeling like riding in a car is like zooming along in a time capsule. The only chores you have are focusing on your directions, paying attention to traffic on the road and letting yourself get lost in your mind, often having thoughts stimulated by music. At least if you’re like me. Podcasts and books are also ok, but I like to sing and I like to get carried to the places that music evokes. This trip was about 1400 miles round trip. Lots of places to explore both outside and in your interior. We stopped in the southern part of Illinois and explored part of Shawnee National Park, Garden of the Gods.

There’s no doubt that immersion in nature is soothing to the soul. We ate delicious barbecue and managed to cross both the Mississippi and Tennessee rivers on day one. In Tennessee on day two, I was fascinated to see my first cotton fields in bloom. Some cotton was picked and stored in shiny pastel bales. I had to pull over and grab a few bolls that  had blown away and were caught in the grasses and weeds along the highway. So soft and white, yet emotionally evocative as you could easily imagine slaves with sacks slung across their backs on hot days, picking and picking until their backs and feet  ached and their fingers bled.

The GPS I was using always seemed to direct me to two lane highways, many of which took us off the beaten path, through small towns where you could get a feel for how average people in the state live. Tennessee was supposed to be a pass through state. We were being instructed to make turns on side streets which required some concentration. I was turning right in one such place, when to my left I spotted one of those brown historical markers that said Shiloh National Battlefield. I braked, stopped and checked the distance from where we were and found that we were only 25 miles away.

Shiloh was a hugely significant and bloody battle that occurred in the Civil War’s western theater in 1862.  One of the most talented generals in either army, many of whom were sought by both sides as the war began, was killed at Shiloh – Albert Sidney Johnston. You may think that I’d been doing a little research to come up with this information, but the truth is, I just remembered it. From the time I was about 10 years old, I’d started reading lots of books about Abraham Lincoln and the Civil War.

I can’t specifically recall what the hook was for me, the idea that slavery was allowed and coddled in this country, the fact that fellow citizens and neighbors lined up in the heat and the cold and marched straight into each other’s withering hail of cannonballs, grapeshot and musket fire or the fact that thousands of people did that for four years. I don’t know what it was. But what started when I was a young girl stuck.

All through my life, I read book after book, and did lots of research, not for school or a career, but to try and understand what was for me, an inexplicable waste of human life, when civilized ideas and changes should have worked instead. Over the years, I was lucky enough to go to several battlefields, to feel the ghostly presence of the dead, to imagine the hellish sounds and the chaos and the impossible gore and suffering.

I’ve been to Gettysburg which was almost a religious experience as I’d read dozens of books about the battle and had a strong grasp on the topography of the battlefield. Back in 1980, Michael and I had been trying to get pregnant and my doctor suggested we take a vacation and distract ourselves from that goal. We drove out to Colorado and went to a small town called Redstone to stay in a converted lodge that used to house mine workers. We went on a horseback ride up into the mountains, where I was promptly tossed off my horse, injuring my back.

The next day, I could barely move so I sent Michael off for a hike, while I lay in our bed, reading the book “High Tide at Gettysburg.” Over the years, I continued to read and was able to travel to battlefields in Virginia, Maryland and Georgia. Many of my women friends couldn’t understand my fascination with this war which didn’t seem in keeping with my political leanings. Me neither.

But on it went, the endless fascination. I had always wanted to go to Shiloh. So instead of heading to Tupelo, Mississippi to Elvis Presley’s birthplace, we were on the battlefield. A lot of my memories of what I’d read came flooding back. The countryside is beautiful, wooded and peaceful with deer wandering through the meadows and trees, in between the many monuments and markers which described the progression of the battle. The day was warm and breezy and the atmosphere was remarkably hushed in light of what madness we knew was occuring a mere 157 years ago.

Not very much time has gone by on a relative scale. After a few hours, we left there and moved on to Tupelo where we’d resume our itinerary the next day. But I found myself a bit dazed by that visit and managed to scour the maps to look for more Civil War sites that we could squeeze into our plans. I was happy, excited and grateful that my sister was enjoying the experience as well.

But I was also puzzled. What happened to my war? This interest which had stayed with me for most of my life had gotten away from me. As we drove along, from historical site to historical site, with the redolent music playing in the background, carrying me from memory to memory, I couldn’t find the place in time where this constant preoccupation had slipped into the recesses of my mind. It wasn’t like I never thought about it. But I stopped pursuing my passion. Then I started thinking about other interests that I’ve shunted off to a corner somewhere.

I still have a long way to go in Native American studies even though, again, I’ve read quite a bit. I was an avid college basketball fan and in recent years, I’ve been completely out of that loop. I remember when Michael’s illness blotted out everything. I put all my intellectual energy into cancer, science, studying immunological drugs. Did I lose my focus back then, when my caregiving skills were in high demand by both Michael and my aging mother? I really don’t know. But as I’ve thought about this some more, I realize that I’ve perhaps set aside some valuable tools that might make coping with being a widow more palatable for me. Sometimes things just slip away without you being aware of what’s happening. I want Michael to come back which is an utter impossibility except for the curious otherworldly feelings I get sometimes. But I can get my war back. And who knows what else? I’m going to make another list of  goals. And then I’m going to hit the road again.

Where’d My War Go? Back in the old days, when  I listened to music, except for radio time, I listened to whole albums.

[monicalorandavis]

best friendship is wasted on kids

The best friend I ever had was one I made in third grade. Or maybe fourth. I always thought we’d both started at Baldwin Hills the same year but that can’t be right.

I started at Baldwin Hills Elementary School in the third grade. I had a bowl cut then. My mom made me wear a dress and I was livid. Years later, my friend, Christina (a very good person), told me she’d befriended me believing I was “a little boy in a dress”. At the time, it was fairly true. I mostly thought of myself as a boy (early gender bender). I was ahead of my time and going through a phase. Now it would go over much better but 25 years ago, different story. I was a pariah. I rejected girly, frilly prissiness in favor of all things rough and tumble. I played basketball and picked my nose freely. In my heart (and in my nose), I am still that girl.

At the end of second grade my parents told me I’d tested “highly gifted” and I’d be switching schools the following year. I was sad but not devastated. I could do with a fresh start. Try out my shaggy Johnathan Taylor Thomas aesthetic with a new crowd and see what happened. 

I’d liked Community Magnet and all. I’d even loved my second grade teacher, Angela, a woman whose curly hair hung around her shoulders like a cartoon gypsy woman’s. She’d instilled in me a general liking of myself that hadn’t existed before. I was grateful for her but she wasn’t my friend. She was a grown-up and I knew grown-ups and little kids were not real friends in the way that grown-ups and grown-ups were real friends and kids and kids were real friends.

I don’t have diaries from that time. When I think back on the summer before I can’t conjure up much. I don’t remember laying my first day of school outfit out on my bed and obsessing over every detail. But I do remember the first day of school. I approached my new school fearfully. I spent the first half of the day by myself, uncomfortable in the clothes my mother picked out for me. I felt like I was performing “girl” instead of being Monica. I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t know where to look. My new life of loneliness was destined. Then at recess, idly bouncing a ball by myself, Christina approached me and invited me to play with her and her friends. To this day, a kindness has yet to feel so profound. 

Almost immediately things began to fall into place. As the weeks went on, I became popular because Christina was popular. Boys gave her presents and Valentine’s and then I got presents and Valentine’s. This was blowing my mind. Was popularity contagious? This was very new territory for me. At Community, I’d had plenty of friends but I was not at the top of the social pyramid. But this, this made me feel important. It was intoxicating.

Fast forward to the second half of third grade, I’m crushing handball, my grades are poppin’ and I’ve got mad crushes left, right and center. Then, out of the blue, we get a new student and BAM, our whole entire class flips.

In walks a bona fide white girl. Like Mary Kate and Ashley white. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, lived in the Hollywood Hills white girl. Our heads spun. This couldn’t be. We already had a white girl. Me.

Problem was, I wasn’t really white. (My mom was Black and Japanese and my dad was white so I was only half white.) This girl was a pure breed. Her mom was British and her dad was Jewish. Things could not be more exotic. We didn’t have any Jewish kids at our school and this felt like a reason to celebrate. Last but certainly not least, both of her parents worked in show biz so we were all mere moments away from becoming famous. My heart raced.

The teacher sat us next to each other and we bonded instantly. She was funny and rude and inexplicably carried herself with a grown woman’s self-esteem. She felt like an old-time movie star. Like a tiny Norma Desmond. Or Kirsten Dunst in Interview With A Vampire.  An adult tragically trapped in a child’s body for eternity. She’d say things to our teachers that no one dared to say. On top of that, she got away with it. This white girl was crazy and she made grown-ups afraid? I was obsessed.

The closer she and I got the more distant I became with my other friends. Months before they were my saving grace, and now I’d traded them in for this fearless interloper. But it was chemical. It felt out of my control. Her DNA had imprinted on me like a duck to her ducklings. Her life felt glamorous and I felt glamorous just being next to her. She lived fearlessly and so I started to too, little by little.

Pretty quickly, we were laughing so hard in class that we had to be moved across the room from each other. But it was no use. The spell had been cast. When I was in class I was just waiting for the lunch bell to ring so I could tell her all the funny things I’d thought of. She would cry so hard from laughing that I’d feel warm all over. She was the first person to tell me I should be a comedian. Then her mother agreed. And this was coming from a woman who put people in movies. It felt like my life could explode in any direction at any moment.

When Clueless came out our life purpose came into focus. It felt like a prophecy foretold by the elders. We would become fashionistas, drive Jeep’s and stay friends forever in our side-by-side Beverly Hills mansions. We began coordinating our outfits daily. I slept at her house. She slept at mine. Our parents became friends. I stayed at her family’s cabin in Tehachapi. (I had a friend with two houses.) Not to mention, her annoying little brother befriended my annoying little sister. We could now spend hours to ourselves without the constant interruption of siblings crashing the party.

I was at her house so often that I knew her nanny’s weird idiosyncrasies. I knew her neighbors (one of which had acted in the Tim Allen blockbuster, The Santa Clause). It felt like I belonged. Our friendship was occasionally accented with 90s pop moments that hammered the nail into our bond. We’d stay up all night belting the lyrics to “You Oughtta Know” by Alanis Morrissette and then we’d cry about our future heartbreaks. That album gave us the soundtrack to our lives. Imbued with feminist 90s bravado we frequented the Beverly Center and looted the Limited Too accessories bins like we owned the mall. When I think about that time it feels like I’m watching an un-aired episode of The Babysitters Club. I’ve never felt so important and self-assured.

One of my favorite things about her was her ease with breaking the rules. She was a vehement and pathological liar. She possessed a truly stunning propensity for it. She’d lie to my parents’ faces telling them that her own parents had requested my attendance for dinner and it would be best if I slept over so that we could finish our project for school. All the while I’d be hyper-ventiliating, praying that my parents didn’t ask for any details regarding the phony dinner invitation or fake project. They never busted me for it because they recognized the change in me. This lunatic was making me so happy.

By the end of fourth grade, things at her house started to change. We started seeing her dad less often. But, we started seeing more of his assistant, a gorgeous Indian woman my friend’s mother called “The Brown Devil” (fully racist...). Then, her brother started acting out, hitting my sister, screaming at my parents. I could feel things were getting bad when he lit a fire in his room and almost burned the whole house down (but to be totally honest, he was already sort of like that.) When her dad moved out I didn’t think much of it. Mainly because my friend didn’t think much of it.

As the divorce started happening, the details of the following year settled in and my parents sat me down. She would be switching schools next year. Her mom was moving them to the Valley. The Valley? I’d never even been to the Valley. She couldn’t go to the Valley. The Valley was like Bosnia. A far away place I’d never find on my own. What’s more, I’d have to do 5th grade alone. Impossible. Sure, at one time I’d finagled a modicum of popularity in 3rd grade. But I’d be pressing my luck to expect lightning to strike twice.

To this day I can’t believe I’d only known her for a year. It was like living in some dog-years space-time continuum. I’d lived three lifetimes with her. I grew up, and grew into some version of myself that I still am. I’m loud and I’m bold and I lie sometimes. I bend the rules. I think I’m important.

While I stand by “Best Friendship is Wasted on Kids” it is silly to suggest that I didn’t value her then. I did. I don’t believe kids don’t deserve best friends. Oh, how they do. How I did. I was a nervous multiracial weirdo with a bowl cut whose mother controlled every aspect of her life. I needed someone to come in and shake things up. Kids deserve someone who will push them and scare them and get them in trouble. Those scrapes are the magical stuff. It’s just that kids don’t understand how important a best friend is because they don’t know that they might not be there forever. They’ve lived so few years that their perception of time is so shallow. Everything to them is forever. Days last forever.  They don’t yet know how quickly things end. They don’t yet know that sometimes you see people for the last time. 

If I’d have known how impermanent it all was perhaps I would’ve held on a little tighter. I would’ve pestered my mom to drive the 50 minutes to Sherman Oaks. But I didn’t. One, my mom was scary and I would’ve never wanted to be stuck in the car with her for that long, and two, I felt like maybe I’d done something wrong to push my friend away. Why else would she choose to live somewhere impossible for me to get to? Where would I buy a bus pass? What would I pack for such a trip? Did buses even go to Sherman Oaks? Without her pushing me to be adventurous I’d never do something like that on my own. Plus, it seemed like she was getting along just fine without me.

Years later when I was a grown-up, I found her on Facebook (even better, I think she found me). As it turned out, she’d thought about me too. This friend who I’d lost all those years ago had thought about me all this time like I’d thought about her. She found me.

And then she found me again.

Three years ago, i was at work, on my phone, when I heard a voice introduce herself to the girl working at the desk. I looked up and saw my first best friend, smiling at me with the same smile she’d always had. We took a picture together and then she took my workout class. After it was done we chatted and followed each other on Instagram. I wished she’d stayed with me the whole day. But she left. My whole life I had wanted to find her. And she’d found me. Again and again.

And then she left, again. She, like everything else, is and was impermanent. And I, like a child, wished it had lasted forever.

#friendship #los angeles #best friend #coachella #childhood #childhood in LA