Suzie and Sammie were best friends before there were besties and BFFs. We were in the fourth grade. A very long time ago.

I’d watch them scribble messages on torn pieces of colored construction paper and pass them under their desks. They’d unfold the notes, read them, and then wriggle with excitement, half-falling off their chairs. I imagined the gossip written in a secret code they’d created hovered over their orange lunch trays. I wanted that.

They giggled for no reason. They’d walk down the hall, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. One would nudge the other who’d be sent zigging across the gray-speckled linoleum floor. Just for fun. I wanted that.

Suzie and Sammie went together like girl versions of Bert and Ernie or the Hardy Boys. Admittedly, I was more Nancy Drew or at least the Nancy on the mystery book covers; she seemed a bit of a loner like me, sitting in a grassy field holding the secret clock or ascending the dark, secret staircase alone but for the flashlight. Still, I wanted that.

When the teacher said, “Find a partner,” Suzie and Sammie weren’t forced to ask a classmate to accept them for a ten-minute reading activity. They didn’t have to feel the stab of rejection or learn how to get over it. But they also didn’t learn Brian hated everything but dinosaurs, or that Carla smelled like rose perfume, or that Sasha’s mother let her make box brownies by herself. Still, I wanted that.

When recess came, they skipped to the playground together. They didn’t have to find someone to see-saw with or give them big pushes on the swings. They didn’t have to collect the horse chestnuts fallen to the muddy earth, alone in their thoughts among the student mass. I wanted that.

At the time, I even wanted to be part of their duo. I wanted to make us a triad. But, intuitively, even at that age, you know it won’t work.

Many decades later, on a visit home for the holidays, I met up with Suzie and Sammie. They’d tracked me down on social media and invited me to join them; I was eager to go. We gabbed about goings on in our former town and, of course, about elementary school.

It puzzled me that they hadn’t seen each other since Sammie moved away in the seventh grade. In our reminiscing, they were surprised I’d perceived their friendship as something exclusive and something I’d envied. In fact, in their memories I’d often been alongside them, playing and eating lunch together. This I barely recalled. And, except for me, they’d felt isolated by most of our classmates because they lived on what was then the undesirable outskirts of town. At least that was their understanding.

When we left the coffee shop, we warmly embraced and promised to see each other again. If you were watching, you’d have thought we were all besties from a very long time ago.

Liz Mayers

loves entertaining and challenging herself by experimenting with her writing. She holds an M.S. degree in Professional Writing. Her short fiction has appeared in Blink-Ink, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, The Drabble, and elsewhere. In 2023, she was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. A New England native, she currently resides on Long Island’s north shore.

Author’s website:
https://lizmayers.com/