CHAD
“WHATARE WEgonnado, Chad?” Molly whined worriedly.
“What do you mean?” I screwedmy face up with confusion and shot a glance at her from my designated perch,one of the two tree stumps we used as seats in the backyard.
My fingers fumbled against thefretboard. They struggled to stretch and hold the chord, and I began to wonderif those guitar lessons I begged my parents for at the beginning of the summerwere worth it. With a downward strum over the strings, my thumbnail caught onthe nylon and plucked with an out-of-tune twang that vibrated annoyingly in myears.
My lips twisted with the needto cuss, but Dad was barbequing only a few feet away. He’d hear and tell Mama,who’d insist Molly go home early and I go to bed without playingDevilMay Cry. So, I settled for throwing mypick across the yard instead, and Poppy, our floppy-eared and long-legged CoonHound, took off after it.
“Stupid dog,” I grumbledaround a chuckle, shaking my head.
Molly wasn’t amused. “Chad,I’mserious!”
I raked my fingers through myhair. Mama wanted me to get a haircut before school started. I thought I mightlike to let it grow a littlebit, butplaying sportswith hair in my eyes would suck big time.
“So, we got differentteachers, Molls. It’s not a big deal.” I dropped my hand and shrugged.
“But itisa bigdeal! We’regoin’ into high school, and we’re oncompletely different teams!”
“It’s not like we won’t befriends anymore,” I groaned as I propped the guitar next to my stump.
With another glance towardMolly, I found her pouting and looking pitiful, as she twisted a strand of hairaround her pointer finger. She looked like she’dactually cryif I left her alone for too long, and then, I felt bad. I never liked to seeher cry.
“Hey, Molls, come on.” Iclipped her arm with my knuckles. “It’sgonnabeokay, I promise.”
She lifted her gaze butwouldn’t meet my eye. “I’mgonnabe all alone.”
“What?” I scrunched my brows.“Why would you be alone?”
“’CauseI won’t have you anymore.”
***
Everyregrettable thing I’d ever done in my life rushed back to me at the sight ofMolly Dyer, and at the top of that list was ever allowing our friendship todrift away.
Foryears, whenever I’d think about it, I’d tell myself it wasn’t her fault, norwas it mine; it was just the price of growing up. Growing older equates growingapart. But that lie was a lie, a Band-aid, and as I looked at her in myparents’ kitchen, so different and yet so the same, I allowed myself a momentto experience the gut-wrenching truth.Itwas my fault.
Aftershe left, I stood in the kitchen with my mother. She went about her business,collecting the ingredients for dinner, and I absentmindedly dried my hands inthe dishrag. Remembering. Regretting.
“So,it’s been a while since you’ve seen Molly, huh?”
“Yeah,”I answered gruffly, nodding.
“Aren’ty’allfriends online?”
Ishrugged and dropped the rag on a counter. “Being friends on the internet is alittle different than actuallybein’friends,Mama.”
“Butstill, you’re not completely estranged or anything, right?”
“Iguess not.” I shrugged again and leaned against the lip of the counter.Crossing my arms, I tried to remember exactly when I was last in her vicinity.She didn’t live in town anymore; I knew that much. I assumed we didn’tregularly use the same supermarkets or coffee shops for that reason, so bumpinginto each other was never an occurrence. High school had put some tensionbetween us, but I never went out of my way to avoid being around her. Still, I couldn’tremember the last time we’dactually seeneach other.Had it really beenthatlong?
Suddenly,wedidfeel estranged, and how sadwas that? Friends who were once so inseparable she cried when her mama thoughtwe were too old for sleepovers, and now I couldn’t remember the sound of herlaugh.
“Youreallygonnago to the Locust Lounge tonight?” Mamaasked, offering me a reprieve from my somber reverie.
Inodded. “Yeah, why not?”
“Ithink it’s a good idea,” she encouraged. “You ever hear her sing? She postsvideos sometimes.”
