Just Right

Her greatest wish was to have a best friend. Someone she liked, who made her laugh, who brought her joy. To be included. To have someone to save a cookie for. A buddy for the bus ride to the field trip.

Her best friend would hand deliver a birthday party invitation instead of sending hers in the mail or putting it in her lunch cubby at school. There would be a party to look forward to. Her mom would take her to the department store toy section to pick out a gift. She would pick the perfect thing because she knew her best friend so well.

They spent so much time together at each other’s houses after school, of course, and had sleepovers on the weekends. At her house, they played songs and made up dances and dressed up her baby sister in her clothes and hats and put makeup on her, the baby laughing and squealing and posing eagerly for pictures. They tried to teach the baby how to walk in her mom’s high heels. She fell down, bouncing really, because babies are closer to the ground.

At her best friend’s house, the sun filtered through the stained glass window in the back room, making colored patterns on the carpet. The cat slept in one patch and the girls played in another, with Barbies and toy horses. They made up elaborate story lines and adventures for them. They hid the toys from each other, playing “hot and cold.” They stacked old cardboard bricks as high as the staircase would allow them to be tall.

At her best friend’s birthday party, she would wear a white dress with a pink sash at the waist tied around the back. She would help her friend’s mother bring out the cake, and tell the other kids where to find the bathroom.

The gift she brought would be her best friend’s favorite, because it would be just right.

 

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Image by jesuislesien on deviant art