Dead Friends (a satirical love story)

This story takes place in an alternate universe where elaborate memorials and tearful eulogies are common place.  I won’t give the whole concept away here, but this is how I plan on starting it.  Stay tuned…

Part One- The Details

When I was thirteen years old, my best friend Angie DiLaggio tried to steal my man.  She didn’t employ that sure-fire ghetto style that her mama used to land Andrew DiLaggio (everyone knew that story).  She used the creepy Sharon Stone style instead.  She showed up to the quad during morning break wearing a faded grey skirt and blazer get up, (I later learned it was purchased at Devlin Thrift), and her hair was pulled back so tight I heard Jesse Whirwol say she looked Korean.  He was an asshole and everyone knew it, but that’s beside the point.

My man Chuckie noticed her too.  “Is that Angie over there?”  She was shoving a handful of orange-flavored tortilla chips into her mouth, simultaneously laughing at something some boy was saying.  She approached us with a cougars precision.  As the chips were falling  from her face, I knew that she was trying to pull off her best black Basic Instinct.  We had watched the movie nine and a half times together – the last time her mama caught us rewinding and pausing the part where home girl crosses her legs. She grabbed the remote from me and yelled “Stop actin like a buncha lezzies!  I ain’t feedin no bull dykes in here!  What this look like? A petting zoo?”

I didn’t want anyone, much less Chuckie, thinking that I was a lezzie, but I couldn’t accuse my best friend of trying to steal him without real proof.  Angie’s hand was on Chuckie’s shoulder and she was laughing at the same stupid joke he always told about Jesse’s penis.  I listened to him prattle on in that same southern drawl that made all the boys laugh at him and call him ‘cracker barrel’. I woulda punched him right there, but I didn’t want Angie to know I was on to her. My hand gripped his arm as tight as I could without cutting off the circulation to his heart, and I’m sure I was grinning like a crazy person because right then I came up with the best plan ever.  A pencil fell from my half open bag.  Chuckie, a real gentleman, bent to pick it up but I stopped him.
“I got it, baby.”
I bent over real slow from the waist and reached for the useless implement.  While Angie stood there, hand still on my man, I fell off of the bench, landing on the ground with expert precision, my head underneath her skirt, and my worst fears confirmed: bitch had no underpants on. She was definitely trying to steal my man.

I didn’t tell her right away that I was never going to talk to her again.  I felt confused about the whole thing.  She and I were best friends.  We had cut our wrists with safety-pins to solidify the blood line between the two of us.  We ditched school every day before gym to get milk shakes from am/pm.  She helped me figure out how to paint my manish face so that cute boys like Chuckie would pay attention to me, and there she was, trying to steal him from me.

Instead of grabbing her by the puff ball plastered to the back of her head, I pretended to concentrate on putting my pencil neatly back into my bag.  When she got tired of laughing like a woodpecker at Chuckie’s jokes, she sauntered away, crumpling the bag of chips and tossing them at Jesse Whirlwol’s head.  Chuckie was still watching her when I pulled him close and said, “I think she’s a buncha lezzies.”
“What?  Not Angie!  She’s too…too fine for that!”
“I heard her mama say it once, that’s all.”  I rolled my eyes so he knew I didn’t really care, but  could tell he was thinking about it.

I didn’t really care if she was a lezzie or not, but everyone else did.  I started to notice that Chuckie wouldn’t talk to me if Angie was around.  In the locker room, girls whispered about whether or not she was a bull dyke.  Angie came to my house everyday talking about how this boy or that girl wouldn’t even look at her. I helped her strategize her revenge fantasies against all the friends who had suddenly turned their backs on her. I knew that I still wanted to hang out with my best girl even though she tried to steal my man, but I didn’t want anyone to think we were lezzies together.

So I spread another rumor.  Every morning during  first period lab Debbie Acker would find a way to sit next to me.  Debbie always had her hair pressed perfectly, like she had just walked out of the beauty shop.  Her skin shined under the flourescent lights and for whatever reason, it was hard for me to focus on my work whenever she came by.  She’d sit down close enough for me to smell the shea butter on her skin. Blood would rush to my cheeks making them hot and cold at the same time. She’d lean in real close and pump me for information about Angie.  One day I told her, “You didn’t hear this from me Debbie, but I heard that she don’t wear no underwear?”
Debbie jumped back in her seat.  “You mean she skankin?”
“I’m just sayin what I heard, girl.  I don’t really know though, you know.”

By lunch time, Chuckie and every other boy in the eighth grade was trying to talk to Angie.  As she stood by the vending machine, fumbling with her crumpled up dollar bills, Chuckie offered her a crisp one from the black patent leather wallet his uncle gave him for his birthday.  Her fingers grazed his as they exchanged currency.  I stormed across the quad, my busted back pack spilling homework and paper clips and pencils behind me.  I grabbed Angie’s wrist and twisted it up to her terrified face, “Skank!  You tryin to steal my man!”  Angie’s eyes started tearing and all of the guys around us broke out into wide grins. I heard Jesse Whirlwol whisper “Chic fight.  Awesome.”

Chuckie pulled me away from her and walked me down the hall.

“What’s wrong with y’all anyway?”

Of course the very next morning, Debbie Acker, and every other girl in the eighth grade was whispering about how Angie DiLaggio tried to steal my man, and by then my confusion was over.  Skank or dyke, I couldn’t be friends with her anymore.

I spent the rest of eighth grade ignoring Angie.  I erased our best friend tag from the walls of the mall bathroom to the tables at the taco stand.  I threw away the notes we passed in class.  Angie was out of my life.  She was dead to me.


3 Responses to “Dead Friends (a satirical love story)”

  1. melissa merin Says:

    FEED BACK! LEAVE ME FEED BACK! Like, “Oh wow, you’re amazing.” or “What are you trying to do here?” or “Dude, I didn’t know you could write in Latin.”

  2. ok girl, i’m hooked. when’s the next installment?

  3. you’re better than a mexican soap opera, that’s saying a lot, believe me manita ^o^

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: