See You Later
I’m a military brat. I’m use to packing up and moving. I’m use to saying goodbye and still struggle to say hello through my shyness. I’ve been fortunate to have only moved four times in my 17 years; five if you count the one I made across the country in my mother’s womb.
Out of all those moves, not counting the on in the womb, I can only remember crying once over a friend I was leaving behide. I was only four years-old, turning five. I was happy I was leaving British Colombia, my world of hardly no snow, to go live in Ontario, where my parents promised long winters, mountains of now, tobogganing and snowmen. t was there I met Melissa, a friend I will always love like a sister and never be complete without. When it came time to leave, no tears flowed. I was happy to be moving to a city and excited about the change. Twelve years later, after years of letters, after never giving up on our friendship, I still love her as a twin would love her carbon copy. I may not get to see her much or talk to her on the phone much, but I know she’ll be my friend forever and ever. The next move I did cry, but not over my friends. Sure, I knew I would miss them, and I did, but the thought of moving to Quebec scared me half to death. I didn’t know much French. I cried out of fear.
People told me not to get my hopes to high when I announced I wouldn’t be staying in Quebec for more than three years, but sure enough we were posted three years later.
The first year there was the hardest year in my life so far. I was a social outcast because of my lack of knowledge in the French language. Even in the English school I went to I was an outcast. After spending my summer in Quebec I was still only a beginner at speaking the language, but could understand it well. I understood almost every remark my peers, my classmates, made behide my back, some right in front of my face for they thought I didn’t understand a thing. They never knew that my hard, frantic ambition to learn the language had turned into a hatred refusal to learn because I felt lost, confused and rejected be all the French because of their remarks and rejection of me. I was different from them. I didn’t grow up with them, I didn’t talk like them. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. I would cry myself to sleep almost every night, wishing a praying to get released from the hellish high school halls I was forced to walk almost every day. I end thought of ending my life, but when the thought would enter my head it would scare me so bad I would hide in the closet and cry. I tried to be nice and friendly at school. I tried to make friends. Once or twice I slipped and started crying there. I was teased for what seemed like a burning forever and would hate myself for the slip up.
Too make matters worse, my mother had to leave. She went with the UN overseas on a peace mission for six months. I felt like I had no one to share my feelings with. My depression grew deeper and deeper; it was trying to swallow whole and I couldn’t escape.
My world had fallen apart. My desperate attempts to make friends was just lead to failure. Only one girl really knew I was a somebody too and not the nobody everyone else thought I was, but even she wasn’t always there for me, nor understand me too well that first year. We became better friends the year later. My grades went so low I had to have a summer tutor and take a test to make up for it.
The following year was a happier year. I made friends. Outside of my small group, I was still the English reject and the pain of that still showed in my low, but better than the year before, grades. But I was no longer a lonely reject…I had friends. It amazed me that the girl who’s locker was beside mine for the second year was the nicest person ever. The year before I thought nothing of her. My depression had been so great I barely knew her name and never even said hello to her. Now she was one of my friends. I never showed it, but I cared for her from the start. Her life, to me, hadn’t been the greatest. She lost her mother to the coldness of death and she was, like I was and am, shy and quiet.
The dreadful day Caroline’s best friend handed her a note saying she didn’t want to be friends anymore ripped my heart in two as I watched my new found friend cry as her world crumbled, I felt like crying too, I felt so bad for her. I thought that to her now ex-best friend was what everyone was to me the year before and the friends that gathered around her to comfort her were the people I had tried to be friend with the year before. I felt like I understood what she might have been feeling. She was as lost as I was before. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her she was better off now. I wanted to tell her she wasn’t alone, I understood, though I only knew half of it. I wanted to see her happy again. I wanted to promise I’d be there for her. And with that it happened.
I never told her those things, but I stood by Caroline’s side, helping her pick up the pieces to her life. The next year, my final year in Quebec, was spent happily with my friends and Caroline by my side. We were locker neighbors again and were in most of the same classes. I think teachers admired our friendship and though we would often talk and pass notes we were permitted to sit together. That could have been also because at least one of us would understand the lesson and spend the time helping the other one understand as well. Very few teacher assigned us seats away from each other and when they did I’d be faithfully at Caroline’ desk until class would start and then wait for her to gather her many books as everyone else ran out in a rush at the end of the class. We hung out together throughout school with the rest of our friends and on weekends. It was rare not to see us together in the halls at school.
Caroline became one of my best friends. We had o much in common and never had a fight. We some times fought with our other friends, but always had each other’s back. She was always on my side and visa versa. There were sleepovers, concerts, movies and malls to go to and TV, music, movies, books and boys to talk about.
When my three years was coming to an end my friends were awed my prediction came true as I was thrown into another depression. I didn’t want to leave which caused me to get into a lot of trouble. I fought more with my friends, family and even some teachers, skipped classes and sometimes whole days of school. I even had to go talk to the vice principal who tried to play psychologist when he found out what was bothering me. Caroline stood by me as always. So did Sarah, when we weren’t fighting.
My last days with my friends were happy ones. Ones I’ll always remember and cherish. I keep the pictures from one of my last days with some of them framing my mirror in my room so that I can see them every morning. I didn’t cry at the end, but rather gave a half cheerful goodbye to some of them, for others it was harder. But I didn’t cry that day, and I didn’t say goodbye to Caroline yet.
On my last day Caroline and I had planned to go to an outdoor concert, but rain canceled it out. We wouldn’t let that spoil our day. We shopped and hung out at my house, which I have pictures of us sitting in my almost empty basement while movers move around us-the basement where we had watched movies, TV, surfed the net, and my favorite memory, threw her a surprise birthday party. We also hung out at the hotel I was staying in for the night.
That night, as it still rained, Caroline ate dinner with us and then got comfortable on one of the beds in my hotel room to watch a movie with me . After the movie was over it was time-time to say goodbye. Caroline stood in the hall and I stood in the open door way. She smiled down at me (she was always a few inches taller than me) and said "This isn’t a goodbye. It’s just a see you later." I smiled back at her. We tried to waste time as much as possible. Either of us wanted her to leave or me to for good the next morning. Finally she knew she had to leave.
"Well, see you later," she hugged me.
"Yeah, see you later," I echoed.
I looked down so she wouldn’t see the tears that were flooding . She turned to walk away and I closed the door. With my back against the door, I sank to the ground and cried because of a friend.
I don’t know if Caroline ever cried that night like I did, or any other night after that day. I like to believe she didn’t. I like to believe she was strong enough for the both of us. Even if she did, I still think she was the stronger one that night.
Since then we’ve shared a few phone calls, many letters, letters and one visit. I hope the future holds more visits. I hope I’ll always have her as a friend. I hope she will always be to me what Melissa has been for twelve years. Though I have another friend who is like Melissa and Caroline, she’ll never replace them, but become one of them.
Remember; when you meet a friend like Caroline it’s never goodbye, but "see you later!"
I promise I’ll see you again someday Jello! Until then I’ll see you later!
