What ever happened to Corey Hart?
I talked to my old friend Nikki last week. I've known her since we were in kindergarten; in third grade we were mortal enemies; in fifth grade we became best friends, inseparable, as they say.
Nik and I were always opposites. She was the first one in our fifth grade class to wear a bra; I was the last...I mean the last, ever; in fifth grade I was years from needing one. Hell, I'm still years from needing one. But Nik did then, and I remember the kids teasing her, saying she stuffed. (Yes, my life really was a Judy Blume novel.) We caught ringneck snakes in our yards and took them to school in pencil boxes, tucked into nests of grass and leaves. We sat in her yard and pretended not to watch the boys across the street while we listened to her music (Starship and Prince) and mine (Motley Crue and Cyndi Lauper). She taught me everything she knew about life and sex (which I suppose, looking back, must have been second-hand info from her older friends and stepsister) and most of it left me completely grossed out. By the time we hit middle school the guys who were teasing her the year before had changed their tune, and though she had her share of crushes and boyfriends, she gave most of the boys nothing more than a cold glare, tossing her long red hair as she walked away from them. She was glamourous, I thought, in her long skirts and high heeled shoes, upswept hair and trendy glasses. I was her smaller shadow, nerdy and flat, my short hair beginning to grow out at weird, wavy angles. My legs were too long and my style-if you could call it that-was just strange. I wore bright yellow Chuck Taylors when the other girls wore pink and white Nikes; my version of the mid-80s preppy style was wearing one of my dad's button-up shirts over a pair of bright patterned tights and those nice yellow sneakers. Nikki was smart and got good grades, ran on the track team in high school. I was smart and got good pot on occasion, and ran from the teachers when I was skipping class. When I was 14 she fixed me up with a friend of her boyfriend, a scruffy surfer who I don't remember much about other than that he drove a truck and introduced me to Anthrax. He gave me a pair of expensive sunglasses that I lost or threw away or something. Not long after that I moved with my family, twelve hours away to North Carolina.
I missed the sun, the salt and orange smell of the air, the hot pavement under my bare feet. I missed the girls across the street who were like sisters to me, right down to the fights we'd have over Barbie dolls and boys. I missed the brand-new high school, all open and Spanish design with our cool football team name-the Wildcats. My school in North Carolina was old and small and all closed in, and we were called the Patriots, of all the stupid things. It was full of voices I didn't know, shaped by an accent I didn't understand. Most of all, I missed Nikki. If she had been with me on that first day, she would have held her head high and I could have gone in behind her, unnoticed. My new room wouldn't have felt so far away from everything if Nik had been there with me, if we could have laughed together about the funny things the hick kids said, if I had had someone I knew.
I only saw Nikki once after that; she and her family stopped by briefly on the way to somewhere else. I barely remember the visit. By then, I had settled in, made it through the first scary few days without her there. I had known that to the boys in Florida, Nik was Something Different, and I was surprised to find out that a small blonde nobody, if she came from someplace warm and sunny and kind of exotic-sounding, had that same Something Different in the eyes of the local trouble-making guys. So I'm sure the visit was spent mostly comparing notes, who was going out with whom, sharing pictures, and probably making vague, distant plans to Do Something When We Turned Eighteen. And then she was gone again, and that was it.
We've kept in touch sporadically over the years, and it's funny, when she calls I still recognize her voice instantly, and each time we talk it's like we just saw each other the day before. We change from busy, tired, overworked moms to just Old Friends. We are still the same, the two of us, goofy and comparing notes, and laughing over the dumb things that happen to us every day.
She says she's going to take a vacation and come visit. If she does, I'm clearing my calendar for as long as she's here and taking some much needed Ape and Nikki time. I plan on staying up late and drinking wine, bringing out the old yearbooks and the photo albums of our kids, and giggling, giggling like I haven't done in years.
Nikki, if you're reading this...hurry up, OK? I miss you.
Nik and I were always opposites. She was the first one in our fifth grade class to wear a bra; I was the last...I mean the last, ever; in fifth grade I was years from needing one. Hell, I'm still years from needing one. But Nik did then, and I remember the kids teasing her, saying she stuffed. (Yes, my life really was a Judy Blume novel.) We caught ringneck snakes in our yards and took them to school in pencil boxes, tucked into nests of grass and leaves. We sat in her yard and pretended not to watch the boys across the street while we listened to her music (Starship and Prince) and mine (Motley Crue and Cyndi Lauper). She taught me everything she knew about life and sex (which I suppose, looking back, must have been second-hand info from her older friends and stepsister) and most of it left me completely grossed out. By the time we hit middle school the guys who were teasing her the year before had changed their tune, and though she had her share of crushes and boyfriends, she gave most of the boys nothing more than a cold glare, tossing her long red hair as she walked away from them. She was glamourous, I thought, in her long skirts and high heeled shoes, upswept hair and trendy glasses. I was her smaller shadow, nerdy and flat, my short hair beginning to grow out at weird, wavy angles. My legs were too long and my style-if you could call it that-was just strange. I wore bright yellow Chuck Taylors when the other girls wore pink and white Nikes; my version of the mid-80s preppy style was wearing one of my dad's button-up shirts over a pair of bright patterned tights and those nice yellow sneakers. Nikki was smart and got good grades, ran on the track team in high school. I was smart and got good pot on occasion, and ran from the teachers when I was skipping class. When I was 14 she fixed me up with a friend of her boyfriend, a scruffy surfer who I don't remember much about other than that he drove a truck and introduced me to Anthrax. He gave me a pair of expensive sunglasses that I lost or threw away or something. Not long after that I moved with my family, twelve hours away to North Carolina.
I missed the sun, the salt and orange smell of the air, the hot pavement under my bare feet. I missed the girls across the street who were like sisters to me, right down to the fights we'd have over Barbie dolls and boys. I missed the brand-new high school, all open and Spanish design with our cool football team name-the Wildcats. My school in North Carolina was old and small and all closed in, and we were called the Patriots, of all the stupid things. It was full of voices I didn't know, shaped by an accent I didn't understand. Most of all, I missed Nikki. If she had been with me on that first day, she would have held her head high and I could have gone in behind her, unnoticed. My new room wouldn't have felt so far away from everything if Nik had been there with me, if we could have laughed together about the funny things the hick kids said, if I had had someone I knew.
I only saw Nikki once after that; she and her family stopped by briefly on the way to somewhere else. I barely remember the visit. By then, I had settled in, made it through the first scary few days without her there. I had known that to the boys in Florida, Nik was Something Different, and I was surprised to find out that a small blonde nobody, if she came from someplace warm and sunny and kind of exotic-sounding, had that same Something Different in the eyes of the local trouble-making guys. So I'm sure the visit was spent mostly comparing notes, who was going out with whom, sharing pictures, and probably making vague, distant plans to Do Something When We Turned Eighteen. And then she was gone again, and that was it.
We've kept in touch sporadically over the years, and it's funny, when she calls I still recognize her voice instantly, and each time we talk it's like we just saw each other the day before. We change from busy, tired, overworked moms to just Old Friends. We are still the same, the two of us, goofy and comparing notes, and laughing over the dumb things that happen to us every day.
She says she's going to take a vacation and come visit. If she does, I'm clearing my calendar for as long as she's here and taking some much needed Ape and Nikki time. I plan on staying up late and drinking wine, bringing out the old yearbooks and the photo albums of our kids, and giggling, giggling like I haven't done in years.
Nikki, if you're reading this...hurry up, OK? I miss you.
posted by April at 5/17/2006 12:09:00 PM
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