There was once a mischievous girl who was my closest confidant.
She fabricated enough narratives to account for the both of us, sometimes for my benefit, but other times to deceive me.
She spun webs of far-fetched realities and exaggerations of the little she knew. No matter her motives, her falsified histories captured my attention because of their unbelievability and my devotion to proving them to be different when disrobed from her embroidery.
Partially because of her freedom, which I nor any of our other company was allowed, we were compelled to squabble over her favoritism. She was slightly older—though no more sophisticated—than the rest of us, but her foreign independence and wayward propensities informally established her as a leader.
At a point when the internet was an alien territory, one we all longed to traverse, she inaugurated our first expeditions with popular culture. The games on her boxy, neon-sheathed iPod and her incomprehensible computer entranced us.
She provided black-and-white papers—ones that would magically materialize with a few clicks, which excited us, turning her shade-enveloped driveway into an amateur art studio.
She introduced us to genres of music I’d never heard before, songs that used words and told stories that I was oblivious to at six. She coerced me into watching ghosts and artsy music videos even though I was frightened; her threatening ultimatums and contradicting reassurance quieted me enough to stay seated, though my instincts advised against it.
She enlightened me of the furtive ghost who prowled the compact quarters of my bathroom, the one who would emerge next to our own mirrored, petrified images when we chanted her name. Huddling together, collectively holding a flashlight—unwieldy in our small hands—we would flee the room fearfully squealing.
With her, discarded cardboard boxes became roller coaster carts, and the unrestrained grass and interweaved-tree-infested hill laid out our trajectory. Other times, her book-fair-purchased guide to a peculiar cartoon universe laid out inspiration for homemade games I never fully grasped.
Relying on my speculations from a sole viewpoint, I’m almost certain I was her favorite, even though we hung out with others she could’ve chosen. I was the one she invited for highly anticipated sleepovers we weren’t allowed to have and on excursions exciting to a kindergartener.
We vaguely outlined our future together, dreaming of permanently rooming in a shared dollhouse, never imagining we’d tire of each other’s company. The two-sectioned mansion—with a connector uniting us—would house our future families, and it was already predetermined that our daughters and sons would become inseparable.
We never did finalize our decisions for the adulthood we would share.
Following a dividing dispute, our sisterhood was swiped away from us. A nearby Rapunzel, I became used to treating seeing her like a holiday rather than the commonality I was used to.
I mourned her loss, but, after a while, the hole she left behind was accidentally filled by unfamiliar, sociable smiles and sundry seasons.
With the friends who were once shared by us, not only mine, I’d absentmindedly wonder what became of my sister. She became a mystery, an unanswered question of whether she’d ever join the group again.
I see her almost daily now, though we haven’t spoken in years. Every so often, her name, a slight variation of what I will always call her, will appear in an overheard conversation, and I’m left to ponder who she turned out to be.
I can only assume she kept some connections to her childhood self, but my assumptions would purely be guesses because I am clueless. One of the few things I truly know about her—the day she was born—is only known because of its unchangeability.
I wish I knew her now. I want us to try to know each other as who we’ve grown up to be, if only as remnants of the lively sisters we once were.
Perhaps we’d both be too mismatched to ever reunite. Maybe the youth that once brought us together was all that bound us.
I am unaware of whether the girl who routinely deceived me still exists. Even if she has long been gone, even if we will never share a divided dollhouse, I want to know her again.
