Sometimes I notice a gap between her and me. I’ve known her for two years but she’s known me for one. She treats her friends with the same warmth and patience that I do. I don’t lose my temper with others and neither does she. She reads more books than I do but that’s because she studies English and I don’t—I still read books, but it’s not my whole thing. I look at her but she doesn’t always turn her head to look at me, which is fine—I don’t know if she should look at me. The way her nose scrunches when she laughs isn’t the same as my nose when I laugh, but we both start to cry when we crack up. I talk to animals but she doesn’t understand why. She plays bass and I play drums, but she likes to sit and I like to stand, which isn’t conducive to what we play. I was nervous when we played our first show together but she had grown used to the anxiety. After we played she had two mixed drinks with tequila in a plastic blue cup and I had a Corona. She talked about her childhood—she told me the only sport she was good at was fencing—and I listened. It was Halloween so we were both wearing In-N-Out paper hats. Under her hat was long wavy black hair that fell to her shoulder blades and under mine was blonde hair that grazed the top of my ear. We both have some kind of bangs. We both wore white T-shirts tucked into white pants but I had to borrow mine while she had her own. We were both sitting on the floor of a house we had never been to with our legs crossed. We felt close enough. She wore black Oxfords and I wore black Converse. We both pet the dogs that lived in this house named Holly and George but I’m allergic and she isn’t. I think about those dogs often.
I’ve embarrassed myself in front of her but she hasn’t done anything embarrassing. Ever. I sit and think with my head in my hands, and I wonder how she sits and thinks. We don’t argue because we don’t see each other often. I wouldn’t like to see her get angry with me—which could happen. We usually talk about nothing at all. Or school. I’m afraid of the gym but she goes on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. She takes Sunday off but that’s when I complete every assignment from the past week. I love to hike but she likes to sit inside with a book. Her name is five letters but mine is only four. I don’t know her middle name and she doesn’t know mine. We both have green eyes but hers have more amber in them. I met her parents in their home at half-past one in the morning but she’s only seen the outside of my house—with Christmas lights up—and has never seen my parents. She’s the oldest sibling and I am the youngest sibling. She has one brother and I have two sisters. We both love music, but I imagine she is more attentive to lyrics than I am. She listens to older music and I listen to newer music, but sometimes our tastes intersect. I’m terrified of insects but she’s calm at the sight of a bee. I run away and she laughs at me—with her nose scrunched up—while the bee zips around her hair. I can’t find the words to speak but her thoughts turn to words like ice into water on hot pavement. The only time I can remember when she couldn’t speak is when I complimented her hair after her haircut. Her face turned bright red—like an apple—but so did mine. That was the first time I saw her be shy.
There was a day we saw Westside Cowboy together and she didn’t know them. She was wearing a light blue dress and I was wearing a black jacket. We didn’t match. When I took my jacket off we still didn’t match because my shirt was black too. The more layers I removed the less similar we were. I pretended like I didn’t care. We both danced so I didn’t think the difference mattered.
I don’t know if the difference mattered. She likes people I hate, but doesn’t know I hate them because I don’t say anything. I pretend to enjoy their company. She lives one block from where I went to high school, but went to a private school instead. She lives less than five minutes from where I live, but the drive there always feels longer. I don’t think I can talk about books with her because she’ll know everything I have to say; instead, I pretend I know little about books so she can teach me. I wonder if she knows this. I pretend to not like peppermint tea so that we have something to talk about. She says I tend to speak fast and nervously but I have been told that I don’t. I feel like I’ve been stung by a bee when she mentions my nervousness.
I knew the difference mattered. I don’t suggest she come to my house because I’m afraid she’ll learn too much about me. She will see the light blue walls of my room and envision me as a child sitting at my desk doing algebra. She will meet my mother, who will tell her the kind of child I was. She will learn who I was before I met her—which is a different person. I almost want her to find out.
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Jake Tanda Author Bio: Jake Tanda is an Environmental Studies major and Jazz Studies minor at the University of Southern California. As a writer, he seeks to develop work that can connect to the experiences of others and develop a greater sense of community through writing. He currently works with the Joint Educational Project (JEP) ReadersPlus program as a Site Coordinator at Lenicia B. Weemes Elementary.
