The Friends That Got Away

It was a bright summery day when my friend and I held hands in the loft of my parent's barn and swore an oath of eternal friendship. We'd met at playgroup when we were toddlers and we'd been in the same class throughout elementary school. Every summer we were in and out of each other's houses and having sleepovers in a tent in the backyard. We'd concocted a plan. Go to school together, get the same job, work in the same office, and be each other's bridesmaids at our weddings. Nothing could ever tear us apart.

That is, of course, until we hit high school. My area used to divide students up by academic performance in high school. The students with the highest grades were put in the "academic" stream of classes preparing them for university education. The kids with not so stellar grades got sorted into the "applied" tier which prepared you for college or the trades. The worst performers got placed in "locally developed." This was unofficially known as the tier for losers and drop outs. It was where the kids who couldn't study to save their lives or had some kind of severe learning disability that an individual education plan couldn't solve. These were the kids that were ignored by teachers, bullied at home, and were expected to wind up in minimum wage roles or possibly prison. It was a system that practically begged for discrimination. Once in locally developed you couldn't easily switch to applied or academic. You were basically stuck unless you fancied taking additional classes to make the leap. Your future was practically decided for you by the end of eighth grade. The schools favored their "academic" students. They were the ones who were "going places." It set a generation up to fail before they'd even begun. An initiation into the culture war between the lower, middle, and upper classes.

As kids though, we didn't see it as such. I was elated when I was placed into the academic stream. My friend; however, wasn't so excited. She was taking a mix of academic and applied classes, but we figured as soon as we got to take our classes together her brilliance would shine through and they'd put her in the academic stream with me. Our parents thought the same. There was much emphasis put on how they should make sure we are kept together and how maybe some of my habits could, "rub off on her."

What an amazing thing hindsight is. As an eight grader preparing for high school, I only noticed my friend growing more distant. I'd asked her a million times what was going on, but the more our parents pressured the less she time she wanted to spend with me. When high school rolled around it became evident quite quickly that our friendship was coming to an end. She met new friends in the applied classes, and it wasn't long before she dropped out of academic entirely and went full-time into the applied stream. I missed getting to sit next to her in class. We still ate together at lunch, but I was becoming the odd one out. Her new friends had completely different interests. They'd call me an egg-head, amongst other insults, make fun of my clothes and hair, and my friend did very little to stop them. She'd tell me they were just teasing. That I should try to be more "cool." Before too long we no longer ate together. I found my own set of nerdy friends in the academic stream and we shared occasional awkward smiles in the halls. Our parents tried to get us to hang out outside of school, but there were clearly ulterior motives. It would be,

"I hear Katie's on the honor roll again this year. Maybe you could teach (I'll call her Makaylah) Makaylah a thing or two."

It made sense that our friendship was over. I became the object of her torment. Her parent's tool for comparison. Occasionally we had heartfelt conversations about our families. She got a boyfriend and wanted to introduce him to me. I felt he was a jerk, but he made her happy so I kept my mouth shut. I wanted her to be happy, not compared constantly to me or her brother. Her boyfriend seemed to make her happy.

Months would go by without speaking to each other. Then shortly before graduation, she found out she was pregnant. I was invited to the shower while I was in my first year of University. It was about as awkward as you'd expect. Her mother had a forced smile so fake you'd think she'd bought it off Amazon. Makaylah didn't go to college. She got a job working for a food manufacturer and her and her boyfriend's parents got them a house to move into together. I didn't hear anything from her for years until one time she messaged me on Facebook explaining that her boyfriend had left her, she'd moved back in with her parents, and she was fighting for parental rights. I felt for her but didn't really know what to say. We had a long conversation over messenger. One that brought tears to my eyes.

I'd often wondered if Makaylah was happier than I was. In a way, it was almost nice to know that we're both living our own hells. It made me feel less alone. University was not the promised land I'd been led to believe and shuttled towards. I was told it was my ticket out of poverty. Instead, it landed me in debt for a career I never ended up achieving. I worked insane hours to pay for a future I'd never get to have. I eventually dropped out of school after I had spinal surgery and couldn't work enough to earn my way through any further. Now I work a poorly paid job in healthcare, live with my mother and help support her, and barely see anyone I used to know.

One of my friends from high school and I go to dinner together about once a month. It's nice to catch up. Out of the circle of friends we knew though, we only were able to maintain relationships with one or two. Everyone else moved away, went on to better things, some got married, some went to prison, most of them I see post the occasional update on Facebook. Sometimes I'll run into someone I went to school with and we'll catch up. Some people will correspond with me about once a year online. One person started talking to me again, only because she'd ended up joining an MLM. We have good conversations, but it's painfully obvious that we're now just acquaintances.

I recognize that I'm just as guilty as most of my former friends for letting the friendships fall apart. It takes two to maintain correspondence. It's just so easy for life to get in the way. When both of you have work schedules that are chaotic and unpredictable, it becomes hard to plan anything. When both of you are dealing with one crisis of adulting after another, when someone has a new baby, or is in the middle of a move, or lives on the other side of the planet the little things like a text or a phone call get missed. I've come to the conclusion that most of us probably feel the same way. We look back on former friendships with fond memories tinted with a slight sadness. Regret, remorse, shame, but also joy at how much we loved each other's company and the fun we used to have.

I often read stories of people who have lost amorous relationships. We hear all the time about dealing with breakups and divorces. But very few people talk about how emotionally wrought lost friendships can be. The alienation one begins to feel as an adult is real. I sometimes find myself watching sitcoms like The Big Bang Theory, not for the laughs but just to sit in admiration of how these characters manage to maintain their relationships. They all have one or more things in common, same workplace, same apartment building, same interests. I wonder if Penny had moved away before she married Leonard if they'd still have kept in touch. Had Sheldon had gotten tenure at a different University would he and Leonard still be friends? TV magic would probably make it happen, but real life isn't so easy. Distance and time strip people away. Before you know it, three years have passed and now messaging someone just feels awkward. Still, I do get these spontaneous texts out of nowhere from someone I'd long forgotten about and we can talk as if it were only yesterday that we'd shared a classroom.

Most of my friends have shared similar experiences with me. I imagine we're all living our own lives, busy, happy, and miserable. When I picture my lost friends showing up to work, picking up their children, caring for elderly parents, and scrolling through Facebook for a glimmer of nostalgia, in a way I still feel connected. Losing people is difficult. But I now believe that it's just a part of life. I think about my friends, and about Makaylah often. Maybe someday we'll reconnect in the same nursing home and trade stories over Jell-O, reminiscing about that summer day when we sat in the barn making friendship bracelets and swore an oath of eternal comradery.