We were fifteen years old, on the verge of turning sixteen that summer, and yet nothing I did or was at that age reconciles with most images of how an adolescent girl should act. Giddy, head full of whimsical dreams of pop stars and cheesy song lyrics. Connie embodied that stereotype in so many ways. Even back then I would marvel at the infallible differences between us. She was attuned to attention in a way that I ignored it, dressing even for the most informal of events in a manner that begged for the acceptance of her peers, designed to ensnare the admiration of boys. She waited to be told that her hair, conditioned the night before with tomato ketchup, had a glossy shine to it. That her skin, masked for hours with avocado, was clean and fresh. That she looked every bit the image she strove with unsullied determination to attain, the reminders of her beauty that gave her picture-perfect life its shimmering glimmer. She was vain and she made no efforts to conceal that fact. Of course, she would never openly call herself pretty, or offer up a transparent self-compliment, but her ego thrived on the insistences of others that she was as beautiful as everyone knew she was. She radiated desirability, insatiable appeal, and to say otherwise would be blasphemy, but she was more than just appearances to me. She was a hidden genius, witty and bright, but at it was dimmed by the ever-persistent need to be both similar and different to everyone else. I figured that was what drew her to me. I made no efforts to conform and she liked me all the same. I was proof of the fact that individuality, on the rarest occasions, could work.

We were a matching set; where she went, I followed. We finished each other’s sentences and learned to communicate without words, and for the very first time, I discovered what it felt like to enjoy the intimate type of teenage friendship all young girls craved. A friend whose company I sought out, who made me happy, whose time and attention I thrived on. If I could have, I wouldn’t ever have left her side that summer—and all of the summers that followed. Connie didn’t just make me feel cheery but protected, too. And wanted. She made me feel a little less lonely, when all I had ever known of friendship before was to bite my tongue and keep in line. When Molly told Connie she wouldn’t be coming to Adam’s party, Connie had a fit and didn’t talk to her for a week. When I told her the exact same thing, Connie rolled her eyes and warned me to come to the next one. When Kyle spilled a glass of water all over her gorgeous white dress at Jim’s birthday, she ripped him a new one in front of all of his friends and left him a spluttering apologetic mess. When I spilled not one but two glasses of Coke all down her front less than a week later, Connie huffed and dismissed my apologies away. Connie treated me differently from how she treated everyone else, but I came to ascertain that she couldn’t really help it. I came to learn that I would have to do something really fucking stupid to warrant Connie’s wrath. Testing Connie’s patience, speaking out of turn, questioning her authority—they were things she let slide for me, and me alone.