By Allison Yeh
I just wanted to apologize for the abandoned beehive I may have purposefully left on your bedroom dresser. I know I shouldn’t fight fire with fire, and that maybe I should have handled the green hair dye you “let slip” into my shampoo with more poise and maturity; however, I’m not the pushover you want me to be. And after the whole football team referred to me as Kale-head Kimmy for two months, I couldn’t help but crave revenge. Ever since I started wearing Birkenstocks and clearance rack Free People, and you started strutting in Jack Rodgers and new arrivals from Lily Pulitzer, our friendship had changed. I’m sorry you now live with the misconceived notion that side-glaring and eye-rolling make you cool and fabulous. I’m sorry you forgot the definition of “nice.” Remember the time I tripped over that Barbie doll you abandoned on the sidewalk? You reached out your hand to meet mine, while asking how I felt, and would I like a RocketPop? I miss your cheek-to-cheek smile. You actually look good when you show concern.
I’m sorry you have no one to vent to, and therefore use your built up frustration to torture my life instead. I’m sorry about Craig. I’m sorry he cheated on you, and that I saw him at the concert two months ago, his tongue down some other girl’s throat, and didn’t say anything. I’m sorry everyone at school dismisses you now after you desperately spread that implausible rumor about Craig’s “illicit hysterectomy.” But I guess that’s what you deserve after skipping Mr. Cutler’s bio class all of freshman year to go smoke weed with Craig’s best friend under the sycamore tree in the parking lot.
I’m sorry I live next door, and that my “disgusting” and “homeless” face at the bus stop is unavoidable. I’m sorry our moms go to book club together, and drag us to brunch on Sundays. I don’t like eating fresh croissants next to a judgmental anorexic any more than you don’t like sitting next to a slob who can’t chew with her mouth closed. Remember when we ate Chinese takeout without utensils on your porch because we both left our keys inside? Then we played “Would You Rather?” until my mom finally rescued us from the mosquitoes attacking our fingers laden in sweet and sour sauce. I miss the girl next door who didn’t care about sticky fingers, who didn’t obsessively tweeze her eyebrows or wear Gucci sunglasses indoors. I enjoyed the girl who would come watch Full House marathons on the weekends while we painted each other’s nails a concoction of different reds and pinks. I miss the girl who knocked on my door in tears after her dad lost his temper and punched a hole through the living room wall. I miss bragging to my classmates that Rebecca Heller was my bestest friend around the world three times, to the moon, then back again.
I am sorry you have become so cruel over time. And I’m sorry I couldn’t suppress my need to retaliate against your insecure pranks. I’m sorry you’re in the hospital now, suffering head to toe in hives and swelling. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good enough friend to know you were allergic to bee stings.
Allison Yeh is a Sophomore at Barnard and Lead Features Editor for Barnard Bite.