by Mike Covers
Friendship is pretty great. Throughout human history, it has provided us with timeless life experiences like companionship, shared memories, and Facebook likes. However, it is not like this all of the time. Friends can—and will—be mean to each other on occasion. Some friendships survive, and are even strengthened by, such hardship. Others disintegrate, marring each party’s Facebook account in the process.
I’ll never forget the first time I realized that a friend could hurt me. I was six years old.
“Shannon” and I became the closest of friends in one of the most time-honored ways that young kids are brought together: her mom was my aunt.
OK, fine. Shannon was my cousin.
Even though there was no shortage of children my age in the neighborhood, none of them lived on my street, which was as far as I was permitted to travel on foot. The street was—and still is—overflowing with crotchety senior citizens. Purgatory with aluminum siding. To this very day, my parents, who still live on the street, will casually mention one of the neighbors and my instinctive response is a flabbergasted “They’re still ALIVE?!” Since my mom made regular trips to visit her aunt on the other side of town, I had to settle for Shannon being my first—and only—friend.
Shannon and I got along pretty well. We would play together, watch episodes of Fraggle Rock together, you name it. In fact, when we both started school, fate landed us in the same exact kindergarten class, allowing us to explore this bizarre new life experience together.
Enter “Nancy.”
Nancy, who has NO blood relation to either me OR Shannon, nevertheless had the gall to become friends with Shannon. They bonded quickly and easily because not only did they live a block away from each other, but they were also both girls (which I decidedly was not). Sure, Shannon and I still played whenever our mothers got together, but it wasn’t the same. On some days, Nancy was around, and she CLEARLY did not like me. Maybe it was because I was a boy. Maybe it was because I sucked at sports and Nancy didn’t. Maybe she was jealous that I had a head-start on friendship with Shannon due to her being my cousin. Maybe she was just a little bitch.
By the time first grade rolled around, Shannon and Nancy having Mike-free adventures was common. I was resigned to watching Fraggle Rock with my dad and younger sisters. Shannon even chose to SIT NEXT TO Nancy in class instead of me.
However, I am loyal (by which I mean naive), so I didn’t give up on my friendship with Shannon. Sure, she spent every waking hour—both in and out of school—with Nancy and likely didn’t know my name anymore, but I still considered her to be my best friend in the world. This blindness would serve me well later on in life when I developed crushes on online acquaintances that I would never meet in person.
One day, we were given an assignment. We had to draw a picture of ourselves with our best friend and then share a story with the class. I eagerly scribbled a picture of Shannon and I running through the massive field behind her house. We spent HOURS in that field, playing in the dirt, watching traveling carnivals set up during the summer months, and gazing at the traffic running along the nearby highway. Sure, Nancy may be strong-arming her way into the picture now, but there was no way that Shannon considered her her BEST friend! After all, I had that head-start.
The presentations started and soon it was Shannon’s turn. I sat back in my seat with a huge smile, wondering what memory of ours she was going to share with the class.
“This is me and my best friend Nancy,” Shannon began.
I’m not sure what she said after that. Only the winds of time or perhaps a psychologist can produce that information. I sat there, stunned. Hurt. Betrayed. Somewhat hungry. It was as if all the negative feelings that my parents were trying to shield me from struck at once, a Pandora’s box of misery, opened by Shannon, my best friend.
No, wait. NANCY’S best friend.
I didn’t have time to process these feelings. I had to do my own presentation soon, and I realized that I would look like a bumbling loser if I went up and told a story about my “best friend” Shannon, whose friendship wasn’t even reciprocated anymore. What to do?
I quickly made a few artistic edits to Shannon’s likeness in my drawing. Added pigtails to her hair. Bugged out her eyes. Gave her a tail.
When I was called, I nervously approached the front of the class. All eyes were on me—even Shannon’s and Nancy’s.
“This is about me and my best friend,” I began. “Red Fraggle.”
Seriously.
Noticing my interest in Fraggle Rock, my parents bought me plush versions of all of the characters though the years. For some reason, I took a particular liking to Red. She was confident. She was cute. She didn’t wear pants. As such, my stuffed Red Fraggle came with me EVERYWHERE, even to bed.
And, unlike certain HUMAN friends of mine, Red NEVER abandoned our friendship and informed our entire first grade class that her best friend was, in actuality, Mokey.
Since I was proudly boasting that my best friend was a stuffed animal, I naturally got some looks and snickers from the class and possibly even the teacher. It was the first of many, many, MANY times in my life that I would be subject to such a response. I didn’t catch Shannon’s reaction, but I’m pretty sure she shot Nancy a look that said something like “I’m not related to him by choice.”
As time went on, I made more friends, both human and plushie. Shannon remained best friends with Nancy and the two of us never rekindled our childhood closeness. Today, I still have many great friends and consider myself honored and lucky to be in their company. However, if any of them ever betray me, I can rest easy knowing that Red Fraggle will be waiting for me at home.
