betrayal by choice
LJ idol week 19: et tu, Brute?
She told me I had to choose: my boyfriend or her. Boyfriend or best friend. Sex and champagne on New Years, or sleepovers and dress-up. It was the impossible choice. I felt like I was being asked whether I wanted to grow up or stay a little girl. Sierra and I had become best friends in seventh grade when she told me that her mom wasn't really on vacation; she was in rehab. After that, it was two sides of one coin. We finished each others' sentences, we climbed trees to read books together, and we formed this special little clique of two within a larger group of friends.
We read Julius Caesar that year. In an English class where passing around a tin full of ecstasy while the teacher looked the other way* was the norm, you can imagine there weren't very many people excited about Shakespeare. Our teacher assigned roles. I was chosen to read Caesar's lines, because I was the strongest reader in the class. Then, in a supreme stroke of irony, our teacher assigned Sierra the role of Brutus. I buried my face in the book, an abused copy of Shakespeare, and started reading my lines. Most of the other students delivered their lines dispassionately, tracing patterns with their fingers to combat their boredom. I read mine with the intensity of someone who has been recently betrayed.
I went against every advice column I'd ever read and picked the boyfriend. In the end, it came down to the question "What kind of friend makes you choose between people you love?" And the answer I kept coming back to was "Not the kind of friend I want." I made my decision and was suddenly a pariah. Nobody talked to me. I finished out senior year of high school eating lunches alone in a classroom, hanging out with the teachers whenever I could. In the hallways, I stared at the ceiling to avoid seeing the whisperers. But I could still hear them, accusing me of being everything from a slut to a witch to a dyke. I soldiered on, pretending I was an emperor and if I wanted, I could order their deaths. Or at least their public humiliation.
When I reached the line, "Et tu, Brute?" I looked straight at Sierra. It was the first time I'd looked up all period, and the energy in the room shifted. Some of the other students started fidgeting. Sierra glanced up from her book and caught my gaze. She had the grace to look away first. I read her shame in the way she tilted her head down, the way she never looked at me thereafter. Even though we started speaking again halfway through college, I don't think forgiveness was ever an option for me. I have a tendency to remember things too clearly. I remember who stuck the first knife in my back. The first cut, as they say, is the deepest.
*
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥
She told me I had to choose: my boyfriend or her. Boyfriend or best friend. Sex and champagne on New Years, or sleepovers and dress-up. It was the impossible choice. I felt like I was being asked whether I wanted to grow up or stay a little girl. Sierra and I had become best friends in seventh grade when she told me that her mom wasn't really on vacation; she was in rehab. After that, it was two sides of one coin. We finished each others' sentences, we climbed trees to read books together, and we formed this special little clique of two within a larger group of friends.
We read Julius Caesar that year. In an English class where passing around a tin full of ecstasy while the teacher looked the other way* was the norm, you can imagine there weren't very many people excited about Shakespeare. Our teacher assigned roles. I was chosen to read Caesar's lines, because I was the strongest reader in the class. Then, in a supreme stroke of irony, our teacher assigned Sierra the role of Brutus. I buried my face in the book, an abused copy of Shakespeare, and started reading my lines. Most of the other students delivered their lines dispassionately, tracing patterns with their fingers to combat their boredom. I read mine with the intensity of someone who has been recently betrayed.
I went against every advice column I'd ever read and picked the boyfriend. In the end, it came down to the question "What kind of friend makes you choose between people you love?" And the answer I kept coming back to was "Not the kind of friend I want." I made my decision and was suddenly a pariah. Nobody talked to me. I finished out senior year of high school eating lunches alone in a classroom, hanging out with the teachers whenever I could. In the hallways, I stared at the ceiling to avoid seeing the whisperers. But I could still hear them, accusing me of being everything from a slut to a witch to a dyke. I soldiered on, pretending I was an emperor and if I wanted, I could order their deaths. Or at least their public humiliation.
When I reached the line, "Et tu, Brute?" I looked straight at Sierra. It was the first time I'd looked up all period, and the energy in the room shifted. Some of the other students started fidgeting. Sierra glanced up from her book and caught my gaze. She had the grace to look away first. I read her shame in the way she tilted her head down, the way she never looked at me thereafter. Even though we started speaking again halfway through college, I don't think forgiveness was ever an option for me. I have a tendency to remember things too clearly. I remember who stuck the first knife in my back. The first cut, as they say, is the deepest.
*
♥ pacing while praying ♥ you are beautiful ♥ digging for buried crap ♥ we should all be narcissists ♥ ˌɪnkənˈsiːvəbl̩ ♥ juicy memories ♥ relax. breathe. bupkis. ♥ a gypsy heart ♥ a month of rain ♥ up is the new down ♥ your words, her silences ♥ ground rules for a hairless housemate ♥ the smell of particleboard in the morning ♥ from an aspiring spinster ♥ scarves & sweaters & shawls ♥ on emotional idiocy ♥ fairytale-maker ♥