Best friends forever

She’d promised her they’d be best friends forever. She’d said it the day they met, on their very first day of preschool, when Arianna ran up to her and simply asked if they could be friends. She’d promised it again in elementary school, when she gave her a Sailor Moon secret diary, complete with a little key and lock. She’d repeated it on the first day of middle school, when they rode the yellow school bus to a different town and it already felt like stepping into another world. And she’d said it again on the last day of school, after their end-of-middle-school exams, when they stopped to celebrate with their classmates under the sprinklers watering the cornfields.

Best friends forever, even though they’d be going to different high schools for the first time since they’d known each other. Best friends forever, even though Arianna already had her first boyfriend, while she felt ugly and out of place every time she caught her own reflection. She’d promised, and she had believed her.

You’re my best friend forever. BFFAA.

They always sat toward the back of the bus. Not the very last row, where the older kids sat, but not up front either, where the nun and the little kids sat. The two of them sat three rows from the back, always side by side, pressed together like two sardines, passing secret letters back and forth. They already knew everything about each other, but they kept writing those letters anyway, almost every day, on the ride home on the yellow bus. They’d talk about what Fabio had said, the smile Luca had given Arianna, the keychain Elia had hidden in her backpack with a little red bow. They’d talk about how their Italian teacher really did look like a monkey, made worse by those round, thick glasses, and how their art teacher was getting on their nerves with his heavy textbook that smelled like plastic and his ugly paintings. They wrote to each other about their crushes, about what they’d do on Saturday afternoon when they could finally see each other outside of school, and about how boring volleyball practice was — a sport they only did so they could be together. They were terrible players, but they certainly weren’t in it for glory. They wanted to spend every moment together, like sisters, like inseparable twins. They’d reread those letters at night before bed, with the lamp on, memorizing every line and every word.

You’re my best friend. BF.

That’s how every one of Arianna’s letters used to end — though as time went on, she started handing over those white envelopes while glancing around first, making sure no one saw. She did it carefully, almost like she was committing a crime. Like she was ashamed, she would understand years later, once the promise was already broken. She stopped telling her about the French teacher who looked like the little mouse from Ratatouille, about the school trip to the museum when someone had farted in the elevator, about Luca’s smile and the sappy little notes he passed her during math class. Now Arianna only wrote a few rushed lines, as if she’d forgotten she even owed her a letter, and signed off with just BF. She told her about what she’d seen on TV, about the ping-pong match at the parish, and about Gabriele.

You’re my best friend, BF.

Gabriele, three years older, whom she’d met one summer at a parish camp. He already had a thin, blond mustache and a little red 50cc moped, plastered in stickers. One big one had the number 46 on it, in honor of Valentino Rossi, and a smaller one had a round, yellow smiley face. Arianna had given him one shaped like a shark wearing a little straw hat, and Gabriele had stuck it right under the handlebars, up front, where everyone could see it. Arianna was over the moon about it and told her the story every time with a little giggle and a high-pitched voice, as excited as the child she still was. In her new letters, always shorter now, she wrote that her mom wouldn’t let her ride on the scooter because she didn’t have a helmet, but Gabriele was looking for a secondhand one, fuchsia, if possible. She told her how she felt every time he looked at her, when he took her hand, just like in the movies. She told her he was her forever love, her Prince Charming.

Bf, Arianna.

And she still believed her. She still believed the promise, even as she felt her best friend slipping away. While she never missed an episode of Mila e Shiro, Arianna went to the mall with Gabriele and his friends — all older, no adults around — to watch a movie in the dark theater or drink liters and liters of ice-cold, sugary Coke. While she went to volleyball practice in that dim, smelly gym, Arianna spent hours on the phone with him, until her mother, tired and a little worried, would hang up the receiver. While she looked in the mirror and saw pimples, extra weight, eyebrows too thick, Arianna put on eyeshadow and lip gloss, smiling at her reflection, bold and already every bit a teenager. Arianna held Gabriele’s hand, gave him quick little kisses, while all she could do was dream, watching Dawson’s Creek. No boy ever looked at her the way they looked at Arianna. Tall, slim, with golden hair and eyes green as a winter lake, she was a princess. She, on the other hand, could only be the awkward friend, the poor thing still sitting three rows from the back, waiting for a letter that hadn’t come in months.

Arianna.

She’d promised her they’d be best friends forever. Then, after their middle-school exams, she vanished. She wouldn’t answer calls and was never home. She’d begged her to meet up, and in the end, her best friend gave in. She brought her a letter, and Arianna read it sitting on the front steps. Can we still be best friends? Arianna shook her head and, without a single word, rode off on her bike. And as she turned the corner toward the greengrocer’s, she rode straight out of her life.

Forever.