by Amy L. Hatch
In high school, and junior high before that, Jennifer exuded confidence. She was pretty, athletic and socially at ease. More than anything, she seemed at home in her own skin, a quality I’ve never possessed — not even now, at the ripe old age of almost-39.
With her olive skin, blue eyes and black hair, she was an exotic beauty who played volleyball with panache. We had friends in common — my best friend, actually, from the age of 8 — but we never did much more than rotate around that girl, hardly ever interacting in any meaningful way.
What we see in the reflection isn't always the truth.
Truth be told, I was so jealous of Jennifer that it made my teeth hurt. I wanted so much to be like her. Instead, I had a nervous laugh and a tendency to shy away from any event or extracurricular activity that took me out of my comfort zone. I contributed bad poetry to the lit magazine and edited the year book while Jennifer — to my eyes at least — moved in a world I could never be a part of: The Cool Kids.
***
On Sunday, I woke up to find a text message on my phone: “Coming through, up for a visit?”
It was from Jennifer. She and her family were on their way from Rochester to their new home in Denver. When we had dinner together in May, she talked about relocating there and her reasons for it. When we parted, still warm from the wine and the laughter, she said she’d let me know if they were going to be close to Chambana on their journey westward.
And so, Sunday, they were. They arrived in two cars, four kids and two grown-ups unfolding from the second leg of their drive. We ate hot dogs from the Meat Lab and pasta salad. Later, during dessert on the back patio, I marveled at the years behind us.
“I was so jealous of you,” I said, looking not at her but at the corn rippling behind the house. “You were so at ease in your own body and I was such a socially awkward freak.”
She smiled then, and looked not a day over 16.
“And you were so smart! I was always so intimidated by you!” she exclaimed.
We laughed then, together, while six children played at our feet and our husbands watched. The years fell away as we hugged goodbye in front of the house.
“I love you,” I said.
“Love you, too,” Jennifer replied.
As I watched them drive away, I thought about time wasted and how the looking glass in which we see ourselves and others plays tricks on the eyes.
Sunday, as my friend set out for her new home, I saw her — and myself — more clearly than ever before.
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