Photo by Jay Miller on Unsplash
We studied
the Tiger Beat articles and fan newsletters.
We quizzed
each other on useful facts about their high schools in Boston, their favorite foods and colors. We prepared
for our nuptials like we would a spelling bee.
They would be
so impressed by our expertise.
Through hard work and wishing on our 7 or 8 birthday candles over New Kids on the Block themed party plates and hats and napkins,
we would be
the soul mates they sang about,
Beth and I kept a standing date, every evening on Mr. Simplot’s meticulously-groomed grassy hill skirting his mansion.
As the sun set over the distant Owyhee Mountain range,
Beth and I played “New Kids”.
We tumbled
perilously down the green hillside, summoning our saviors for suburban-themed tragedies.
I favored
Jordan at the time.
Beth fixated
on Donnie. “Okay now I’m falling, and I am rolling too close to the road, but Donnie reaches me just in
time!”
Beth reclined
on the grass and flailed her arm, Scarlett O'Hara-style. “Okay,”
I responded,
“and now I’m finally safe inside the mansion after a kidnapping scare, but now the mansion is ON FIRE!”
I coughed
for effect, so Jordan would come running.
One day,
Joey showed up
to save me instead and just like that
we were fused for life.
Beth switched
to Danny for a while because “not enough girls like him” which tells you something about Beth, which tells you why she was friends with a little punk-ass like me.
Thirty years later, long after reality set in for
two little grass-stained girls
tossing themselves at imaginary peril, long after
we kissed the boys and rode in cars and sipped peach schnapps halfway on a dare and sprinkled wildflowers over our feet dangling in the lake,
after camping in that booth at Moxie Java for hours over iced mochas,
long after the carnival rides and breakups and heartaches and letters and side-splitting laughs, after long-distance moves, after burying Beth’s mother, after marriages and kids and career changes and sickness and health,
The New Kids came
back on stage but
none of them came
to save us.
Too late for that, this isn’t a game
but still Beth taught me how to play, taught me forgiveness, reminded me of my innocence.
We learned
how to save ourselves and save each other and
we are fused for life.
Jody Rae was a 2021 Pushcart Prize nominee for her creative nonfiction essay, “Ice Chest” in Flyover Country. Her short story, “Beautiful Mother” was a finalist in the Phoebe Journal 2021 Spring Fiction Contest. Her work appears in various journals, including X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, MASKS Literary Magazine, Sledgehammer Lit, Cowboy Jamboree, Scrawl Place, Resurrection Magazine, and Red Fez. Her work can be found at www.criminysakesalive.com.