I remember when I forced my friend to comfort me.
I was seven.
I had a friend named Noah.
I had a black cat named Athena.
I was wrestling with Noah when Athena escaped through the front door. I told
Noah that She had never been outside. I lied. I knew She went out every day.
But I pulled Noah’s arm, gravely. “We have to catch her.” We prowled behind my
black cat, Athena. I blamed Noah for leaving the door open — I left the door open.
I lunged for Athena. I fell on my elbows, scraping on the pavement as She
scurried up the sidewalk. I watched her prance away like some scofing horse. I
slammed my knees into the cement and cried like an infant who just realized he
had fallen. But I knew the black cat would return. I called my mother on the
phone, my voice shaky with hot tears. “Athena goes out all the time, honey.”
I hung up and mumbled this news to my friend, very quietly, as to fatten his
sympathy.
He turned on the Nintendo and we looked at the TV.
He had his hand around my back.
He was a good friend.
I just had to fake it and see.
But Athena did not come back,
After all.