“Magic 8 Ball, will we be best friends
forever?” Signs point to yes.
Margeaux’s sleek black hair and green eyes make
her appear feline. She smells of oranges and cherry ChapStick, which she flicks
across her bow mouth in capital letters and exclamation points. “WHEN YOU
FRENCH KISS, DON’T STICK YOUR TONGUE DOWN THEIR THROAT!” She has a crush on
Tom, but I like to think that I win her over in my own right, especially after
my father makes Tom cry for going to her birthday party. He avoids her like the
plague after that. Margeaux is the best at everything—grades, sports, clarinet, riding
horses. She speaks French and paints her nails ballerina pink. She lives in a
rambling, white house in the center of town, and I spend the night most weekends.
We sneak out and smoke Parliament Lights and drink Boone’s Farm apple wine,
ending the night by wolfing down subs. When she thinks I’m asleep, I hear her
throwing up. In the summer, we drive her silver Firebird to the lake, and she
teaches me how to sail. On the way home, sunburned and gritty with sand, we share
a joint and plan our future, our hair whipping against our cheeks. And then,
something shifts. I wrack my brain for a clue but come up blank. I start senior
year and she begins Skidmore, until she drops out and moves to California. Over
the years, I collect scraps of news. One say, I stumble across a photo her
sister posts commemorating Margeaux’s life. The obituary photo I find isn’t of my
sleek, black cat but a woman I don’t recognize, thin and drawn. It says she died
on New Year’s Eve after bravely battling a prolonged illness. Cancer? I message her sister. Margeaux
was bi-polar. She took her life to spare her family any more suffering. “Magic 8 Ball, could I have made a
difference?” Ask again later.
