Wendy Lane by Mario Kresnadi (best mobile ebook reader txt) đ
- Author: Mario Kresnadi
Book online «Wendy Lane by Mario Kresnadi (best mobile ebook reader txt) đ». Author Mario Kresnadi
âSmarty, is that you?â
No one ever called me that name. Except my onetime best friend I had spent years trying to forget, Wendy Lane.
We had been neighbours in Bundaberg North. At that time, I had been nine. She had been two grades older than me, and the star of the basketball team in school. When she dribbled and shot that ball, everyone cheered and chanted her name. She was really good at it.
I wasnât. I played soccer. Girls didnât play soccer, but she had watched the World Cup Argentina 1978. She admired Paolo Rossi, Marco Van Basten and Mario Kempes as much as I did.
She climbed trees just as good as I did. There was a huge mango tree, which had branches jutting over the roof. We would climb, sit on the roof, pick the ripe mangoes, peel them with bare hands and devour them. We spend hours laughing and talking, while watching and occasionally commenting on people passing by on the street down below. We talked about the world cup games, about people that annoyed us, about our dreams, about anything really.
As a popular girl in school, she had had many friends and admirers, but one day she had blurted out that I was her BEST FRIEND. That was something. That was a crazily big something for an unpopular loner like me. Sigh.
Donât get me wrong. I thought popular was overrated and unpopular was underrated. I had been special. Yes I had been a little shorter than average, and my hair was dark and soft. I didn't cut my hair as short as most boys did. Instead, I allowed it to grow thick enough to develop natural waves and curls. I did this to cover my misshaped head. I wore plain, solid-colored shirts and pants â nothing loud, nothing hip, nothing bearing popular sports team logos or name-brand signs. All was good, and I was proud to be different.
OK, I confessed. I felt my heart swell at those words. âBest friend of Wendy Laneâ. Yay!
Ever since that moment, I was pumped up, really excited every morning going to school. School life went as usual; nothing changed, and Wendy was Wendy. She acted like whoever she was. The celebrity. The girl who was always busy, surrounded by many. The girl who didnât always have a chance to greet me, even when I was in her way. She passed, I smiled, but she didnât see. Just didnât see me. I however accepted it as the way it was. Everyone was different, so what? What matter the most, I had the title of being Wendy Laneâs best friend. I was the best friend.
Days went by, she found herself a boyfriend. His name was Gochin. Who had an ugly name like that? He ought to be as bad as his name, and time would tell. You know, boyfriends wouldnât last, but best friend would. I didnât get bothered about him, I didnât get jealous. Nobody compared to me, I was Wendy Laneâs best friend.
I moved south, so Wendy and I were not neighbors anymore. Since then we never saw each other outside school. She didnât see me anymore, she didnât come around. Then, a few months after, I noticed that we weren't as close as we used to be. And she, in my opinion, changed. She used to admire and treat me like I was important. Well, at least that was what I thought.
I was so happy when she came into my life because before her, I didn't have any friends. I found that I cared so much more about her, than she did about me. It was no longer just longing, or being out of my league, it became sad to watch. I didnât know how I got there, because for me, nothing changed.
Later, I found out that she started being friends with a new girl she called her âbest friendâ!
I had been running late to my presentation when I bumped into her. My books scattered all over the floor, I said sorry and she did too at the same time.
âSmarty, have you met Brooke?â Wendy had said while helping me collecting my books on the floor. As we both knelt down to grab my Robotics Handbook on the floor, we looked into each otherâs eyes. A pair of beautiful hazel eyes with a mischievous twinkle both calmed and invigorated my nerves at the same time. What a great moment. Then she said, âSheâs my best friend. Sheâs new, just moved from... and....and..â Blah blah blah, I couldnât hear any of the other words that were coming out of her mouth. All I heard was, best friend, best friend, best friend.
I felt unwanted. Because I was the one she had once called her best friend but, just like I was a passing phase she was calling someone else her best friend. I disliked the new whatever-her-name was who took my place as I felt like the substitute took away my only friend.
I tried to forget about Wendy. I thought it would be easier when she left primary for high school, but it wasnât. It took a strong effort to forget her. And I came up with many ways to forget. One of them was by wrapping a piece of rubber band on my wrist. Whenever she crossed my mind, I just pulled up the cord and then released it hard. It hurt. I did this thing few times in a week, in a period, then I developed a conditional instinct. Every time I started thinking about her, the past friend, I felt the pain and instinctively stopped remembering.
Even though I was over it, deep down I still wished we were best friends and that she was the person that she used to be.
And now she was here.
âHi Wendyâ, I answered uneasily. My heart skipped a beat; my knees trembled.
âYears had passed, more years than I cared to count, but I recognise you immediatelyâ, said Wendy with a stunning smile. âYou look exactly the same, Smarty. How are you?â
Wendy was bombarding me with questions. She wanted to know which high school I went, the studying, about the boys school experience, things like the fraternity of boy, the studenthood without girls. I threw some short questions back at her, and she responded them with lengthy comments. This was a dream come true. We hang out for a while in a busy and noisy street before we found ourselves in Concettaâs cafĂ©.
As we stepped in, the double doors of the café shut behind us. It was a cramped, narrow place with a half-dozen small tables, but I could see a couple of low coffee tables with couches and stools on the corner by the window. We took the one just by the window with the perfect look out on the Parkland.
âWait for me here, Iâm going to the ladies, then get some fro-yo. Any specific flavour you like?â Wendy asked.
âThat one looks good,â I pointed to the big picture with âOriginalâ word on the menu. âThanks.â
âGood choice, Iâll be back soon.â
I sat on a soft round stool. Chandelier on coffered ceilings, timber table set amongst rattan tables and chairs, oil painting of The Common Caterpillar constituted the décor of the back wall. Nice.
In the painting, a grey caterpillar looked appreciative, admiring beautiful creatures around him. A gorgeous red lady bug landing nearby, a striking yellow bumble bee hovering above, an intricate sculptural spider clinging on its silky cobweb, and a snail with extraordinary spirally shell reaching out for a green leaf. The background depicting the beauty of the world around. Exotic mushrooms, cherry trees, a hollow trunk, lovely flowers in purple, drops of dew reflecting glorious sunshine.
Yet the eyes of the caterpillar showed an intense emotion. Feelings of discontent with who he was and his struggling to find his identity. The pale eyes spoke to the idea that the subject was having trouble dealing with the social environment he was in, making him feel like a creep. The watchful eyes portrayed the feelings of the pains of not being able to have what he wanted. It was a metaphor for how the subject saw everyone in the world as more special than himself, and saw that they all have places to fit into, which he couldnât seem to find for himself. He wanted to be like the beautiful creatures that he saw around him.
The great thing about the painting was that, if I looked at it careful enough, squinted my eyes a little bit, it rendered a giant beautiful butterfly. It was a magical scene revealing that God hadnât finished with him yet. He, the dull caterpillar, didn't know that one day he would become a stunning butterfly.
There was a lot of movement in the painting and the scene was energetic. The over-saturation of action created a sense of vibrancy. Figures and objects in the painting were presented in great detail. Colours were so bright, to an unrealistic level, and that well emphasized the energy. It was a very busy sight to my eyes, nevertheless I admitted that everything was masterly rendered.
I scanned the crowd. There were beautiful people and then there was me. Sigh.
The room was noisy with conversation and the clinking of bottles and silverware against porcelain plates. The double doors kept on swinging as patrons came by and left.
Wendy came back with the treats in both hands, âHere we go,â she said while handing over the famous Concetta frozen yoghurt to me, âtheyâre the best.â
She jumped onto the couch by the coffee table and we talked heart to heart in a very relaxing mood while indulging the frozen yoghurts.
She said that she had been trying to contact me and felt like I avoided her. Oh dear, how I had had wasted my time trying to forget her. I regretted had jumping into my hasty and childish conclusion. So silly of me.
âI, I was busy,â I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand.
She was content with my excuse. We continued the good times together, with no drama. I was over the moon. I couldnât comprehend that I was here with her. I felt hot, my palm were sweaty, I began blink more and talking faster. That happened when my dopamine level increased. At some point I asked, or offered her something, I couldnât actually remember what it was when I wrote this story. But, I remembered that she seemed like she ignored my offer and instead said something more important, something shocking. Amongst the noise in the background, I swore I heard her said,
âI love you.â
I could not believe my ears. No romance, or nothing sexual or anything like that between us. I admired her as a friend but it never crossed my mind the possibility we would be lovers. But, boy and girl in 15 and 17, having relationship were completely normal. Being friends or lovers, didnât matter to me, but losing her again was the last thing I ever wanted. So I said,
âI love you too.â
She, to my horror responded instantly,
âNo, I said Iâd love too.â
I felt a gigantic demonâs palm slapped my face. My body quivered from the pure adrenaline coursing through my veins. My blood rushed to my face and burned my ears red. How embarrasing!
I considered explaining, but did not know how to start. Should I had told her that I didnât actually love her and said that just to pretend so she wouldnât be disappointed, and that I didnât want to lose her again? Wouldnât that offend her instead, made her mad and sheâd leave me again?
âOhâ, nothing else came out of my mouth. I sinked. I slid lower in my seat. I couldnât look her in the eye. I wanted to hide my face, to disappear, or to fly away.
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