Thursday, October 15, 2009

Chapter 7

I went to Homecoming with Rachel that year. (It was hers.) We had a great time. Homecoming has been October 28 and when November came, I noticed Rachel stopped calling and when I'd call there, she'd make excuses not to talk.

Suzannah and I, though, began to be very close friends. She'd tell me how much she wanted to grow up to be a politician, how she wanted to go to Northwestern or the University of Chicago and major in Political Science and minor in business. She'd tell me how she wanted to get married but not have any kids and how she'd refuse to wash dishes or cook. Suzannah would tell me about the type of car she wanted. It was a Mercedes. Not a sporty style, but a business, dignified one. She wanted a Mercedes 300E. Suzannah would talk dreamily about the type of house she'd like. It was an old one. She loved old houses.

Suzannah would patiently listen to me as I described my hopes to her. More anything in the world, I wanted to be a doctor. I wasn't sure what kind, I just knew the medical profession was for me. No one but her really knew how badly I wanted to go to Harvard Medical School and graduate with honors. I spoke with a passion of how I'd save lives and become the top in my field. And as Suzannah listened, she do something no one else had ever done: she'd encourage me to be what I wanted to be.

I began to really see the inside of Suzannah, something no one else could see. She had a drive to succeed, an honest face, and a want to help the people of the United States. If Suzannah ran for office, she'd probably win.

The closer I got to Suzannah, the rockier my relationship with Rachel got. Not because of Suzannah, but because we realized that our needs were different from each other. I was not surprised when one Sunday in late November when Rachel called and said she was sorry, but she'd have to break it off between us. There was this guy she met at school, and, well she began to care for him as more than I friend...

"I'm sorry," she whispered one last time and hung up.

Soon, all there was left to remind me of our conversation was the steady dial tone that poured through the phone like many people mourning a great loss.

Numbly, I replaced the phone and did something I hadn't done since I was seven-years-old. I flung myself down on my bed and began to cry until there was nothing left and I was empty inside, as if all my feelings has been carried out and washed away by salty tears.

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Oh, the hilarity!