nixtress's Diaryland Diary

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Magnetism

When I was in junior high school, a group of us developed a strange sort of friendship. Throughout middle school and even high school, we'd break off into smaller bunches of two or three yet we all remained in touch and considered each other to be best friends.
In the beginning, there was an additional member. She was one of those girls who was very loud and sometimes obnoxious, always needing to be in the limelight. Her name was Angie and she tried so hard to be...something. She was not quite a brunette, not quite a blonde, with eyes that were a sometimes blue and sometimes green. There were days she'd come to school dressed like Cindy Lauper, all mixed patterns and colors, no rhyme or reason to any of it. Some days it was like she had lost her spark, completely bathed in black. Emotions were always close to the surface for Ang, quicksilver anger and joy. Drama should have been her middle name. She seemed to thrive on it. She stayed on the outskirts of our little group, never really seeming to find her niche yet never quite disconnecting either.
Now, it seems to me that maybe she was searching for what we all search for, just in a less subtle way. Age removes blinders and hindsight is 20/20.
Her dad was a stereotype, all chubby rolls encased like a sausage in a stained wifebeater, sweatpants like wrinkled elephant legs transplanted on his body.
Angie's mom was heavyset too, and washed out in a way that screamed of a hard life, permanent circles carved under her eyes and a haunted vibe.
When we were in 8th grade, Angie's mom shot and killed her father in a dingy little rented suite, the sort of roadside motel that you can rent by the week or month even, a permanent residence to some people. I remember being there only once, to pick Ang up for one of our monster sleepovers. It was a cramped and crowded three-room setup, stuffed with clothes and junk, reeking of nicotine and sweat.
Following a night of heavy drinking, Angie's dad started in on her mom for the last time, smacking her around and enough was enough.
We never saw Angie again. She went to stay with a relative in Florida, until her mother was acquitted and they were reunited.
I've wondered since what happened to Angie. I wonder if she ever found what she was looking for. I wonder if she found any semblance of peace. I wonder if she remembers our little group with fondness or with the sort of bittersweet sadness that can come with bad memories.
I wonder how we never knew. I wonder how I never saw it, coming from the same sort of background. How did I miss it? Then I wonder if that's what connected us, that same secret. Maybe, subconsciously, we both knew and that's what made us friends.
I wonder.
***
Happy Thursday.
N.

9:44 p.m. - 2005-11-10

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