She tied you to the kitchen chair...

I guess now is as good a time as any to write another entry. I've just finished my first one after a week-long hiatus, during which time lots of feces hit the fan. But that's not what I want to write about.

In my last entry, I mentioned that the post was directed to two people. I should clarify that. The statement "I know you don't read this." was what was directed toward two different people. Everything that followed is meant for one person alone.

And this is what is directed to the other person:

We were inseparable. I can remember times where hours were spent in each other's backyards, doing all sorts of childhood activities.

I remember long shootouts on my soccer net. You were usually the striker, I the goalkeeper.

I remember pretending we were the various Apollo astronauts. You and I took turns between the Commander and Lunar Module Pilot, and we'd act out the various occurrences from Apollos 11 through 17.

I remember distinctly kickball games in the Circle. That's what we called it, too, since cul-de-sac and dead-end weren't parts of our vocabulary, and even if they were, they sounded stupid.

I remember visiting you when you were ill, and watching World Cup games together. 1998, France beats Brazil.

I remember the occasional sleepover, which were usually at your house, since you had that cool three-in-one table, and a TV in the finished basement.

I remember the tricks we played on your younger neighbor, who wanted nothing more than to hang out with our little street clique. And we never let him. We thought that spraying his bike with the garden hose would make it rust instantaneously. It didn't, but that was our thought process.

But mostly I remember that we were always doing something. Sedentary children we were not. Be it sledding in the Pit in February or tournament-style soccer in my backyard, we were doing something.

And then, it was all gone.

What happened?

It didn't happen in elementary school. We were thick as thieves back then. Only twice, out of six years in the same class, but we always 'hung out', even though that wasn't the term at the time.

What happened?

It didn't even happen in early middle school. But I stress the word early. It was after sixth grade that you became ill for the second time, and we watched World Cup games together, but I could sense that distance was on the horizon (mixing metaphors here, just go with it).

What happened?

Seventh grade seems to have been where the line was drawn. I always hear people say that they 'fell in' with different crowds, but that's a really shitty expression, if you'll pardon my French, and I know you would. It was the small things. We didn't have any classes together. You took Spanish, I took French. You took Band, I took Chorus. And you were on the Red Team, and I was on the White Team. They've since done away with those distinctions, opting instead for T, W, X, Y, and Z. The rumor was that they did this because your team was the hardest.

But that's when the division became more pronounced. You sat with your friends from class at lunch, I sat with mine. There were often cross-overs, and days where we'd all sit at the same table, but the split was made. Kind of like a wedge between firewood. That's what seventh grade seems to be - the wedge that separates your childhood friends with your high-school friends.

I was in a bit of denial, for a time. You were always invited to my birthday parties, and you always came. There were 'hello's in the hallways, and the dip of the head to signify acquaintanceship, but that's what it became. We were no longer friends, we were acquaintances.

I'll admit it - I wasn't cool in middle school. My hair was nearly down to my shoulders, and I didn't understand why people laughed. I would wear sweatpants to school and sweaters in the winter. I was a dork. I wasn't Napoleon Dynamite, but I was a dork. And that's what caused the wedge, I think - you chose to go with the cool kids, and I went the other direction.

And then high school came, and you went to the private Catholic school, and I stayed in the public school system. I made other friends, and I'm sure you did as well. You might have stayed in with the cool kids, for all I know. I never rose to the level of 'cool kid', nor will I ever, as the sober one on the floor, but that didn't phase me. And now I'm here. NEU. A journalism major.

What happened?

We were convinced when we were young this would never happen. Little girls use the term, 'BFF.' It's a sham - you think friendships last, but they don't. We knew we would end up at the same school, have similar jobs, hang out all the time. But a lot of that was shattered back in seventh grade. Shattered may not be the right word, as I was spiteful about the loss of a friend myself, and made my own efforts to distance myself.

NEU. Journalism. That's me. And despite our seemingly best attempts to not let this happen, this is where you are, too. You're here, at Northeastern. A Communications major. You live less than a football field away from me - likely even closer than our childhood homes were from each other. You're on the Fenway, I'm on Hemenway.

Twice, I've seen you on campus. It's a big campus, easy to lose people. The first time I was on my way to class, and I was convinced I recognized the face of the person thirty yards ahead of me, and I was right.

But the other time is what I'm thinking about. We were standing on Huntington, waiting for a line of traffic to go by. I recognized you instantly, and there's no doubt in my mind that you knew who I was as well. But neither of us spoke. There was no head nod, no acknowledgement of each other's existence. When the cars passed, we went our separate ways, I to my Improv practice, and you to God-knows-where.

What happened indeed. From the best of friends to absolutely no acknowledgement at all. I will never understand how this can occur.

The next time I see you on the street, or in a building somewhere, I'm going to say, "Hey." Maybe you'll respond, maybe you won't. In a campus of twelve thousand people, it's easy to go long periods of time without seeing the same person twice. I hope you'll respond. Even a simple, "Hey", would do.

I know you won't read this, Matt. Maybe some acquaintance, or friend, that we have in common will link you to it.

Cause you're well aware that I'm much more coherent and organized on paper than I am in person.