The Gift
“What am I going to do?” Chloe wails. “I can’t go to my own party by myself.”
“Ask Shane. I don’t mind. You’re more than welcome.”
“Thank you, that’s cool! And can I wear your silver glitter top too?”
“I .. I suppose so. Alright,” I say.
“And in exchange you could take Pippi.”
“Pippi! You can’t do that!”
“Yeah, I can. I can do whatever I want. Anyway, she’s a drag.”
Let’s take a peek. The party appears to be a success. Music (loud), people (more than were invited), food (plentiful) and drink (non-alcoholic, mostly). The house is HUGE and the birthday girl’s parents look on, smiling indulgently. By the door we see our protagonist nursing a half (empty? full?) glass. She watches the couple making out in the corner, oblivious of her pain. She also clutches a gift that has been opened, inspected and returned.
“The thing about giving a gift,” my mother says, “Is that it is given unconditionally. Without strings or expectations. If the person receiving the gift chooses to give it away, or even throw it away, that is their prerogative. If you can’t accept that, then don’t give gifts.”
“Hmm,” I say.
“On the other hand,” she says, “If you receive a gift, you receive it graciously and with thanks. Even if the gift is a right shocker. You NEVER tell that person how you feel about their gift.”
“Well,” I say. “How do I deal with someone who gives the gift back to me? Deliberately. Telling me she didn’t want it, or she already had one so I could have it back. What do I do about that?”
“It seems to me she’s not the kind of friend you need. Dump her. Get a new friend.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, slamming the door as I leave.
The door slams with a whimper of compressed air. The slammer, dissatisfied with the lack of effect, kicks over a pot plant and smiles grimly as the pot cracks on the step, spilling soil over the path. She stamps up the path, turns left at the letterbox and continues along the road. At the corner store is a rubbish bin. Into it, she throws the package roughly wrapped in brightly coloured paper. On the outside of the package we see the words ‘To Chloe, love from Melanie.’
We watch her as she crosses the main road and slumps in the bus shelter. The bus is late as usual.
Rottweiler Renata is manning the gate. “Come on, late pass please, or lunch time detention with Miss Franzen.”
“You mean Miss Frenzy?” our heroine mutters. Louder, she says, “Come on Renata, you know I don’t have a late pass. It’s my time of the month, and Mum wasn’t home to write a note.”
“That was your excuse last week, if I’m not mistaken. You’re on the list for detention, Room 6C. 12.45. Don’t be late, you know the penalty. Oh, hey, isn’t Shane Rossiter your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” she says. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Just he seemed to be pretty cozy with your friend Chloe Ransome, is all.”
Miss Franzen scurries into 6C five minutes late.
“Detention for you, Miss,” Slow Norman says with a sneer. No one laughs.
Miss Franzen bustles to the whiteboard. “Today I want an essay from each of you. Many of you are here because of stupid behaviour with friends and classmates. So, I want you to focus on that. The essay will be titled ‘My best friend …’ At least one A4 page on my desk before you go, that’s about 200 words, in case you thought you might write in big letters. All right, get started.”
My Best Friend.
My best friend is a gift.
When I am with my best friend, I feel alive. My best friend understands me, and is always there for me. I am never criticized, diminished, or made to feel low by my best friend. Rather, I feel a joy and a lightness of my heart when I see her waiting for me. This joy can last a day, even a week, as long as I know I will be seeing her again.
My best friend and I can run like the wind away from trouble, leap high over obstacles in our path, and dance along the seashore, exhilarating in the crashing waves.
My best friend never disappoints … (sorry Miss Franzen, I ran out of time)
The bus going north has two people in the back seat, a boy and a girl. She pulls out a mobile phone and enters a text, then a number, and presses send. They snigger as she puts the phone away. The boy turns to the girl, hope burning in his eyes. After all, her dad drives a convertible.
The bus going south has one girl on the seat behind the driver.
“You orlright love?” asks the driver, looking back at her from the rear vision mirror.
She shrugs and looks at the text again. “THNKS FR TH SLVR TOP. LOOKS BTTR ON ME ANYWY. BOYFRIEND TOO.”
As I approach the gate, Pippi canters over and nuzzles my neck.
“Hello, beautiful girl.” I blow in her nostrils and she snuffles me gently. “I wrote a story about you today.”
On the north side of town, the girl gets off the bus. “Get real,” she yells at the boy. “I’m not interested in you. I just wanted a date for my party. Ha ha ha.”
But somehow, the shape of her shoulders tells a much bigger story.
I walk home the long way. On my front steps, amongst the broken shards of pot and spilled potting mix, sits my second-best friend.
“Sorry,” he says. “Like, really, really sorry.”
Behind his back, is that crossed fingers?
I smile.
