Sidewalk

Bekah Arnold

Ms. Tompkins

World Literature Honors

4/23/15

Sidewalk

Time has broken the sidewalk, which is struggling to keep itself together, wrinkled and worn. Fragments of thin lines run down the sidewalk, from underneath my feet to beneath Abigail’s navy converse, still stained grey in places from the hot chocolate I spilled on her years ago. I wait on the wooden bench as she makes her way down the sidewalk. A smile appears on her face when she sees me. I jump up from my spot on the bench, smiling back at her, and excitedly walk up to meet her, my steps filled with energy. I let out a small, excited scream as we hug, our arms wrapped tightly around one another. After a few seconds I pull away, and we begin to walk down the street. After a few seconds of silence, I realize I have to think of something to say. My mind searches frantically for a conversation-starter, and my palms start to sweat.

“So how are you?” I ask, trying to seem casual.

As she replies, I tune her out, knowing the question will only give me a couple seconds of stalling time. I rack my brain for anything new in my life I can share with her, but she would need context seeing as we haven’t talked in over a year. Deciding this would take far too much time, I choose to stick to cliche questions.

I steal a glance at her. She’s not wearing glasses, and her braces are missing. Her eyes are still the same light pastel blue, though, just like the chalk we would use to draw stick figures and rainbows on the asphalt by the preschool playground. We spent every minute of every day together, but the elementary school boundary lines separated us. After that we only ever saw each other once a week, on Sunday mornings at church. A couple years ago her family decided to start attending a different campus, and as the months went by our schedules got busier, slowly and silently tearing apart what had once been an unbreakable bond.

She inspects her partially-pink nails, chipped from her habit of peeling off the polish. “What have you been up to lately?” I look back ahead and listen as she answers, trying to act at ease. I stop fidgeting with my sweatshirt and try to relax my shoulders.

“Not that much. I’ve had rehearsals all week for the play though. You should come see it! I can send you the dates,” she looks over at me hopefully, and I can see a mix of uncertainty and eagerness in her face. I don’t really like theatre, but I can see how much it means to her, so after hesitating for a minute I reply,

“Yeah I will if I can! I’m not sure if I’ll be free but I hope I am.” I know I’m free the weekends of her performances, but I don’t commit to coming because I know if I do she’ll count on me being there. I want to support her, but at the same time they’re always so long and there’s other things I’d rather do...

Right as the conversation ends, we arrive at the little ice cream store. I slow down, letting her reach the door first so she’ll open it. Sure enough, she wraps her fingers around the germ-covered door handle and holds it open for me. As we enter the shop, I’m overwhelmed with the bright colors and different flavor choices. The walls are lined with posters advertising new ice cream flavors and combinations. I look through the glass at the different flavors and then order a small cup of mint chip. Abigail samples three different flavors and then asks for a kid’s scoop of the vanilla.

“Vanilla? I thought you liked chocolate” I say, surprised at her choice.

She rolls her eyes laughs, and then responds “Yeah, when I was five.”

I pretend not to be bothered by this change and we sit at the table by the window. I gaze out the window, decorated with little fingerprints, and remember back to when we would come here with our parents after church and each get a single scoop of chocolate ice cream on a cone.

We eat in silence for three painfully long minutes. After spending a minute or two trying to think of something relevant to talk about, I give up and lose myself in my own thoughts. I stare out the window, watching as a breeze outside tears a red autumn leaf off a tree. The leaf falls slowly, drifting back and forth in the air until it lands gently on the ground. I glance over at Abigail, who is digging through her ice cream to make sure she’s eaten all the gummy bears before moving on to the actual ice cream, her usual routine. I smile and look back out the window. The sidewalk might be broken in some places, but others will always stay the same.