AMELIA WAS HER GIVEN NAME, but her friends called her Mia. Natalie wouldn’t know that, because she was never Mia’s friend. Natalie’s view of the world is very Natalie-centric. If something isn’t happening in her own personal little bubble, she doesn’t know about it.
That’s how she managed to work in a cubicle next to mine for nine months without realizing that the two of us went to high school together, albeit briefly. I always thought she was going to eventually figure it out and my cover would be blown, but she never did. To be fair, I looked very different in high school. I wasn’t as thin as I am now, and I had longer hair then. I was also a year ahead of her, because in sixth grade, Mia was out most of the year after a bad case of pneumonia put her in the hospital for months and she was held back. And Natalie transferred from another school at the beginning of her junior year, so we were only at the same school for a single year, in two different grades.
Even though she was the new girl, Natalie was the queen of our high school. Any surprise there? And Mia… wasn’t. Her mother gave birth to her ten weeks early, and she had lived with cerebral palsy her whole life. Her mind was fine, but she needed braces and crutches to walk. Her speech was slurred, especially when she got excited, which embarrassed her terribly.
I met Mia in first grade. We were supposed to pick buddies for a class trip, and I watched as the kids paired off as always, leaving me to be assigned to be buddies with another loser that nobody liked—or worse, the
teacher. So I was surprised when the new girl with braces and crutches came straight over to me. Dawn, will you be my buddy?
I was so astonished, I didn’t know what to say at first. Even at age seven, I was used to being excluded from everything. Nobody ever invited me to their birthday party unless they invited the whole class, and even then they often found a way to exclude me. At first, I thought Mia might be teasing me. But then I saw the earnest wide-eyed expression on her face and something happened to me that had never happened ever before:
Another girl wanted to be my friend. Of course, I said yes.
Mia was the greatest friend who ever was—she made my life worth living. Before she came along, I was utterly alone. People always made fun of me, and Mia had the same experience. It was just part of life for both of us. My mother told me I deserved it for being so weird. Mia was lucky enough that her parents were more supportive, and she had a big brother who looked out for her. We hoped things would get better as adults, but we accepted that kids can be cruel. And when we were together, it didn’t seem so bad.
Especially because we defended each other.
For example, in third grade, when Jared Kelahan wouldn’t quit making fun of Mia, I pushed him right off the monkey bars—you can bet that stopped the teasing. And when Duncan Albright wouldn’t stop calling me Turtle Girl, Mia threw some water on the crotch of his pants and started a very popular rumor that he wet himself. We had each other’s backs, always.
But when I was away at college, that’s when things deteriorated.
I couldn’t be there for my best friend. I couldn’t defend her anymore. All we could do was talk on the phone while I would reassure her that she was going to be okay. But that wasn’t enough.
Mia had a disability, and she was never apologetic or ashamed about it. So it was painful to watch her change in that way. The other kids giggled about the way she walked on crutches. Kids would try to trip her up—make her fall. On one occasion, she took such a bad spill in the hallway that she chipped her front tooth. And then they made fun of her marred smile.
But the worst part was the way they made fun of how she talked.
I loved Mia’s voice. I would give anything to hear it again. We used to talk on the phone for hours, and even though it took a little getting used to, I never had trouble understanding her. But she used to garble her words—
especially when she was nervous or excited—one syllable slurring into another.
Natalie came up with a particularly nasty way to make fun of Mia. They shared a math class together, and every time Mia would answer a question, Natalie and her best friend Tara Wilkes would mimic the answer in that same slurred voice. Low enough that the teacher couldn’t hear it, but everyone around them could.
It gave other kids ideas. It started happening in all her classes. And when Mia complained about it, the teachers wouldn’t do anything. Natalie and Tara would never do anything like that, they would say.
After a couple of months of this torture, Mia stopped raising her hand in class.
We mostly communicated on the phone because I was long-distance, but it was hard not to notice the change in her personality. Mia had always been a strong person—stronger than me. She was the one who told me not to let myself cry in front of anyone else. But Natalie and the other girls broke her. I could hear the pain in her voice.
Hang in there, I told her. High school is almost over.
I know, she said. Believe me, I’m trying. I won’t let Natalie win.
I didn’t know what to do. I thought about calling Mia’s parents to let them know what was going on, although she would have hated that. I even went so far as to type an email to Mia’s brother, hoping he might be able to do more than I could. But in the end, I believed Mia would get through it. It was, after all, more than halfway through senior year. Soon, she’d be in college and would leave all of this behind.
Then there was the Valentine’s Day incident.
For as long as I knew Mia, she had a crush on a boy named George. We went to school with him since kindergarten, and she used to fantasize about marrying him someday, even though she laughed when she talked about it. George was a nice kid, as far as I could tell. He wasn’t particularly handsome or popular or athletic, although he wasn’t an outcast like we were. He never laughed at Mia or made fun of her. He said hi to her in the hallway. He was kind.
In the days leading up to February 14, Mia received a series of notes from George. She read them to me on the phone. They were exactly the sort of sweet notes that I would have expected from George, and I was so happy for her. It felt like things were finally turning around for my best friend.
Even though I desperately wanted a boyfriend of my own, which seemed like an impossibility, I wasn’t jealous. I only wanted Mia to be happy.
It wasn’t until Valentine’s Day arrived that Mia approached George when she saw him carrying a red rose. She thought the rose was for her, but it was for some other girl that he had a crush on. He was never interested in Mia—not now, not ever. The notes were all from Natalie and Tara, playing a joke on her—George had no idea about any of it. Natalie masterminded the whole thing. And while George tried to be nice about it, he made it painfully clear he had zero romantic feelings for Mia and never would.
Two days later, Mia took her own life.
She took a bunch of pills, then slit her wrists in the bathroom. By the time her parents found her, she was already gone. They called me that night to break the news to me. I loved her as much as they did. I would never have another friend like Mia.
Mia was gone. And it was all Natalie’s fault.
I wanted vengeance. I tried to convince Mia’s parents to do something
—press charges against Natalie. But there was no evidence Natalie did anything wrong. It was Natalie’s word against a dead girl, and everyone loved Natalie. Mia’s parents just wanted to forget about it. Let her rest in peace, Dawn.
I couldn’t though. I was too angry. My hatred for Natalie Farrell burned inside of me. I watched as she went off to college and dated the hottest guys and made a zillion new friends and did all the things that Mia would never do. Because of her.
There was nothing I could do about it. Nobody cared except me. Even Mia’s own parents were willing to let it go.
And then one day I found somebody who hated Natalie as much as I did. Someone who blamed her for killing Mia the same way I did. Who wasn’t willing to let it go as easily as her parents were.
Caleb.
Mia’s brother.
