It all started with a boy, as these things tend to. I was in Year 7, a new high schooler, and developed a crush on a much older boy in Year 10. After weeks of mutual flirting came the day when we became ‘official’. We snuck into the darkened stairway under the gym. He kissed me, his hand settling on my breast, and I knew I’d made a mistake. I froze, and he took my docility as consent, his hands moving over my body.
Afterwards, I felt violated, bathed in shame for feeling like I was complicit in the flirtation that led to the assault. As my friends congratulated me on the coup for scoring a much older boy, there was one girl, Veronica, who stood on the sidelines, watching me. As the lunch bell rang and everyone ran to class, Veronica walked with me to the bathroom and asked what happened.
I told her the truth. Her comforting presence felt like a balm.
When Veronica asked me what I wanted to do, I said, “I want to run. I want to run until I can stop feeling this.”
“Then let’s do it,” she said. So we left the school grounds and I ran around the block, until my heart nearly burst out of my chest and the feelings of shame dissipated.
Even though I was only a teen, I recognised that Veronica was an old soul, someone who was nicknamed ‘The Vault’ for her maturity. She was the person everyone sought out in the bathroom at lunchtime. The guardian of secrets and a source of comfort. But to me, Veronica became more than that. She became my best friend. And, in a way, the mum I never had but so desperately needed. The 33 years of friendship since have only confirmed my first impression of her.
She was the person everyone sought out in the bathroom at lunchtime.
Our personalities could not have been more different. I was the extrovert who could talk under water, thrived on attention, and collected acquaintances and friends like beads on a necklace. Veronica was introverted, did her best to disappear into the background, and was very discerning about who she called a friend.
Because my mother was a bipolar sufferer, she was always focused inward, her mental health issues consumed her time and attention, and I was more her confidante than her child. Veronica had the maturity of an only child, a precociousness and adult sensibility. Those attributes combined with her compassionate nature meant that her instinct was to always put other people’s needs before her own. I thrived under her attention and devotion. She filled the aching need I carried from the child I never got to be.
To Veronica, I fulfil the role of a champion, her cheerleader who tries to get her to fight for herself, to think about her own needs rather than subsuming them to others. Sometimes my efforts have been too bombastic and I did more harm than good. It took me years to learn to be the listener she needed, rather than the fixer of her problems.
In adolescence our friendship blossomed with sleepovers nearly every weekend, taking turns at each other’s houses. We would call each other every night and talk about our days, even though we’d spent all day at the same school together. In Year 9, I changed schools and we no longer had the daily routine of seeing each other. Most high school friendships petered out, especially before the advent of technology that created online bonds, and yet our friendship remained strong and steadfast.
Together we’ve watched each other grow into better people, better mothers, better women.
In our 20th year our lives diverged briefly. I was a newlywed with a full-time job, she became a sibling to a sister with down syndrome. Our intense adolescent friendship had not prepared us for the realities of adulthood and our connection became strained, until it broke.
For three years, we didn’t speak. I began dreaming of her every night, my subconscious crying out for Veronica’s presence in my life. I think we needed this space to grow into who we are as people, and return to each other with more respect for our differences. Eventually, we reconnected, and even though in those three years so much life had happened, our friendship resumed without a blip. The break taught us to never take our friendship for granted. To fight for and value the bond we have.
Over the years our intimacy has grown from witnessing all the important milestones together – one of which was being at each other’s children’s births. And later, raising our daughters together, since they were born only seven months apart.
Having her parent-like love is what has made me the person I am today, and I know that my constant cheerleading has given her strength to focus on her needs. Together we’ve watched each other grow into better people, better mothers, better women.
Amra Pajalic is an award-winning author. Her latest book is a young adult novel titled Sabiha’s Dilemma. You can visit her website .
