Narrative Non-Fiction, Practice 1

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After my singular and best friend moved away, shortly after our elementary school graduation, I began middle school with a whole new wardrobe. I’m sure my mom had gotten me the jewel-toned blouses, high waisted jeans, and thick, horizontal stripes popular of the time, but all I remember is how important it was to her that I fit in. I tried so desperately to fashion myself in her desired image of a daughter, which included being friends with the kids of the richest women she knew. I just needed to try harder — be more likeable. My mom ran a moderately successful daycare, so I had built-in friends, or so she often said. In one house, a detached patio was an entire pretend kitchen. In another, rows of red leather bench seating opened to overfull storage of board games and stuffed animals and Playskool sets haggled for at yard sales. All houses had huge bookshelves filled with crayons, reams of colored paper, and scraps of magazines. In my room, I had a couple of stuffed animals, a small box of Barbies, and after a particularly fortunate Christmas, a clock radio that I jumped on my bed dancing to. I was not allowed to model such reckless behavior outside of my bedroom, lest it set a bad example for the other kids: irregular friends who came and left and returned days or weeks or years later. Or not at all.