At my California high school, my best friend Jeannette and I lived parallel lives: Advanced Placement classes, trivia competitions, swimming and track. We were nerds, sort of, but also jocks, sort of, and as a result were pretty much never invited to parties. Instead, we’d siphon small amounts of liquor out of five or six bottles from her father’s cabinet, combine it all into a Nalgene and go bowling. She felt deeply uncool. I thought we were awesome.
I puzzled over the difference in our perspective for decades, only recently realizing that I felt perfectly acceptable, though not totally accepted, because I knew what it meant to be truly unpopular.
In elementary school in St. Louis, I’d had a best friend, Kim. She routinely informed me, “I am your best friend, but you aren’t my best friend.” That honor went to her next door neighbor Brenda, who went to a different school. Oh, how I longed to be Brenda. But I was happy enough to be included in Kim’s group at school, which included Heather, Jessica and Amanda. We did sleepovers. Birthday parties.