Abigail

Mary and I chatted nonchalantly as we walked down the sidewalk, our feet slapping against the wet pavement. Though not very late in the afternoon, it seemed as though it was getting dark. The storm clouds obscured the sun and gave everything around me a grey tinge.

We walked to a restaurant, in front of which there was a small area containing a bunch of chairs and concrete tables, a place notorious for its attraction to some of the not-so-squeaky-clean members of the high school community. Walking past it, I was surprised to see a familiar face.

I hadn't seen Abigail for maybe a year, and even before that I saw her very intermittently. It hadn't helped that her parents pulled her out of school for the better part of freshman year. They were well-intentioned, but home schooling was in no way the solution to Abigail's problems; in fact, part of me blames this period for their continued escalation. And sometimes another part of me blames myself. I had tried to keep our friendship afloat, but soon after she came back to my school, she was gone again, as if she had never returned at all. I rationalize that it was impossible for us to remain close, but deep down I think I should have tried harder.

We first met in the fifth grade. Back then, she appeared peppy and care-free, but now a very different person was peering out at me from underneath the hood of a black sweatshirt. She waved at me as I passed, and I waved back. Mary and I continued inside.

We sat at a table and talked for a while. At some point, Abigail walked in and pulled up a chair to our table. Her hood was off, and I noticed that her once-curly brown hair had been straightened. Mary knew her as well, and the three of us struck up a conversation. There wasn't much to talk about, really; Abigail had vacated my life some time before.

It was during this conversation that I realized I didn't really know Abigail anymore. Since I had met her and for four years thereafter, more and more of her life had been revealed to me, and her troubles slowly began to trouble me. I vowed that I would help her, that I wouldn't let her problems destroy her life, that I would make sure she turned out a respectable person. Now, looking at her for the first time in a while, the short distance between us felt like miles. Her reputation was well-known. She had become more or less what I had feared she would, what I had tried to stop her from becoming.

Sometimes I think I might be too self-righteous, but as she got up from the table and left the restaurant, as I continued to hold back all the things I wanted to say to her, I knew that I had failed her.