A/N: This is a short story I wrote for school. It’s kind of depressing, but it made second place in the eighth grade short story contest. Hope you like it.

A Song For Sandy

It’s almost funny how people hate stereotypes so fiercely, but they seem to try so hard to fit into them. The typical middle school is full of them: the snobby rich girls, the sports- obsessed jocks, and the socially isolated computer nerds. It’s just natural. Maybe we need a way to get to know people quickly and figure out how to interact with them. Maybe we classify people because we’re unhappy with our own miserable lives. I wouldn’t know. I’m not a psychologist. Whatever the cause, these simple ways of thinking can cause feuds or even tear lives apart. Like my best bud Sandy’s.

“It was an awesome movie,” I said.

“Yeah, but his character died! Do you have any idea how emotionally tormenting it is to watch the subject of your highest devotion and admiration come to such a horrific and untimely demise?” Rosie had jumped up from her seat and looked, even more than usual, like some sort of demonic, insane squirrel. Dee stabbed a piece of man-made turkey.

“ Calm down, Rose. You’re using big words again. First of all, he was the bad guy. He’s supposed to die. And secondly, he’s not even that good of an actor.”

I was sure Rosie would have started to chew her head off (literally) if she didn’t have to duck in order to avoid a flying baked potato. Judging by the snickers from the next table and the angrily squawking chicken in a hideous pink sundress that had flapped her way past us in their direction, it had come from the football team.

“They must be practicing for the football game tonight,” Sandy announced. It was a lame joke, but we laughed anyway. Sandy didn’t talk much. She was shy and soft-voiced, and reminded me more than anything of a mouse. Her name fit her well. She had thin, sandy blond hair, light tan skin, and a small, fragile looking frame that appeared as if it could crumble at the slightest touch and trickle through your fingers. She and I were complete opposites. I’m loud and definitely not afraid to speak my mind. Some call me stubborn, but I prefer the term ‘solid’. I very rarely get mad, or break down and cry. I’m the leader, the one everybody turns to.

I brushed off the table and stood up. Someone hit my elbow from behind, sending my tray crashing to the linoleum. I sighed and bent down to pick up the scattered vegetables. “Can I help?” Someone asked. I stiffened as I recognized the voice, but managed to paste on a grin and look up.

Hillary, the enemy of everything good in this world, stood over me, with her designer jeans and a disgustingly sweet and incredibly fake look of sincerity. “Nope. I’ve got it.” I went back to the huge mess on the floor, and she shook her head and walked off. You may be thinking that I’m overly proud, but let me tell you about Hillary.

I’m sure you’ve met at least one in your lifetime. There’s only one word for them: Perfection. You know the type. Class president, straight A student, daughter of some big shot governmental worker. Teachers love them. Normal people hate them. Some people even think they’re nice. If that is the case, I suggest you immediately discontinue usage of whatever it is you’re taking, because you’re suffering from some pretty severe hallucinations. Every attempt at acting like a decent human being is actually an attempt to gain even more power over their army of loyal zombies. Since the first day of sixth grade, myself and my little band of brave followers (otherwise known as Rosie, Dee, and Sandy) had been the only line of defense against this great evil. It’s a heavy burden to bear. To have let that scum help me would have been sinking to the lowest level of humanity.

Ahem. Anyways, back to those spilled veggies. I managed to sweep up most of them and dump my tray into the garbage can. By then, the bell had rung and I was several minutes late. Sandy stood at the cafeteria door, waiting for me. She handed me a cardboard shoebox. I opened it, and pulled out a pair of video games. “For you,” Sandy said.

“Me? But you love these games.” Sandy shrugged.

“I’ve died too many times. Please, take it.”

“Thanks.”

She looked away. “Come on. We’re late for class.”

In the history of organized entertainment, nothing has rivaled informal middle school dances in fun value and overall coolness. (Except maybe rock concerts. But that’s beside the point.) Sandy, Dee, Rosie, and I met at our usual place on the dance floor, right in front of the speakers. The four of us are bound and determined to get everybody groovin’. After all, it is a dance. So far, no luck. Hillary and her sidekicks had settled nearby. They were too cool to dance. Sandy sighed as she watched them laughing amongst themselves.

“Their lives are so perfect,” she said wistfully. I nodded. She turned toward the door. “I’ve got a headache. I think I’ll go sit down outside.” I studied her as she walked away. Something didn’t feel right. But the deejay started up a great dance tune, and the thoughts were driven from my head.

I went looking for her about an hour later. She sat on the sidewalk, staring at the ground. I leaned over her. “The last song’s coming up. You couldn’t possibly want to miss it.”

“I’m tired,” she mumbled.

“Come on. The Cotton Eye Joe’s your favorite.” I grabbed her hand, and stifled a gasp as I glimpsed the pale skin under her thick leather bracelet. It was crossed with jagged, still bleeding red lines. The sidewalk was splashed with blood. She quickly pulled away, covering the cuts with her sleeve.

“I- cut my wrist on the, uh, buckle on my belt.” I seated myself on the concrete next to her, pulling the razor from her pocket.

“Are you all right, Sandy?”

She stood up suddenly. “My ride’s here. I’ve uh, gotta go.” She hesitated and turned back to me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Bye, Haley.” Then she shuffled away.

“Bye, Sandy,” I called after her.

‘Maybe she’s just in a bad mood,’ I thought, opening the door to go back inside. After all, it wasn’t like my other friends hadn’t had their problems. Dee drank when she was upset, and Rosie had been on everything but a flight to the moon. It always went away eventually. This was probably no different. But for some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was really wrong.

They found her body the next morning. I got a call from the police at eight. They asked a few questions, and I replied calmly and without emotion. Then I hung up and went into my room, shutting the door behind me. For a moment, I looked out my window, so transparent, so typical. I saw nothing. Not content, I launched a fist through the glass. It shattered. The glittering, jagged carpet ripped through my socks and the bottoms of my feet. I felt nothing. I turned on my electric keyboard. Blood stained the keys and the lyrics that poured from my mouth like a ruby river. I heard nothing.

I continued for the rest of the weekend, not pausing to eat or sleep, until I finally had a complete song put together. It was about a girl who wished her friends could see how strong the pain was, and how only through our ability to die are we equal. I titled it ‘A Song for Sandy’. But still, my eyes remained dry.

For once, I wished I could shed some tears. The emotion building up in my chest was agonizing. I wanted everything to go back to normal. Stereotypical, clichéd normal, where good triumphs over evil, and best friends don’t have to cut themselves to get away from their sorrow. But more than anything, I wanted to turn back time. How could I have missed the signs? I should have been there, and I wasn’t. It was all my fault.

Dee and Rosie met me outside school on Monday with hugs and sobs and how could shes. I stuck stubbornly to my role as the strong shoulder. I couldn’t change what had happened, but I could be a good friend now. That morning, the principal announced that there would be a memorial service for Sandy at the end of the week, and that all were welcome to present in honor of a fallen peer.

No one seemed exactly sure of what to say to us that week, and most remained silent. I avoided Hillary. I don’t think I could’ve held back the urge to punch her in her beautiful, sweet- looking mask. The days dragged on.

The entire school packed into the auditorium for Sandy’s memorial service. I performed my song in her honor. It was the best I ever have played and probably ever will play in my life. Hillary’s speech about how she was such a good friend and will always be missed brought the place to their feet. I kicked the wall back stage. ‘Your nose was to far up in the air to even see her, you liar,’ I thought furiously. I took a deep breath as she approached, tears streaming down her cheeks. The confrontation had finally come.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Haley. If I can do anything, let me know.” I balled my bandage wrapped fists. I felt like yelling ‘I’ll let you know that it’s your fault she’s dead. You killed her, you’. I’ll let you fill in the blank. In stead, I looked around at the scene backstage.

I read once that even the most impossible event can appear true when it is performed on stage as long as the audience wants to believe it. Then, in the ultimate, Hallmark movie cliché, a thought struck me. Maybe, just maybe, she was telling the truth. Maybe she was only mean to me because I was jealous, and I wanted her to be a jerk. Maybe she was actually a nice person.

Like I said. I’m no psychologist, and I’m certainly not a philosopher. But I decided that this war over nothing had gone on too long. Sandy’s blood had been more than enough. And with that thought, I, Queen of Stone, crumbled. Hot, wet, salt burned my skin. I looked into the face of my enemy, and said softly:

“Thanks.”