We’ve all known each other for the past six years or so. Some of us date and break up, but still we don’t say much about it. Every year we change and become less and less like how we use to be. The one thing that never changes is our spot. It’s Rhonda’s house, her mom is kind enough to let us chill there. We all sit in the attic for hours talking about our future and how we’re going to get there. That place was sacred. If two people didn’t like each other, they could throw all the subs they wanted, but there was no fighting.
We all pitched in to buy furniture for the attic, two green couches that are now stained with grease and bud ashes. We also bought a new lamp after Johnny broke the old one trying to prove to us that he could do karate. The attic had one window which was always left open because there was no air otherwise. It was five dollars every time we went to the attic; the money was used to purchase weed and pizza. Rhonda’s mom knew that we all smoked and allowed us to smoke in the house so we wouldn’t get in trouble outside.
We all felt close enough to someone to be able to talk freely amongst ourselves Noah and I made an effort to sit next to each other every time we went to Rhonda’s. He’s been my best friend since 6th grade, sometimes I feel like we can tell what the others thinking. We can have a conversation without even talking, we would look at each other and burst out laughing when everyone else wonders what was so funny. Our place may not look like much to people. It was built of stained furniture and empty old boxes of pizza by a bunch of kids who have high hopes of the future but are afraid of change. We enjoy each other’s company but we won’t stay in touch. Our friendships were built off of shared drugs and high school. As high school slowly comes to an end, with that bit of nostalgia in the air, our group dissolves like an old puddle of rain.