Emma Bradley
Yearning for Ariana to Come Back
We hid behind the couch and up the stairwell
We ran in the dark but we couldn’t go all the way to the creek
But I can’t say hi
No oh no
Because they call her Ari
Her name is Ariana
I called her Ariana
How can I start a conversation
I want to call her what she wants to be called
But I can’t bring myself
My Ariana from the trampoline
My Ariana from tanning on the tennis court
From jumping into the sand from the roof of the play structure one friend checking that the parents aren’t looking
I can’t say hi
I don’t know how to say her name
My best friend
Ariana
I wore a turquoise tankini. Ariana had a mismatched blue cheetah print bikini with white bottoms. We ran from the pool to the tennis court. Our moms would yell “walk” as our feet landed on the white cement by the poolside. We laid together on the right side of the tennis court atop our towels. I was seven and she was eight. We were inseparable.
Elementary school had its issues, but we spent most weekends together. Middle school was tricky, and we grew apart. It wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They called her Ari. Her name was Ariana. Since we were three and four years old her name was Ariana. Playing by the creek and running through the grass, her name was Ariana. On the trampoline trying to teach me how to flip, her name was Ariana. Riding our bikes and meeting in the middle, her name was Ariana.
She made new friends. She snickered with them in the halls. They called her Ari. She wrote her name on a bathroom stall in some bar, but I would never know because I’ve never met an Ari.
I knew a girl named Ariana. We put a shirt on her dog. At Ariana’s house, I tried homemade ice cream. I caught my first fish on Ariana’s dad’s boat. Ariana and I played with play-makeup, and I told her I wasn’t allowed to share eyeshadow. My parents worried I could get pink eye. Ariana gave me a special antique book box for my 12th birthday. It was the best gift I’ve ever been given.
It is strange.
She doesn’t know me anymore, and I do not know her. I see her in pictures her mom posts, and I’d like to talk to her. But I don’t know her name. I cannot call the girl I played mermaids with Ari. It won’t come out. We played manhunt with the kids across the street from her house. We went on treacherous missions in the creek. We shared our secrets thinking we had them. We watched stupid movies, and we thought they were perfect. I don’t know how to watch them anymore. It's not the same.
Emma Bradley is a current student studying English and Creative Writing with a minor in Sociology. She has been writing since she was a child, and she loves to play chess and spend time with her cats.