Twenty-Five Years Ago Today Read Online Free Page A

apart, Kris and Nicole had
grown up in the same neighborhood. Kris tried picturing the happy
times, like kindergarten. She'd been shy back then and would
whisper in Nicole's ear. Another cookie, more crayons, whatever she
wanted, she counted on Nicole to be her voice.
    After school, Aunt Susan would fix snacks as
Kris, Holly and Nicole entertained themselves. They'd space kitchen
chairs into rows and play Airline. Holly took the pilot seat while
Kris and Nicole served each other baggies of peanuts.
    Unbidden, the memories were replaced with the
image of Nicole in her beige crepe casket, high-necked blue velvet
dress covering the rope grooves.
    Kris had stared at the mahogany coffin, numb,
afraid there might have been a mistake. What if Nicole wasn't dead,
but in a deep sleep. What if she were buried alive? Kris had stood
against the Pepto-Bismol pink wall of the funeral home, praying
Nicole would sit up in the casket. She promised God that she'd be a
good person if only Nicole would awaken.
    Her head had fogged at the sickly sweet
perfume of orchids. Nicole would have hated the cloying scent. She
couldn't pass a flower garden without triggering her allergies. Her
nose would twitch and she'd give three muffled sneezes, quiet as a
kitten.
    But Nicole didn't sneeze. Allergies would
never bother her again.
    Kris had run out of the funeral parlor and
hugged her knees on the front step. Her mother followed and crossed
her arms over her black dress. "I told you not to come. I went to
my mother's wake when I was four, and it was no place for a
child."
    Holly had stayed home for the calling hours.
Kris begged her father to attend, and he convinced her mother. She
needed to tell Nicole goodbye in person, to apologize for the
secret she could never reveal, not even to her parents.
    Kris shivered. The memory rolled toward her
like an icy wave, numbing her insides. She couldn't hold it back.
She could never hold it back.
    ***
    Kris looked up at the gray stormclouds,
hoping she and Nicole would make it home before the rain. The last
bus pulled out of the school parking lot and disappeared around the
corner.
    It would've been nice if she and Nicole lived
on the bus route, but they had to walk three blocks, except for the
times Aunt Susan took pity and played chauffeur in her station
wagon. Aunt Susan had gone out with a friend, leaving her and
Nicole to fend for themselves.
    Meredith Ames crossed the road in her denim
jacket and miniskirt. She sidled up to them on the sidewalk, her
auburn curls bobbing. "Hi, Nikki."
    Her Texas drawl reminded Kris of melted
butter, smooth, the kind of voice that never stammered. Kris
scuffed her sneakers in the dirt. She never knew what to say around
Meredith, the most popular girl in seventh grade. Meredith had
moved to town six months ago.
    Beaming, Nicole shifted her bookbag to her
other shoulder. "Hi, Meredith."
    "I'm having a birthday party next Friday
night. My mom's letting me have boys over. Can you come?"
    Nicole's big hazel eyes magnified behind her
glasses. "I'd love to. Thanks."
    Kris's breathing quickened. Nicole must have
forgotten the plan for next Friday, Chinese food with their
parents, then a movie. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out,
her tongue dry as sandpaper.
    "Cool," Meredith said. "Donnie Hastings will
be there."
    "Donnie Hastings? He's cute."
    "I know. I'm gonna play music so we can
dance." Meredith examined the braids that fell to Nicole's
shoulders. "The girls are sleeping over afterwards. Could I curl
your hair? I'll bet it would look good."
    "That'd be great. I'm tired of braids."
    Meredith clapped. "A makeover. How fun." She
turned to Kris. "You're invited to my party, too."
    Heat rushed to Kris's face. She couldn't
dance with boys. She’d look like a female Pinocchio bouncing around
with her strings pulled.
    "I ... I can't make it," Kris mumbled.
    "Oh, that's too bad. Well, I've got to get
home, y'all. See you, Nicole." Meredith strolled in the