A girl from my high school died. While crossing the street at the Jersey shore, she was struck and killed by a car.
She was one of those girls who had everything going for her. She was beautiful, compassionate, and talented. She was also a far better writer than I will ever be.
We were not friends, per se. She was two years younger than I. We shared one class together (if Choir is even considered a class). We also shared a handful of mutual friends. I did happen to see her a month or so before her untimely death. She came up to the ice cream store where I still worked, after a decade.
“Oh my God, you still work here?” she asked, echoing the words of so many other people I know.
“No, I just wear the uniform and scoop people ice cream for fun.”
She offered a sarcastic, yet cheery laugh, then said “I’m sorry.” It was unclear to me if she was apologetic for asking an obvious question or if she actually felt sorry for my life situation.
The rest of the conversation consisted merely of