Hive Ave Fall2024 - Flipbook - Page 20
Hive Avenue Literary Journal
Non-Fiction
admit. Instead of befriending other women, I would run with
the boys. Speci昀椀cally, the intellectual boys, the ones that enjoyed
discussing Marxist theory, or being adventurous, or laughing as
loud as they wanted - heedless, unbound joys I had decided took
no part in the strict and unruly Girl World. Other girls seemed
to have rules I couldn’t commit to: never wanting to get dirty,
never confronting another person directly, always wary of feeling embarrassed. As if ashamed of our existence. How could I
possibly 昀椀t in with them?
My new best friend seemed to think so, too. That’s why
we were so close.
*
*
*
I would guess the leaks on the 昀氀oorboard became
noticeable during our senior year, when I volunteered to wave
the Mexican 昀氀ag during the ceremony for Independence Day
- something a girl at my school had never done before. It was
considered a boy’s job. I convinced my Spanish teacher, who
nodded and assured me: “Sure. Why not? Women can be presidents, too.” During the assembly, I waved the 昀氀ag proudly, and
when the applause came after the famous Mexican “Grito” of
Independence, I glowed from the inside out.
During lunch, my best friend sat beside me with a satis昀椀ed smile. “Aren’t you glad I gave you that idea?”
I blinked at her, my sandwich pausing mid-air. “What
idea?”
ships. Nothing could be more true of female friendships, where
the mainstream media constantly pits us against each other to see who is the prettiest, who is the smartest, who can get the
most attention from men.
It’s di昀케cult to not let the messaging get to you. It starts
small, with sayings like “Girls are more drama, anyway; I’d rather
hang out with the boys”. Then it leads to ostracizing a girl from
your friend group, just because she poses a threat to your ego.
Or to sleeping with another woman’s husband, just to prove
you can.
Being malicious to another woman is like hurting yourself. The woman in front of you is a mirror. She re昀氀ects both
your greatest achievements and your greatest insecurities.
In昀氀icting her pain is self-昀氀agellation. It is self-loathing.
The self-loathing has di昀昀erent fonts, but they are all
self-loathing. The woman who smiles and secretly stabs her
friends in the back loathes herself just as much as the pretentious, self-aggrandizing woman who thinks she is better than
everyone else, speci昀椀cally better than other women. It oozes
out of us in di昀昀erent ways, but when we self-loathe, we are all
trapped in the same cage. We are all performing for the same
circus.
And the audience of men laugh gladly, enjoying the
performance.
*
“To be the 昀椀rst girl at school to wave the 昀氀ag.”
*
*
I didn’t know what she was talking about. I had coined
the idea by myself a month ago, when I told an entire table of
friends that I would be brave enough to volunteer myself.
After our high school graduation, we went to di昀昀erent
universities. That didn’t keep us from texting every other week,
though. During our 昀椀rst summer together after a year of studies, I invited her over to watch movies. I was planning a pool
party for my birthday, sending invitations to all my friends. I
remember feeling giddy and excited; I hadn’t seen them in a
long time.
I gulped down my food. As much as I loved her, I wouldn’t
let her get away with such a blatant lie. “Please tell me you’re
joking.”
“You know that whole group of girls hates you,” my best
friend said as I texted a friend in common, Sophie.
My heart nearly stopped. “What do you mean?”
But she wasn’t. She stormed o昀昀 and didn’t talk to me for
three days. Eventually, her silent treatment melted away, and
she began texting me again about a boy she had a crush on. We
avoided the conversation altogether. The best friend I knew had
returned, but the prickly sensation of wrongness from that situation stayed with me.
She 昀氀ipped her hair and grabbed a Coca-Cola from the
freezer. “Yeah, they said they’d only come to the party because
of the alcohol. But they hate your ass.”
To this day, if you were to ask her, she would say that idea
had been hers.
“She hates you the most,” my best friend repeated.
My eyebrows threaded together. “That was my idea,
actually.”
“Um, no it wasn’t. I remember telling you to do it.”
*
*
*
Much has been said about female friendships. The concept of “female friendships” either 昀椀lls a woman with images
of care and comfort - bakeries stu昀昀ed with warm croissants,
laughter from across the room - or it sends a shiver of pure
horror down her spine. It depends on which woman you ask.
The modern world often denies us real, intimate friend20
I was at a loss for what to say. These had been my musical
theater friends, the ones who had shown me the ins and outs of
school life. Sophie, in particular, had been my 昀椀rst friend there.
I texted Sophie with anger-riddled paragraphs. I cringe
every time I think about them now. You pretended to be my
friend. How dare you? She said she didn’t know what I was talking
about and that maybe I should check my sources. That comment only angered me more, to the point of disinviting her and
the other girls from the party. Was Sophie suggesting my best
friend was lying to me? She couldn’t be. The girl whom I stood
up for at any opportunity, whom I’d kicked people who made
