Parasocial Summer

I first met Aviva the day after my eighth-grade graduation. My middle school liked to make a big show of the whole event. We got caps and gowns and embellished diplomas. I loved every second of it. 

That day, I had made plans with Sophie, and we met on the Great Lawn of Central Park. Her friends were all sophomores, and I felt out of place, being the only one still sort of in middle school. That wasn’t the only way I felt out of place. I hated how my body looked. Their lips were round and pink, without the layers of lip liner and gloss I relied on. They could wear cropped t-shirts without 

having to worry about how their stomachs looked, without sucking in. Their noses to the side were simple straight ski slopes, while mine was a bunny hill, bent and turned. 

The girls around me smoked casually. I was in awe. The year before, there had been a group of eighth graders who would smoke a block away from school, and I would pass them and pretend to silently judge them when I would so much rather have stood with them. They all went to Laguardia High School and spoke about experiences I could never imagine. 

At the back of their conversations was the name Aviva. But it was never good: “Aviva was so hitting on Indigo.” “She needs to get her act together.” “It’s just embarrassing.” Finally, the woman of the hour showed up. She carried a fancy digital camera that hung around her neck, her ears were pierced to the top of her ears, and her jeans were lower than the Laguardia girls’, so much so that her underwear showed. When she showed up, my self-esteem suddenly plummeted lower than I thought it could. 

I thought of Aviva as somewhat of an enigma. That’s what she was. To be honest, I never knew her that well. I knew the people around her better. I knew Sophie, gorgeous bug-eyed Sophie, who introduced me to Aviva in the first place. 

The two of them were an odd pairing. Sophie was small and always wore black, but Aviva only wore black on her nails. 

Over that summer after eighth grade, most of my thoughts drifted to her. I lay awake and stared at the ceiling in my room. I spent too much time comparing myself to her, spending more time than I’d like scrolling through her social media. 

My freshman fall, Aviva was a sophomore at Hewitt, a place where skirt length served as a social ranking for girls, as did the number of boyfriends who went to their brothers’ schools and grades. I remember seeing her randomly throughout that year. She told me she hated every second of being at that school and that no one could ever pay her to go back to that “hellhole.” 

Around the same time Aviva was suffering at Hewitt, I was a freshman at a boarding school in New Jersey. 

It felt isolating, but those weekends in New York were a lifeline. It was during one of those breaks that I saw Aviva again, this time with Sophie. 

Aviva had a new septum piercing, and she loved it. 

“Look, I can flip it up and down. My mom hates it. It’s perfect.” 

Sophie laughed. “You are so gross.”

Aviva flipped her off. “You are so jealous.” She then smirked at her friend. “It’s funny,” she said, “everyone either loves it or hates it. There’s no in-between.”

I laughed awkwardly, thinking that nothing would matter anymore if I had her confidence. No more stomach rolls and sweaty hands. What a relief that would be. 

The next day, I asked my friend Ella, who had pierced her belly button, to do my nose. I went to her place. I remember how it was getting cold, but I didn’t wear a jacket because none of the girls I knew wore jackets. Only Brandy Melville zip-ups. I wore a thin green one borrowed from Sophie. 

I sat on the floor of Ella’s bedroom with her friend Gertie. Ella sterilized the needle, while Simon and Garfunkel blasted from her phone. Gertie held my hand as Ella pierced my nose. Gertie helped me clean up my nosebleed and squeezed my hand, saying “You look badass.” I asked her if she could take a picture. I stared at it for a second and briefly considered sending it to Aviva. 

I left Ella’s apartment feeling cool and accomplished. Walking to the train station, I kept touching the top of my nose, numb from the cold metal and the harsh wind. 

Once home, I went to my room and looked at myself in the mirror. As a freshman, I was taller than most of the boys in my class, and the girls I knew were taller than me, and they were skinny. Their thighs didn’t press together awkwardly when they sat. I sucked in my stomach and looked at the mirror again. Maybe this time I would see Aviva. 

But reflections show the truth, and I didn’t like the nose ring anymore. It was obvious I was trying too hard. My jeans borrowed from Ella were too low for me. All together with the number of earrings I had on each ear, a septum piercing, and smudgy black eye makeup, I looked like a cheap knockoff. 

I didn’t think about her again until that spring when I transferred to RLS, a small therapy school on the Upper West Side. It was a nice change from boarding school, as RLS was an academic joke. The homework was light, the teachers didn’t care much, and lunch was always outside. 

I went to RLS because my cousin Ben had left his prep school and had recommended it to my parents. I had already planned to switch schools, having applied to Masters that December, and couldn’t stand my current school any longer. 

Ben was brilliant and not just someone who did well at RLS. The classes at RLS were easy; it didn’t take much to do well. Part of me was honored to spend lunch with him and his friends. But it wasn’t like that. Freshmen sitting with seniors and juniors was typical when the student body was only 80 people. 

One day in March, I asked him if he knew Aviva, as they were in the same city scene. He shrugged. 

“She goes to another therapy school. But Beekman’s like the real deal. You only go there if you get kicked out,” he said. My expression changed from curiosity to confusion. “Yeah,” he added, “She’s crazy. Stay away from her.” 

I thought about that for the rest of the day. I wanted to be her so badly. I thought she was perfect. If Aviva was crazy, and so was I, did that make me like her? The way she talked about school made it seem so easy. Her friends seemingly always had her back, people loved her, she had a new boyfriend or girlfriend every week, and she was so beautiful. And for her to be all that and then go to therapy school? Just like me?

I walked to the train station after school with Ben. I was so embarrassed; this girl, whom I knew nothing about, was why I had gotten a hidden septum, spent time with people I shouldn’t have surrounded myself with in the first place, and scrolled obsessively through her social media throughout my freshman year. 

Ben laughed, “People in high school do all that crap anyway. Don’t beat yourself up.” And suddenly, I felt a little bit better. 

“Yes, but she’s crazy,” I paused, “You said so yourself. That means I’m crazy.” 

Ben smirked. “Rach, you go to therapy school too.” He added, “You will be fine. You are going to a nice place next year, your parents care, and you have a second shot. Take advantage of that.” 

I swiped my Metro card and hugged him goodbye. He waved as I entered the station. “You are your own person. You’ll be okay, " he said. I smiled at him. Hearing the announcement that the 2 was a minute away, I raced down the subway steps to catch my train home. A couple minutes later, now sitting on the train seats, I replayed my conversation with Ben in my head. Maybe I didn’t need to try so hard. Maybe being myself was enough—not perfect, not Aviva, but still enough. 

Then the conductor’s voice interrupted my thoughts: “96th street. Please stand clear of the closing doors.” I grabbed my bag and nearly tripped on my shoes. I realized how much I needed to slow down.