A Girl That I Used to Know

Belle O'Hara

I once knew a girl who had a scar on the right side of her bony nose—a deep red circle from her glasses nose pads. It’s what she’d tell people when they asked for a fun fact. She thought it was the most interesting thing about her.  

I once knew a girl who hit her growth spurt early. She towered over her classmates, including the boys. It made her feel like a boy. She tried to be smaller by forcing her shoulders to the ground. Her back morphed into the letter “S”, a snake that betrayed her. A male classmate once asked her why she had more arm hair than he did.  

I once knew a girl who had blonde hair. She rolled her khaki skirt too many times. Sitting behind her you could see her shoulder blades leaning in for a kiss periodically. I saw her present in class once, it sounded like she was crying.  

I once knew a girl who lived for others' happiness. Every day she would shuffle to the locker room after school, and trade her crested button-down shirt for a reversible jersey. She ran up and down the court, up and down the court, up and down the court. Her coach told her she could play next level if she tried hard enough. That was all she ever did.  

Tried.

I used to know all these girls very well because they used to be me. They still are me—but I’ll never be them again. Sometimes I think of them as lost friends, girls I left on good terms with and whom I look back on warmly. Other times I think of them as enemies, lurking in the shadows awaiting my eminent downfall, waiting to get their revenge on me for betraying them. I think all of them look at me with a tinge of anger—they never thought they would be replaced. They all thought they’d be me forever, laughing at the girl they sent to the sidelines, never thinking it would be them. Now they all sit in severance, waiting for the next transition, waiting for the girl I am now to get dethroned.  

I try to defend myself against them, ripping them apart. My cruel attempt at a power play.  

Why would she wear that?  

She looks fat.  

Why would she say that? 

Her smile looks dumb.  

These girls have no way of talking back to me—they’re defenseless. But sometimes I imagine what our interactions would be like, what they’d think of me now. Would they recognize me? I like to imagine nine-year-old me would look at me with pride, she dreamed of being an author and designer. 14-year-old me would probably look at me with confusion, you don’t live in New York? I don’t like to imagine what 17-year-old me would think. I worry she’d look at me with disgust upon the realization that I will not be graduating with a doctorate or any science-related degree. I know 19-year-old me would be proud that I found friends and love.   

As I get older my awareness of these girls grows—just as my awareness of time passing grows. Next year I’ll be popping the comfort of my university bubble. I still remember the girl I used to be when I stepped into this bubble, I can’t seem to grasp the fact I will not be the girl I am today in a year. I worry what 21-year-old me will think about myself in one year. Two years. Ten.   

I claim that all these girls are from my past, but really, they’re always present with me. Sometimes I catch a glance of them in the mirror or see them in the audience when my voice shakes. I pass these girls on the street, in class, at parties, in private. I carry all their baggage, all their anxieties, all their fears. It’s heavy—I can feel the pressure pushing down on my shoulders. But I also carry their memories, their joy, their passions. I would not trade those for the world.  

Edited by Kate Castello