Connection

Magnolia Yang

It was the first time our friendship had shown signs of unravelling.

Alistair walked ahead of me. All I could see of him was the back of his slight body and the solitary shadow that extended behind it. On a normal day, we’d have been walking home alongside each other. But we were on no-talking terms then. We had fought over something stupid. So stupid that now, neither of us could recall the origin of the feud. Yet, at the time, during the sultry heat of summer—sticky asphalt smacking beneath our shoes, warm air blowing against our sweat-slicked skin—the weather hadn’t helped to improve our mood. We maintained a heavy distance between one another, like Earth and Moon, in orbit, but still far apart.

I had been so focused on Alistair that when he turned around, I almost jumped. He looked at me. A glimmer flashed across his eyes. A wave of hope surged inside me. Was that a look of forgiveness I had seen?

Soft laughter escaped Alistair’s lips, a smile playing across them, and finally he beckoned me over with a wave of his hand. The weight of guilt that had hung over me the entire afternoon lifted from my shoulders. I dashed to Alistair.

‘I thought you were mad at me,’ I told him.

‘Mad at my best friend?’ he scoffed. ‘Never.’

*

I had forgotten the part of our past when one of my classmates asked me what I thought of Alistair. We were waiting outside of our homeroom class one morning. Alistair usually arrived right on the bell, but he wasn’t there yet. Apparently, he had snitched on some guys in our grade for smoking weed in the boys’ locker room.

I knew this was untrue right away. Alistair had told me about the incident himself: someone else had told the teacher, then panicked knowing the perpetrators would probably jump them, so, Alistair decided to take the blame instead. I told him he was a dumbass for doing so, but he had shrugged at me, unbothered. He thought nothing of it.

None of this information would have mattered though, because already several insults were being thrown around by classmates listening in.

‘Teacher’s pet.’

‘Buzzkill.’

They were mean words, but nothing too harsh. Then the insults began to pick up in intensity.

‘Alistair should go and drink some bleach.’

I hung my head low and stared at my phone screen hard. The need to defend my best friend was overwhelmed by the embarrassment of being associated with him. Just ignore them, I thought to myself.

Then, my classmate turned to me. ‘Lawrence, what do you think about Alistair?’

My silence must have been deafening because all eyes were on me now.

The wall of watchers pressed in on me. It was only a handful of classmates waiting for my response, but in that moment, it felt like a thousand cameras focused on my every move. Their stares did not falter. They were unflinching, on my lips, waiting for a response to form. I didn’t like all the attention that was on me.

I blurted out something that would appease them and make them move on. I said: ‘Sometimes I wonder why people like Alistair are even born.’

It was in no way a Freudian slip, a glimpse into how I truly felt, but it must have seemed this way to the others. Looking back at it now, I wished I hadn’t said it at all.

The hallway immediately silenced, as though somebody had hit a mute button. Then, a classmate nudged me in the arm and told me to turn around.

Alistair was standing behind me.

Our gazes aligned, pinpointing, a compass needle to magnetic north. The eyes of my classmates were no longer on me; they looked away. But I didn’t care for them anymore anyway—only Alistair was looking at me right now. And he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His eyes screamed one thing: you’ve hurt me.

I reached out for him. ‘Alistair—’

Alistair pushed past me, escaping my desperate grasp.

*

Thinking that a few hours of class could erase my mistake, that a couple confusing hours learning about quantum theory could make Alistair forget it all, I went back to our usual lunch spot under the jacaranda tree. I waited. I paced around. I traced the tree’s roots with the heel of my shoe. But time passed. The jacaranda tree wept several mauve flowers, fragile petals decorating my hair. Yet, I was still alone.

*

 Avoiding each other would have been the preferable option, but living on the same street prevented us from doing so. Our after-school travels were the same, for the most part. Being around each other was inevitable.

‘Alistair!’ I called out. ‘There you are. Have you been avoiding me? I didn’t see you in class. Did you go to the sick room or something?’

He ignored me. Gave me the cold shoulder.

‘Are you still mad about what I said?’

Silence.

I placed my nervous hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, c’mon. It isn’t that big of a deal. Stop being such a—’

Alistair whipped around and snatched me by the collar. His knuckles tightened, locking me in his hold.

‘I couldn’t care less about the whole world being against me, but you… I thought we were friends Lawrence.’ With a trembling voice, Alistair repeated the sentence I had said earlier in the day. ‘“Sometimes I wonder why people like Alistair are even born.” Is that what you really think of me? You’d rather wish I was dead? Out of your life? What did I do wrong?’

I couldn’t find it in me to say anything. The words had been stripped out of my throat and thrown away. Instead, I just looked back at Alistair.

I could see it reflected in the darkness of his eyes—an invisible thread woven from shared memories. Our raucous laughter ringing clear above the crowds; the soles of our scuffed shoes pounding against the dirt when we raced; Alistair waiting outside the classroom when I was stuck in detention; Alistair sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, picking at loose gravel as he listened to my problems.

But the thread had come undone on my end. It no longer bound Alistair and me.

Alistair must have realised this too because he released his hold on me. ‘Forget it.’

I staggered back into a metal fence. Pointed wires scraped my skin.

‘Why didn’t you hit me?’ I asked. ‘Don’t you have anything else to say? About how much you hate me? Come on!’

I wanted Alistair to strike me. To pummel me with the weight of cruel and unforgiving words, not the shakiness of heartbreak and betrayal. I wished he could free me from these shackles of shame. I wanted his hate to cancel out mine. Yet, Alistair wouldn’t allow me to taste such relief.

He turned his back on me. I hadn’t noticed how broad his shoulders had become.

‘I’m not like you,’ he answered.

With our final exchange complete, Alistair picked up his bag and walked down the alley. His figure grew smaller and smaller—like ice melting in the palm of my hands—the farther he got away from me. Any last chance of mending our bond, the thread that once held us together, slipped between my fingers. Eventually, he was gone.

And not once did he look back.

Author: Magnolia Yang is a writer from Meanjin (Brisbane). She is a secondary education and creative writing student at QUT. Her writing can be found on ScratchThat Magazine, and she has read her work at the Freshblood Festival. If she isn’t watching anime, she’s probably watching an anime video essay.

Artist: Phoenix Sunrider (they/she) is an aspiring author with several works in the making. They love all kinds of animals, and add as many as possible into all their works, whether that be high fantasy, magical realism, or even fan fiction. They currently have no social media platforms, but hope to develop some when more works become completed.

Edited by Jemma Green