Today for lunch I made fried Ramen.
Not the fried Ramen that Emily F. used to make us on those lazy afternoons after school at Parkway, but a healthier version (as if you could make Ramen healthy.) As I heated the oil and sauteed my bell peppers I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. All of the sudden I was smelling real butter sizzling in the pan, instead of the olive oil I was heating, and feeling that rush of steam coming from straining the water from the soup. In place of our kitchen was the crowded kitchen in Emily’s grandmother’s house. The kitchen so tiny the four of us couldn’t stand in it at once.
Sudden flashes of pubescent teenage bodies bordering on the edge of womanhood, a table full of theatre supplies, the smell of acrylic paint and brand new t-shirts, jokes about physics class, rants about family - the things that are high school. And the sound of sizzling butter - a real treat for me because we weren’t allowed to have it in our house. And the rush of steam as I strain the gigantic pot of Ramen over the sink.
The steam from the pot is so distracting that I don’t quite hear Emily, Cayla and Erin talking about the tshirts we were making. The loud hiss drowns out the slogan Emily is proposing to me.
“What?” I ask her.
Almost exasperated at my seemingly lack of attention Emily rolls her eyes as she cooks and says again “What does every stage crew need? …a good grip.”
I guess my blank look hinted my confusion.
“Think about what we learned in theatre last year. A grip - you know, a person who moves scenery around a stage.”
“Yeah, that’s cool.” Thats all I manage to say as I watch Cayla and Erin sitting at the table fussing with the shirts.
I feel strangely at ease, but sort of left out. A common feeling that carries over to this day.
For a moment we are just teenagers. Forget the fact that in a few months we will be going to different colleges. Little did we know that in a few years we will only talk once a year - at Christmas. We never could have guessed that a mere 6 years later we will not talk at all.
This afternoon we are just friends running through the theatrical production coming up. We are discussing light cues and scene changes. We are laughing at the ridiculous songs the cast will sing. We are wondering how we will make up the missed physics class period that we will have to suck up because of the elementary school productions.
We are painting white letters on black shirts and eating fried Ramen.
Life couldn’t be any better than this.
Where did that go?
Long ago are the days of fried Ramen and theatre.
Long past are giggling conversations in a way too small house.
Today I don’t even know Emily’s new last name. She got married a few years back before finishing college. I met her husband once at a Christmas party. It was the last one she came to. Her hair was short and straight - a far cry from the shoulder length spirals she wore her hair in in school. She wore spike heeled boots and a revealing top. A far different Emily than I remembered who made us fried Ramen and giggled with us in the steam filled kitchen.
Cayla lives somewhere far away from here with her step-dad and step-mom. Last I heard she was still in an on-again, off-again relationship with her high school sweatheart. I don’t know if any of that is true, but I pray all is well with her.
Erin lives down the road still, in the same house she’s lived in since middle school. I don’t see her though and it makes me sad because I miss her. I wonder when she and her boyfriend are going to get married. I know she’s an aunt now and that she loves her neice. I see her sisters around town every once in awhile and I hear little tid bits about her life but nothing from her in almost a year. I try to pick up the phone and call from time to time, but I chicken out every time.
I guess I’m still afraid that we’ll get to talking and I’ll feel that weird type of acceptance where I’m still left out - much like the afternoons we spent eating the fried Ramen that Emily so sweetly made us.
