When I was a kid I lived in the area of Long beach that is now called Zaferia. Back then we called it 11th st by the McDonald’s. My parents lived within a mile of each other and shared custody of me. In the time of “every other weekend” dads, my parents had a fairly progressive arrangement with each having me 50% of the time.
In fourth grade I had one friend, Sonya. She was an only child too, and lived with her single mom. When I was with my dad she would walk the two blocks to my house so we could play. She loved to listen to Journey and I loved to sing along with my parent’s Beatles records. We pretended we were in High School. I learned important things from Sonya like how highschool girls carry their books to their chests and boys hold them in one hand to their side. We pretended that we had boyfriends, or families. We made things together and shared Barbies. There was a game called MASH and with only a pencil and paper one could predict who you would marry, how many children you would have and whether you would live in a Mansion Apartment Shack or House, thus the name MASH.
Our friendship continued until 6th grade when girls were sorted by boobs and nice clothes, I had neither. Then, the quintessential mean girl, Lisa transferred to Willard Elementary. She had beautiful curly hair and wore Keds, Guess jeans and Esprit shirts…the cool girl uniform of the 80s. She was as creative as she was cruel, having the other girls for sleepovers where they crank called me while covering old aerosol spray cans with home made labels. Sonya joined their ranks as one of my tormentors as they pretended to disinfect everything I went near at school with homemade “Mel Away Spray”.
After a long and lonely 6th grade year I went to Jefferson Junior High, where Lisa moved on to control a group of popular girls and Sonya wasn’t there. I found both a niche and a shield in humor while at Jefferson. With a larger pool of kids, and an ability to make them laugh I was able to carve out a seat at a table with a group of friends everyday for lunch.
One day during my 8th grade year I saw Sonya walking through the hall with her books clutched to her chest, a nervous new student. I invited her to join us at lunch. At our table that day she told us about her boyfriend. She had keychains dangling from her backpack and she shuffled through them to show us a small photo pressed into a plastic frame. She detached it and passed it around the table proudly. The photo was of 14 year old Sonya smiling into the camera from a couch. Beside her with his arm draped across her shoulders was an adult man. His grin peeked from behind a full mustache.
Our expressions dropped one by one as we looked at the photo and thought the same thing. We would gossip about it later, about how gross it was. We knew it was wrong but no one suggested telling someone. Sonya joined us a few more times, then drifted off to a new group of friends and then disappeared entirely.
When Facebook was new I tried to find her but I could not remember how to spell her last name and we were not connected by anyone.
It was the summer of 2019 when I received a Facebook message from her.
is this the same melanie that went to willard?
yes!!! It’s me I totally remember you!!! Wow! It’s so nice to hear from you! I’ve thought about you so much
I tried looking you up but I couldn’t sound out your last name
lol i think about you everytime mcdonals mc ribs come out. You loved those as a kid.
You look the same lol any kids? married? is your dad still with us?
I loved those! My middle age gut can’t take them anymore! my dad died in 2012 my mom is still kicking
I’ve been married for 13 years I have an 11 year old daughter and a 27 year old stepson who I love
Things are good right now who are you these days?? I have a feeling if we sat and talked (I hope we do)
we would have a lot in common.
Awww, sorry about your dad..he was always so cool.
I remember his girlfriend showed us her playgirl
Magazines. She had red hair what was her name?
Sharon! Oh my god how totally inappropriate I don’t remember that incident but I do remember
Seeing a playgirl too early I also remember her canceling her subscription because they had a black
guy in the centerfold. I guess she was a racist and a perv
Omg horrible…yeah we were just like…ok can we go ride bikes now?
Sonya continued.
can i be honest with you?
of course
three blue dots
There are three blue dots that fade in and out during an active chat on messenger. They blinked in that pattern for an unusually long period of time while I waited for her reply.
three blue dots
As they faded in and out I thought. “Is she still typing?”
three blue dots
What in the world does she have to say at this point?
three blue dots
I grew more uncomfortable as a minute passed, maybe two or five. This whole interaction had caught me off guard. Of course there was the creepy playgirl flashback. What was I in for now?
Three blue dots
I became protective over my memories and my dad. What could she possibly say?
Three blue dots
I typed things like
Hey, are you there?
What’s going on?
Are you writing a book?
Each time I deleted it instead of hitting send.
Finally, her message arrived.
my childhood was shit to be honest im still in therapy…lol
yeah, me too
my mom was a big meth head
yeah, me too
like after we left LB she started selling me in bars
oh…
Then the messages told Sonya’s story. Her’s was a story of a child growing up being abused by everyone around her. She shared the obstacles created by that exploitation and suffering, early pregnancy, addiction, domestic abuse, she had even spent some time in a cult. My heart pounded while I read what she had been through. Not knowing what to say I continued to read her messages and tell her how sorry I am that she suffered so much.
She assured me that she was in a good place right then, newly married, clean for 5 years and an artist. She shared a few of her paintings. There was a small oil painting of Holly Hobby surrounded by hearts and another of a smiling mermaid with a pink tail.
After our chat I couldn’t stop thinking about Sonya. I thought about her story, and her childlike paintings. I thought about where our stories aligned and where they diverged. Over the years I have pat myself on the back for overcoming my own obstacles and breaking a cycle of addiction and abuse. I have congratulated myself for getting educated, and being a mindful parent. As I laid on my bed, safely in my own home, I tried to find the difference between Sonya and I. I told myself that the difference between us was that I recognized the danger when I was young and had the sense to get out. I must have avoided that kind of abuse because I was astute, brave, and strategic. Those self righteous words soured in my gut and made me sick. I couldn’t rest.
I ran my own story in my head. The 50/50 arrangement ended because I didn’t like my step-mom and I thought my own mom needed me. By the time Sonya had left Long Beach I was living with my mom full time.
I remember the scene at home changing when the strangers started coming around. My mom’s friends were getting younger, they were somewhere between her age and mine. Men would try to hold my attention while hugging her, or wink and blow me kisses when she looked away. I didn’t like the way they looked at me. I was astute. I was brave. I was in danger.
Then,
I called my dad.
I called my dad and he answered.
I called my dad, he answered and he asked me to come home.
By the end of that weekend I was rolling my eyes at my step-mother in the safety of my dad’s house.
The only difference between Sonya and I was that I had a place to go.