Katie (far right) and I(second from the right) met at a summer camp up in the mountains, the camp I fondly refer to as the Little Christian Overachiever's Camp. No, "fondly" isn't sarcasm, I really loved it. I could show off my freakishly good memorization skills to the cute boys, flawlessly rattling off scripture verses, in hopes of catching the eye of some cute overachiever boy who might then ask me to the banquet the last night.
Katie and I had our eye on the same cute boy, Luke (third from the right), and rather than fight over him, we bonded over our hopeless crushes.
How flatteringly transparent we must have been to him, Kates. *giggle* And I always loved you for not showing the tiniest smidge of bitterness when he asked me to the banquet, and if you were just hiding it well, you'll be glad to know I felt so bad I really didn't enjoy myself much.
Look at us, KatieK. Remember the everpresent scrunchie phase? Your white one there on your arm (I used to wonder how you kept it so CLEAN) and my black one that's on the arm you can't see here. I'm certain of that. It was always on that wrist.
And of course, the navel hospital, where we were the first to arrive when we heard his spleen had burst. *nudge* Say, was I the only one who made note of the fact that he wasn't wearing underwear when he tugged at the scrubs to show us his incision? *reminiscent sigh* Even today I remember that innocent little patch of hip. It was surprisingly tan. *raised eyebrow*
What were we? 14? 15?
I still have that first letter you sent me, written the day after camp, were we bemoaned the cruelty of human existance, that every single day of our lives couldn't be spent in the pine scented air of Little Christian Overachiever Camp, our natural home and birthright, oh the humanity!
The letters turned into spending weekends at each others' houses so often that got mail there. And speaking of mail, remember the photo Christmas cards we sent out that one year?
I apologise for the quality, but that's us, on the car, on my horse Snicker, at that banquet at my school. Remember when I stabbed you in the back of the head with a hairpin while we were getting ready for that banquet? You prolly still have the scar. Remember all the matching outfits, singing "Any Man of Mine," The Blue Castle (which went on be my favorite book of all time), chick flick marathons, the late night whispering confidences about boys, school, and the future.
It's funny the things you remember. I remember how your lipstick always had such a high slant, the little statues you collected, "Hi, we're on a scavenger hunt, do you have a diving board? Well, can I have it? No? Well, then, do you have a BBQ? Can I have it? BUT EVERYONE ELSE HAS ONE!" I remember being in awe of the fact that you were learning latin. And of course, our determined insistance that we were really the Harbottle twins, Esmerelda and Gertrude, separated at birth by our CIA spy parents, for our own protection.
I'm missed you, Katie K. What do you remember?
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