THE FRENEMY

Istarted high school the same way people start uni: ready to be someone new. I felt older than my years, itching to be in a bigger pond, even if it made me a small fish. I didn’t care; I wanted out. Mostly I wanted to be cool. I ached to be cool in the way that not-very-cool people often do. There were a lot of obstacles in my way. Pimples that had started to form on my cheeks. Hair that had, my whole life, been poker-straight, now sprung into curls. I grew boobs. My parents were getting divorced. I was a walking, talking Baby-sitters Club plot. I was also a huge nerd. On my ninth birthday, my mum asked (for the fourth year in a row) if I wanted a bike. Nope. An atlas, please. (I still have it; it’s awesome.)

So when I got to high school, I knew things would be different. I would be different. It started with new friends. Only a few kids from my primary school were going on to the same high school, which worked in my favour; hardly anyone would know the real me. When I met Casey*, I knew she was The One. She was cool. She was tall and pretty and thin. She did physie and netball – the Australian dream. She was devastated her Year 6 boyfriend was going to the

“Casey was not as I remembered her: she was normal. After all my worry that Casey had rejected me for not being cool enough, we’d turned out surprisingly similar”

local state school, not the Catholic school we went to. I took this news with a little comfort – no boyfriend meant more time for me. (It was a little fucked up, but who cares? I had a dancing, goalshooting, boyfriend-having friend! I was this close to being cool.)

We were best friends for a year. Matching necklaces, sleepovers, the whole thing. We even had matching crushes: Casey had posters of Jonathan Taylor Thomas on her walls and I had the weird older guy who played his brother on Home Improvement. See! We were perfect for each other. So when February of Year 8 rolled around, I couldn’t wait to see Casey again. She lived about 45 minutes from me, so we’d only seen each other a few times over the holidays. I walked to “our spot”, the place where we’d shared countless Le Snaks. Casey was there – with three other girls. “Hi,” she said, still smiling. She introduced me to the girls. They’d been to netball camp together over the summer. I’d never even held a netball; how could I compete? In a matter of days, Casey had chosen the new girls and I was, like so many kids in high school, set adrift. I found new friends after a while, and to this day, they’re among my best.

On Christmas Eve in 2012, I had a baby girl. When I posted the happy news on Facebook, I got an unexpected message. From Casey. “Hey, Lauren – congrats!” it read. “I had a baby girl last week, too. Let’s catch up.” I was apprehensive but curious. Who had Casey turned out to be? Was she as cool as I remembered? Did her husband look like JTT?

We met a few times in the stinking-hot summer of 2013, carefully timing wine between breastfeeds. Casey was not as I remembered her: she was normal. She was exactly like me. She was a young mum who didn’t really have a clue what she was doing. One time, we turned up wearing the same pants. After all my worry that Casey had rejected me for not being cool enough, we had turned out surprisingly similar.

One day, after two glasses of afternoon wine, I felt ready to tell Casey how hurt I’d been that she had cut off our friendship. Her face fell. “What? What do you mean?” She listened as I told her how upset I’d been that she had found new friends and chosen them over me. Casey was dumbfounded. “I didn’t choose them over you; you got new friends. I wanted us all to be friends.”

“Oh,” I said. “I was worried that I wasn’t cool enough to be your friend. I thought you wanted me to play netball or something.”

Casey laughed and smiled. “No offence, hon, but I don’t think trying to play netball would make you look cooler. You were fine the way you were.”

Casey and I have drifted apart – again – but we catch up from time to time, mainly on Facebook to swap photos of our girls. At 31, I’m no longer concerned with being cool (mainly because I know that, quite definitively, I am not) but I do worry about my insecurities interfering with potentially great friendships. I mean, who knows what might have happened if Casey and I had remained friends? I might have got a boyfriend before the age of 19. I might have lasted more than one lesson of physie. I might have made a great wing defence. We’ll never know.