She walked over the cracked pavement with delicate apprehension. The morning, deathly still, was void of sound. The sky was the color of flamingo feathers, pasted unnaturally in the sky. The sun shimmied its way into view over the heavy horizon, fighting the dense trees crossing the field. A stab hit the woman’s chest as she remembered. Smiles, dewdrops, butterflies, all clouding her mind. It was autumn as well, the red leaves feathered out in front of Hegeman. She found herself running up the main driveway as if it were 17 years earlier, yet again late to class because of her friend. Tears glittered as she flew past. At last, she arrived, breathless, in front of the weathered brick building. When she went to the Stony Brook School, she remembered the girls’ dorm to be a bit shabby, and she was surprised it was still standing. Even though she was a day student, the woman remembered the building’s name well on account of the boarder she spent most of her time with. Barnhouse. Minute differences were made, keypads far more futuristic, a new plaque, and a little memorial with an even littler name inscribed on it. She pushed the lump in her throat down again, as she had done for so long. She removed a small metal insect from her pocket and rolled it in her fingers. The woman sat on the metal set of chairs and let the memories wash over her once more.

“Alice!! You are going to miss the rainbow!” The sniggering and giggling after her comment signified all of the typical teenagers running rampant in the school. I wanted to kill her right then and there, right in front of the chapel. When I told her this, Skye flippantly said, “God wouldn’t want me all over such a holy church, would he?” Her big grin told me she was poking fun at me again. God. I hate poking. Suddenly, Clarkson walked by and happily said hello to Skye. I was invisible yet again, especially to cute boys, and even more especially to ones with accents. Why could she talk to them and I couldn’t? She was fatter, probably by fifty pounds or so. She was screwed up inside, I knew her secrets. Why her? She said to me once that it was about confidence, and that I should say a hello to them sometime. Skye also said that I was a charismatic and fun person, and that I just need the guts. The thought of me talking to Ivan, let alone Ludwig, terrified me.
As Latin class began, she sat next to me, writing constantly. Skye was a fluid writer; so genuine it was as if words poured from her fingertips. She could draw too, but only with ink. Skye’s pet peeve was the feeling of chalk and graphite. It crippled her in a way, she wanted only to type instead of write on a test, and she couldn’t stand the charcoal project. I remember her squeals as she rubbed the burned bits on paper, creating beautiful lines accompanied by not so beautiful sounds. Anyway, as she wrote, she completely forgot where she was. Skye forgot the time, the place; all that mattered was that notebook. I wasn’t surprised when she began writing today. Mrs. Edelstein, our teacher, came in tempestuously, stirring the papers on even the farthest desk. She said in her heavy Austrian accent, “Class, today we learn ‘odisse’.” Her normally kind demeanor turned her 400 pounds into 500, weighted down by her anger. “Skye! Use ‘to hate’ in a Latin sentence.” My heart swelled. I felt like getting popcorn and my iPhone to put this on YouTube. Skye rose, calmly in stature, unshaken in voice. “Ego odi morte aliquid pulchra.” The words, clear and resonant as a gong, slapped me in the face. I stood, gaping, at how fast she was, at how she could just pick up any problem and solve it, come across any obstacle and overcome it. My face flushed for a second before I Febreezed any trace of my resentment. I gave Skye a reassuring smile as she sat back down. The teacher sat back down as well, completely winded. “I hate the death of something beautiful.”
Later that day, she told me she needed to talk to me. I thought little of it, and we walked up the black path past Swanson and behind Field House. Overlooking the track and the basketball court was a tiny bench made of a fallen log. It was a ways back, trees obscuring us as we sat down. As I peered into Skye’s eyes, I noticed the peculiarity about them. They were blue-grey with green and gold flecks, a tiny work of art and a miracle in the world of eye colors. It looked as if the painting in her eyes was dripping, a watercolor. I’d never seen her cry. Skye had the look of a small puppy, innocent and helpless, and I immediately was repulsed. How dare she cry? She had friends, good grades, and a creative personality. She even had golden brown hair, often in braids or pinned back to show beautiful loose ringlets. My hand reached out to slap her, but I caught myself and rested it on her shoulder before pulling away. “What’s wrong?” “…Everything.” “I’m here. You can trust me.” And thus, little by little, she poured out the secrets of her soul. Her parents, her seemingly perfect friends, even her grades, all superficial and problematic. Her life, almost gilded, caused my head to hurt. At the end, she told me she was having serious issues with herself. I acted concerned and helped her up, becoming the perfect friend she needed. “Thank you, Alice… you are really an incredible friend. The closest I’ve ever had.” I said nothing in return.
I got home that night and went online. I needed to vent. Thank God Skye doesn’t have Twitter or Facebook. The post seemed harmless enough; nobody followed me anyway. One at a time, the words flowed. I twisted what she said a bit for effect. Suddenly, it hit me. An anonymous page… Where I could say how I feel about everyone without anyone finding out. Plus, people could see that Skye was having problems and they can be kinder! I wouldn’t even be involved. She will thank me later.
And so it began. I posted daily on Twitter, becoming the screen name @the. School ticked on and I drilled Skye for new fuel. She was enthralled to have someone to talk to. And I happily obliged. I was doing her a justice, anyway. We got through school, and the October leaves turned scarlet and umber as November arrived. November brought a new buzz to the school, the Freshman Class Movie Night. The whole school was going to be there, and there was going to be an after party in Swanson. I was determined to look my best. Skye and I stayed up late texting about the glorious night planned out in our heads. “Alice you HAVE to wear your hair down u would look PERF!” “Haha nah never! I would look ugly!” “DON’T DISS URSELF GIRLIE I WILL KILL YOU!” “Easy on the caps there, maybe I will wear it down ? ” And so on. One night, she texted me “Clarkson told me to check Twitter…. Some people were saying some really nasty stuff about me.” “Oh? Who are they?” “IDK… I’m crying so hard” “Don’t cry!?” “I can’t help it… they found out some really dark stuff… they mush have found the notebook I lost last Monday” “What’s the username?” “@thestonybrookfool12_2” “Oh. Don’t know it.”
I really wanted the FCMN to be about Ludwig and I. I needed to talk to him, whether he had a girlfriend or not. I had to prove myself. If I had a boyfriend, I could prove to Skye that I wasn’t forever alone and that I was good with guys. I could have something she didn’t, finally. I mean… It’s okay to compare yourself to others, to find out what is normal, right?
The movie ended with much applause, mostly because it was over. I was giddy to run to Swanson when Ivan approached me, blushing. His Ukrainian accent slurred his English a little, but I understood fully what he was trying to say. “Um, Alice… would you-“ “ALICE!!!” Right in the middle of Ivan’s declaration, Skye ran up to me, mascara ruined, and demanded to know what @thestonybrookfool12_2 and I had to do with each other. My voice squeaked and Skye blew past everyone, tears trailing behind her. I kissed Ivan on the cheek quickly, causing him to turn a bright red, and ran after my friend.
I found her in our spot, sobbing. She looked at me, and hugged me. I was so shocked that my body went numb and I couldn’t speak. “I… I can’t believe someone would lie like that… that you would actually hurt me like that. Why…? You would never do such a thing….” Her speech was interrupted sporadically by sobs. I couldn’t breathe.
“Look… Skye… I did do it.” Her crying stopped. “…What?” “I DID it. I had right reasons at the time, or at least I thought so.” “God damn it, stop the joke. It’s not funny.” “IT’S NOT A JOKE! Why can’t you see who I am?” “I… I refuse… You must have a fever. You are delusional. I will take you to the health center.” “SKYE! I AM @thestonybrookfool12_2!” She suddenly dropped the hug and scrambled away from me. We locked eyes as she rose from the dirt. As quickly as that, our gaze, attached by strings, was cut away. Skye turned around and bolted. Her golden hair was flapping out behind her, appearing in the moonlight almost like angel wings. I didn’t bother trying to run. There was already half a mile between us, and for the first time in a long time my heart and mind were still.
I walked back to the party, not wanting to miss Ivan. I saw him in the distance, waving a small slip of paper in his hands. I walked a little faster, feeling my legs work as a machine. My body became cold and metal, like an automaton, devoid of emotion. I had a feeling I knew what the letter meant. I greeted Ivan with a smile, and leaned in for a kiss, but he looked at me sternly and thrust the paper into my hands. I opened it gingerly, careful not to damage the contents. I opened the letter and it said, in delicate script I knew all too well:



Hello Alice…

It’s Skye, as you probably have guessed.
I have left for a few days, going home. I will probably be back in a week or so’s time. Alice… you could have told me you felt that way. It would have saved me a lot of heartache… This was probably not you talking, I know. You are
not what that Twitter account says. Well, at least I thought that. It was my fault for burdening you like that, though, so, I only have apologies for you.
I hope things can begin anew in a few months.
Best, Skye


As I finished reading the note, I was about to crumple it up when Ivan stopped me and delicately put the letter back in its envelope. I suddenly began to cry, an empty silent rolling of tears that urged the Ukrainian boy to lock me in an embrace fit for bears. When I peered over his shoulder, I spotted Skye running with a large bag on her back, the one I teased her for buying. She suddenly slowed and checked her phone. I used this opportunity to run to her and I called her name, probably too early, for as soon as she saw me, she hesitated, and ran in the opposite direction. “WHY,” I called as loudly as I could. She replied with a teary “I…I’M STILL TOO HURT TO SEE YOU! I MAY SAY SOMETHING I’ll regret...” Her voice tapered off towards the end and she panted, halting in front of Chapel. I very carefully sneaked, avoiding the leaf piles and any branches. I then was close enough to leap out and grab her arm. She shrieked and pulled away from me, accidentally scratching my arm and drawing blood. As she clumsily stumbled off the curb and into the street, I held my breath, praying that the headlights casting shadows on Skye’s face were just an illusion, but at the same time, my gut instinct was rooting the oncoming car on.
The crash caused incredible damage to the vehicle and Skye. I watched it happen from the spastic headlights. The driver, already going too fast, didn’t notice the half-standing girl in the middle of the driveway. I saw her body fly like a mannequin into the air, her legs in inhuman positions and her neck dangling uselessly. She hit the ground hard; the blood from the impact spattered the driveway like rain. Her chest heaved, every breath looked painful. The angel she was minutes before looked more earthen, slain by the metal machine. Skye had fallen from her heavens finally, realized her position in the world. Her glittery, beautiful eyes met mine with a world of understanding. The universe stood still as her chest paused from the strain. At last, she removed a small metal butterfly from her pocket, warm and sticky from the blood, and placed it shakily and strenuously in my palms. She smiled her imperfect smile, and breathed her last breath.

The ambulances came too late. The nurses came too late. The parents came too late. What they didn’t know was that even if that heart had kept beating in the street, the body would still be dead. Skye died when she found out about @thestonybrookfool12_2, her wings ripped straight from her body and she was forced to come crashing down to Earth. Only I knew this, for only Skye’s best friend could know these things.

For the next few months, I became obsessed with Skye’s death. I wore some of her clothes that I smuggled, managed to get one of her many stuffed animals. I had the butterfly with me every day in my pocket, along with the letter, sealed in lemon juice. After that phase, however, I threw everything out. The clothes, the toy, everything. I was ready to face myself again. I thought I threw the butterfly out too, but Ivan kept it. He said something about it being a part of me, along with the letter.
That Skye was as crucial to me as a parent or a teacher. He was right.

Alice stood, 31 years old, with the metal butterfly in her hands. She wiped her tears into her sleeve and walked to an area behind Field House. It was overgrown now, a bit dense but still traversable. She peered through the undergrowth to find a rotted log, still intact. Alice sat and laid the butterfly down on the log beside her. She gazed into the sky and sighed, smiling. She whispered to the invisible person beside her. “Look, Skye, a rainbow!”