Bad Stereotypes - 4. Wednesday 19th January 2003

Logan was my best friend. We spent every minute of every day together when we weren’t needed inside for dinner, and he hung out at my house or I went to his and we rode our bikes all over the neighbourhood and through the fields. Even in the winter, a bike is an eight year old boy’s greatest ally.

We cycled out to the woods that day before it snowed, the ground hard as iron and cold as ice, frost trimming all the branches bare of leaves, the sky a thick blanket of white. The air felt flat as we pedalled like it was a race, driving our bikes over the rutted tracks towards the old quarry. Logan shouted ahead into the empty space, his voice echoing around into the chalk, and we skidded, dumped our bikes and were clambering over the boulders in moments.

Our games were never really organised, we just ran about, played impromptu rounds of tag and chase, climbed things, scuffed our jeans and pretended that we were kings of our own little world. Eventually we both ended up flat on our back in the little hollow by the mouth of the quarry, looking up at the white scar jagged into the face of the hill.

“Bay?”

“Uh huh.” I tilted my head, my skull bumping softly against Logan’s, his blond locks tangling with my black.

“I’m moving away.”

“What?” I sat bolt upright to look at him in shock, “What? When? Where?” Our class teacher was a fan of the ‘w’ questions, “Why?”

“The moving van is coming to get our stuff tomorrow morning. Dad got a new job in London.”

“But…” I was eight, I had no frame of reference for what I wanted to say. I was losing my best friend.

Logan turned his face to look at me, both of us lying on the chalk and scrub grass, or eyes inches away from each other. He gulped.

“I’m going to miss you Bay.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

“I’ll write though, we can call each other.”

But I knew even then, that it wasn’t the same.

We pushed our bikes back home, walking together joined by the soft clicking of the spokes, the hum of narrow tires. We bumped shoulders, chatted softly, but every touch felt like the universe was ending. I walked Logan to his house, hating the idea that in a week, a new family would live there, some other boy in the room where we had watched TV, played cowboys and Indians, where I had beaten Logan at every one of his computer games and he’d only laughed good naturedly. Logan leant his bike against the wall and turned, then flung his arms around me, a hug so tight and unexpected I could barely breathe.

“You’re my best friend Bay. I’ll miss you.”

“I…” I wanted to tell him that I loved him, although I had no idea what that meant. I wanted to tell him that I needed him not to go. I hugged him back, and we were both crying when we parted.

I cycled home in tears, moped around the house for days. Logan called, just once, and we wrote each other one letter each, barely more than ten lines. The world moves quickly for an eight year old boy with new friends to make.

Sometimes, usually at night, I thought of Logan, and I hurt.