My childhood best friend, Monica, looked like she belonged on a movie screen. The line of guys hoping to ask her out could’ve stretched around the block. One day, I asked her if I could cut in line. She rolled her eyes and told me I was nuts. "Alright, you think I'm nuts? Fine. From this moment on, Monica Dean, I'm going full-on psycho. I’m shutting down every guy who even thinks about you." 1 From that day forward, whenever someone tried to confess their feelings to Monica, I would be there to "run interference." I’d yell at the top of my lungs, "Monica Dean doesn't shower for weeks at a time! And she has the worst case of athlete's foot you've ever seen! The second she takes her shoes off, the stench could knock you out from a block away!" Every time I did this, Monica would fly into a rage, screaming, "Johnny Vance, you are so dead!" Monica and I were the definition of childhood sweethearts, having grown up side-by-side. She was the kid every parent compared their own to—not just stunningly beautiful, but brilliant in school, too. There was never a shortage of guys trying to win her over. The first thing she did every morning when she got to her desk was to sweep the pile of love-offering breakfasts into my arms. Thanks to the money I saved on food, I built up a pretty respectable comic book collection. Of course, I didn't get all this for free. More often than not, I’d do her chores at home so she could have quiet time to study. Sometimes, I even took the beatings meant for her. Her father was a drunk and a misogynist who bitterly resented the fact that his wife, frail and in poor health, had only managed to give him a daughter. Having another child, a son, was out of the question. Because of this, he’d beat her mother when he was drunk. Even when he was sober, he’d find excuses to lash out at them. His favorite line was that his life was cursed, that he’d married a woman with a "useless womb" who gave him a "worthless girl," making him a laughingstock. Monica had a stubborn streak. Every time he said it, she’d fire back. She’d say her mom was the best mom in the world, and she wasn't worthless. The man standing in front of them, the one who beat his wife and daughter, he was the most pathetic, useless man on earth. And every time she said it, she’d get a brutal beating. Her mother would always tell her to just endure it, that he’d be better once the alcohol wore off. But Monica refused to back down, wiping away tears as she cried, "Mom, you've put up with this for years! Has he ever changed? Has he ever gotten better?" One time, her dad pulled off his belt and came at Monica. I saw it happen and rushed forward, wrapping my arms around his legs. I screamed for Monica to run. But she just stood there, refusing to move. "I'm not running," she said. "If he has the guts, let him kill me." Her dad cursed at me, telling me to let go or he’d beat me too. But I held on for dear life. In my heart, Monica was someone I had to protect. And so, the leather belt in her father's hand came down hard on my back, again and again. It stung so bad it felt like my skin was splitting open, and I howled in pain. Finally, my parents burst in and stopped the whole tragic affair. Later, as my mom was putting ointment on my back, she said I had rocks in my head. "Someone's hitting you with a belt and you don't even know to run?" "I couldn't run," I said. "If I ran, what would happen to Monica?" My mom sighed. "You little rascal. I know you like Monica. But couldn't you have grabbed her and run together?" My face instantly turned bright red. "I don't like her! I just… I just didn't want to see her get hurt." My mom didn't scold me for taking a beating for Monica. On the contrary, her heart ached for her. Every time Monica came over to do homework or play, my mom would see the bruises on her arms and couldn't help but ask, "Honey, does it hurt?" Monica would always put on a brave face. "Not at all, Auntie." My mom would dab ointment on her wounds, her own eyes welling up with tears at the sight of her. But this was the nineties. A woman in our small town had no voice. Just saying the word "divorce" was considered a sin. 2 Monica had tried to convince her mom to divorce her dad. Her mom had flown into a rage, scolding Monica and accusing her of trying to turn her into a shameless, disgraced woman. In her anger, Monica's mother, for the first time ever, hit her. Monica had endured countless beatings from that man without shedding a single tear. But this time, the tears flowed freely. After that, Monica never mentioned divorce to her mother again. She also stopped telling me how pitiful her mom was, how unlucky her life had been. When we got to college, Monica essentially cut off all contact with her family. She paid her way through school with work-study jobs. During winter and summer breaks, she barely ever went home, staying on campus to work and earn money. My mom’s heart went out to her. She’d say, "That girl has it so tough," and would often slip me extra cash, telling me to take good care of Monica. In college, Monica's aura seemed to grow even more somber. Her cool, distant eyes always seemed to keep people a thousand miles away. She was tall, with flawless skin and exquisitely delicate features. She could just sit there, doing nothing, and outshine everything around her. There was a "Campus Queen" poll on the university's online forum, and her votes were so far ahead of everyone else's that she won by a landslide. The number of guys trying to date her back then was staggering. I could have paid for a decent meal just by selling the love letters she received as scrap paper. Because everyone knew we were close, and they'd confirmed we weren't a couple, a lot of guys tried to get to her through me. Until one day, I asked Monica, "Can I cut in line?" She gave me a long, serious look and told me I was insane. From then on, whenever someone asked me for her contact info, I told them about her supposed athlete's foot and her aversion to showering, and how the stench could kill a man. I'd add that it was an incurable condition, and whoever ended up with her would suffer for life. After I spread this rumor, the number of her pursuers did, in fact, drop significantly. Monica seemed to enjoy the peace and quiet. But then a post exploded on the university forum. It detailed Monica's tragic background: her alcoholic, abusive father, the constant fighting at home, her unhappy childhood. It mentioned that she was putting herself through college all on her own. The post shot to the top of the forum's hot list. Suddenly, my story about her being a smelly girl with foot fungus was completely forgotten. A wave of chivalrous sympathy washed over the male student body. They started sending her all sorts of things, and the number of guys pursuing her became even greater than before. There was always a crowd of them waiting outside her dorm. They wanted to fetch her water, save her a seat in the library, and some even tried to just hand her money. Monica was beyond annoyed. She put a "hit" out on me. She said I had leaked her private life to the world, and she would never forgive me. Growing up, Monica was the undisputed leader of the neighborhood kids. If you crossed her, she would make you pay, and she showed no mercy. 3 I had lived my entire life under Monica's "reign of terror." So when I heard she had put a hit out on me, my first instinct was to find a place to hide. But I had seriously underestimated her influence on campus. I thought I'd be safe in the men's dorm, that she couldn't get to me there. But when her legion of admirers heard about the hit, they eagerly volunteered to help. They dragged me out of my own dorm room. A mob of guys shoved me in front of Monica, all of them trying to claim credit. Monica dismissed her followers and grabbed me by the ear, parading me across campus for all to see. She dragged me to a secluded spot and told me to get on my knees and repent. I looked at her and said, "Monica, I swear to God, you've got the wrong guy. I didn't post that on the forum." She stared at me, her gaze like ice. "Johnny, do you really think I'd believe you? In this university, so far from our hometown, who else knows about my family besides you?" "It really wasn't me." I didn't know how to explain. She was right. In this place, miles away from home, I was the only one who knew her secrets. I had only applied to this university because I found out she was coming here. We had left our old lives behind to start fresh. We were from the warm south, and this northern city was freezing. I had a hard time adjusting at first. My mom had told me, "You little rascal, you wear your heart on your sleeve. If you didn't like Monica, would you really have moved so far away?" "If it wasn't you, then who was it? Did you tell someone else about my past?" she demanded. I knew it was her private life. Many people had asked, but I had never told a soul. "No, Monica, I swear. I didn't post it, and I've never told anyone about your family." Her expression suddenly changed. "And you think I'd believe that? When we were kids, you'd sell me out for a single piece of candy. Now, for some petty gain, you'd leak my information. It's not impossible." Hearing her say that, a sharp pain lanced through my chest. When we were kids, playing hide-and-seek, Monica was a master. She would always find a spot where no one could find her. But I knew her habits. No matter where she hid, I could always find her. Once, another kid gave me a piece of candy to reveal her hiding spot. Monica was found, lost the game, and chewed me out for what felt like an eternity. She swore she'd never speak to me again. But what she didn't know was that it was a White Rabbit candy—her absolute favorite. I kept it hidden for a long time, not daring to give it to her while she was still mad. Later, I gave it to her as a surprise. It was a sunny afternoon. We were sitting on a tree branch. She ate the candy, her face lit up with a blissful smile. She even carefully folded the wrapper and handed it to me. "Here, keep this safe for me." I happily took the wrapper, my own mouth watering a little. But seeing her happy made me even happier. But now, her misunderstanding cut me deep. "Monica, you really don't believe me?" I asked, looking up at her.
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