My friend Theresa banished me from her life. She looked through me and pronounced me dead. Theresa could do things like that; she perceived the world as her personal kingdom, and I had been a disloyal subject. My crime was having befriended the boyfriend she had most recently rejected. Theresa did not approve of this unexpected statement of my life as an individual. She put me to death, and that was that.

I did not handle this ruling with equanimity at the time. I was seventeen years old and still believed in her powers, fully immersed in the ridiculous love that best friends have for one another, though I realize now it was a one-sided infatuation. Theresa had the gold-green eyes of a cat, and a sense of mischief and adventure. She was skinnier, funnier, and more charismatic than I could ever hope to be, and I was always mildly amazed that she found my company appealing. It would be many years before I saw that what appealed to her most had been my worshipful devotion. The moment she sensed that this had ended, I ceased to exist in her life.

It was just as well. Dwelling in the court of Queen Theresa did not exactly build character. It was too easy to believe that I was on the inside and somehow superior to those who were external to our circle. We laughed at secret, self-indulgent jokes, and criticized others' choices and imperfections. Even when we were miserable, we turned it into something dark and glamorous, walking through the rain in short black skirts and fish-net hose, singing Bob Dylan songs, and eating Twinkies because they resembled little sponge-cake coffins.

Oh, we had our share of problems. Theresa had honed her manipulative talents as a way of surviving in a clamorous ragtag family of eleven children. Her father could usually be found in a bar on Carlton Avenue, drinking his paycheck away, while her mother, Mary - a woman of ample flesh, resounding voice, and irrepressible good nature - embarrassed everyone with her shameless eccentricities and the sheer enormity of her love. She had a superstition or a ready cliché for every circumstance of life. "You gotta pay the piper if you wanna dance," she'd warn. "I was a dancer in my heyday, but look at me now." Theresa would wince. "Heyday?" she'd say disdainfully, "Who even uses that word. What does it mean?" But Mary, who talked to herself incessantly, was oblivious to her daughter's scorn. She generally did not expect, process, or hear responses. "Why don't you take your little sisters out for a walk. And remember - you can always catch more flies with honey than with vinegar."

My family, meanwhile, had become a house of strife, and I stayed away as much as possible. My father was fond of an archaic Italian model in which he imagined all of the older children caring for the younger ones, and none of us actually leaving home. We'd grow tomatoes and zucchini in the backyard and sell it by the side of the road, putting the money towards tuition at good universities where we would all attain advanced degrees that led us into affluent professional lives, and we would never have to struggle as he did. Maybe we'd eventually add an extension onto the house if any of us got married, or we'd establish a family compound.

Unfortunately, the battles between my parents were unceasing. My mother issued curses and wrote angry messages in charcoal on the walls, and there was nothing welcoming about the sadness and disappointment that hung in the air. So we simply screwed up, and eventually scattered, for in time we would remind each other only of pain.

But Theresa and I had not known real tragedy yet. I think we even prided ourselves on the lunacy of our home lives, for it implied that we were not ordinary. We transformed our secret envy to disdain, sneering at those who dwelled within the narrow frameworks of normal, happy families. We branded those lives as boring, and sensationalized even that which was benign in our own. I surely exaggerated my father's demands and expectations in order to justify the melodrama of sneaking out or fabricating destinations.

As for Theresa, her mother's trusting, distracted approach to parenting, combined with the general chaos of a crowded household, granted her an incredible amount of autonomy and freedom. She occasionally exploited her father's guilt about his drinking, too. One afternoon she stopped outside the tavern and called his name. He emerged into the daylight and emptied his pockets of coins into her hand. She tossed her blonde hair, smiled a contemptuous smile, and bought enough candy to make our teeth ring all day.

I realize in retrospect that we were both the children of working class families who meant well, worked and sacrificed, struggled with debilitating disturbance, and loved us with huge contorted love. Perhaps it is not within the nature of a teen-age girl to feel compassion or gratitude. I did not understand how much suffering was going on around me. I abandoned my people and aligned myself with Theresa, and together, we were cruel and indifferent. I suppose we weren't even aware of our own power to hurt others.
In school, we passed notes and passed judgment. Mrs. Stevenson was an antique-- boring beyond anyone's endurance. Danny acted like a girl. Sharon wore a green bra - it was creepy, the color of mold.

Theresa enjoyed matching people up and moving them about. She was remarkably adept at disseminating (and sometimes creating) announcements about who liked whom. She orchestrated meetings, received confidences, engaged in espionage, spurred people on, and puffed them up until she lost interest in them and went on to another project.
As a student, she was careless and indifferent. She never did her homework because, in the words of Mr. Hamm, the guidance counselor, she came from "a troubled home." Mr. Hamm was convinced that Theresa's dazzling potential might still flower at any moment, and she was constantly forgiven for transgressions that others would not have been allowed. She had a voice like smoke, a wry sense of humor, and a smile that could give you whiplash if you weren't expecting it. And she used her powers to the hilt.

Naturally, Theresa was the social magnet of our duo, the beautiful one that the boys always noticed first. I was the good brown-haired friend, the second fiddle, the straight girl to her comic routines, the maid of honor to her bride. On rare occasions, a boy would choose me over her, seeing me as more attainable, perhaps. Martin Capitelli liked me once. Marty was a nice boy, plain and gentle, I can see that now, but I was not interested. He leaned toward me at the beach as I basked in my turquoise bathing suit, my baby-oiled body newly woman. To me, he was an alien who seemed to have emerged from the sea. Even his aqua-colored eyes were filled with water. I stared at his webbed feet and hoped he wouldn't touch me.

Marty escorted me home that day, following behind me along Connetquot Avenue, trying to make conversation and be a companion. I was cold and rude; he was a mere shade darting through my self-centered world. The very fact that he found me so compelling rendered him worthless, and I barely acknowledged him. Finally, he snapped, " You're as much of a bitch as Theresa. I hope you get hit by a car on the way home." And he abandoned me. I felt sick and shaken, even frightened that his wish might come true.

But I did go out with Bob Beringer, after Theresa had dumped him. I had her permission, mind you. They were finished, no doubt about it, and she almost seemed to be pushing him my way. I had always liked Beringer - we called him that because Bob as a name was so mundane. Beringer was tall and thin, a couple of years older than us, and smart enough to be interesting and tormented. We went to a drive-in movie together, double dating with Gerri Jones and Russell Zagorsky, a long-standing couple for whom "date" was synonymous with make-out session. Beringer and I sat together in the back seat, and when he lunged at me, I was flattered, thinking it some sort of validation of my desirability.

It was a Long Island night of bony shoulders and spearmint kisses in a steamy car. I thought I was in love. Then on Monday morning, a thick envelope from Beringer arrived in the mail. I stupidly expected it to be a love letter, and in a way, it was, but not to me: "You are a wonderful girl," it said. "And someday someone will love you very much, as you deserve to be loved. But for me, there is only Theresa." And that was just the beginning. It turned into kind of a beating, actually, in which every paragraph paid me some guilty gratuitous compliment, ending each time with the words: "But then there's Theresa."

I sat at my dresser and sobbed until my chest ached. I saw Theresa the next day, and showed her the letter, which I realize in retrospect was exactly what I was supposed to do. I tried to ignore the quick spark of pleasure in her expression, the almost imperceptible glint of victory in her eye. "He still loves you," I told her.

"Of course he does," she snapped, recovering from her lapse into cat-like satisfaction.
" He's too attached. That's why I told him to go out with you."

"He went out with me because you told him to?" I gasped.

"Well, you didn't think it was his own idea; did you?"

"But you knew I really liked him. You encouraged me to go out with him. I didn't know this was a game."

"It's always a game," she said.

Theresa's game, I supposed. And I was a piece on the board, willingly playing along, thinking that little of my ability to get by without her. The following year I disobeyed the rules. It wasn't even a courageous, conscious stance. I simply felt a stab of sympathy for a boy she had been cruel to, someone she had reduced to the status of shunned, and I spoke to him.

"You made your choice," said Theresa.

And I suppose I did. It was the right choice, too, even if I didn't know it at the time. I was free now to find my own clumsy way. Sometimes I missed her, but I wasn't sure why.

I certainly didn't need a Theresa to make myself disappear. I have since been invisible many times and sentenced myself to several slow deaths by guilt and self-torment. My heart knows all the details - here I will confess only that I have committed a robust roster of irreparable crimes for which absolution has not been granted. These entail saying the absolute wrong thing, disappointing those I've loved, and learning almost everything a little too late.

But time wields justice in a bigger framework. Status staggers, privilege shifts, and none of us are immune to suffering. I have no doubt that Theresa's adolescent power expired, that the broken hearts around us were mended and broken again, and the family I abandoned is part of a universal family I joined. I learned that life has rules, but it's not a game. And I grew up unforgiven, but there was no other way.

I forgive Theresa anyway, wherever she is.

Cynthia Carbone Ward
2001