Jody was my best friend. In fact, we had been best friends since we were toddlers, at the age of two. We were almost exactly alike – we had blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles on our noses. We each got braces when we were nine, and we were both mad about the color pink. We liked horses, chocolate, and balloons, and we even shopped at the same stores. “Best friends forever,” she once told me. “BFF” I replied. We both giggled and “pinky-shaked” (pinky-shaking is when two people shake hands, but with only their pinkies).


Although we were so very much the same, we were also very different. Jody had cancer. I did not. It all happened on my 12th birthday. I was waiting for Jody to arrive at my party, but she never came. The phone rang. I picked it up. “Hello?” I said. “Hi, this is Mrs. Rayburn, Jody’s mother,” the voice on the end of the line said. “Hi, this is Samantha,” I replied. “I’m sorry to inform you that Jody cannot come to your party. She’s – in the hospital.” I could not say anything. I hung up, grabbed my wind-breaker and climbed onto my bike. I did not even stop to tell my mother where I was going. I could not think. I was scared. What had happened to Jody? Was she sick? When I got to the hospital, I found out that Jody had suddenly gotten ill, and was taken to the doctor to be examined. It turned out that she had a very rare type of juvenile leukemia. She was in a coma, so I was not able to speak to her. I think I cried my eyes out that day; I was so scared.


A few weeks later, my mother got a phone call. Jody was dead. She had died in her sleep. I could not believe it – how cruel life was. Jody’s body just decided to click off – to let Jody die.


Jody was buried a week before her birthday. I did not attend her funeral. I could not. I would not.


I am now quite an old maid, and I have made many more friends, but none were as close as Jody. My grief has long passed, but I will always remember Jody and the terrible fight of lie versus death.