My Friend, Vicky
Lately my junior high friend, Vicky, has been on my mind. A lot. You see Vicky and I met when I moved from the suburbs of St. Louis to the “small town” life of central Illinois. I was a freshman, she a seventh grader. We lived a few houses apart, we each were the oldest in our families, and we both hated our hair. Beyond that our lives were very different. She came from what many would consider a "well-to-do" family; she owned horses, wore designer clothes, and, well, you get the picture. My family fell into the low- to mid-income range and the year my family was renting the house near Vicky was the first time I had ever been in a neighborhood with a country club. Every time I think about Vicky I see her as she was then, a young girl who believed she was awkward, ugly, and unloved. An individual with all the great characteristics of a "best friend" but who was desperate for friendship. Those looking in from the outside only saw her family's financial statu