Keenan

I remember the cornfields, how each stalk would tower over you by August. I remember the narrow roads that stretched into the distance over countryside so flat it felt like it was taunting you. I remember bonfires. I remember midnight walks with Anne, talking for hours and staring at all of the stars that weren't visible when I lived closer to the city. I remember riding in the bed of John's dad's Gator, how he'd drive it so fast down the hill in his backyard and then take the turn so quickly that I had to press my arms into either side of the bed to keep from flying out. I remember almost fucking dying in the drive up to Rockford to see Lucky Boy's Confusion, and laughing with Kristin and Joe and [the other person who was definitely our friend and was definitely sitting in the backseat with me, whose name I definitely remember I'm just choosing not to tell you] as we brake checked the dipshits in the red pickup who almost ran us off the road a mere 30 seconds prior.

I remember Kat.

I've been looking for her for years. Not consistently, mind you. I've resigned myself to the idea that she's essentially a ghost now. But every once in awhile I recall a detail I think might finally crack my search wide open. That it would lead me to a Facebook profile, or Instagram page, or an old LiveJournal, so I could cross-reference that username with a username on an abandoned DeviantArt profile littered with anime pencil sketches from 2003 that serve as yet another artifact. Proof that she existed beyond my memory of her and what she gave me. That she's not merely a name (Jenn), nickname (Kat), and a plan for the future ("To never see another cornfield for as long as I live") printed next to an empty spot where her Senior photo should've been had she taken one.

Despite how all that might come off, I wouldn't describe my search as desperate. I'm not losing hours or days scouring the web. I'm not afflicted by the malady of longing. More than anything, I'm driven by a quiet gratitude, a curiosity, a fleeting desire to know: "Hey. Do you remember?"

Which is weird, 'cuz I'm not really a "Hey. Do you remember?" sorta person,^[1] but I want to say, "Hey. Do you remember?" And have her remember, because I do. I remember. I remember my parents moving me to a small town in between Sophomore and Junior year of high school. I remember being a new kid in a school that housed fewer than 300 kids, bussed in from 5 different towns around the county. A school small enough where everyone knew everyone else's name. Small enough that it was a big deal when a new kid showed up. Where suddenly 275 kids knew me, and I didn't know any of them. And that was made all the more complicated because I didn't even know me. I remember the opportunity I had to reinvent myself in front of a bunch of strangers who were all quickly deciding what that transformation looked like before I had a chance to make any of those decisions myself. More than anything, I just hoped I wasn't going to be the same dork ass loser who had their sack tapped by the kids in the hall^[2] as I walked by like at my old school.

So I immediately developed a crush on the first girl who was nice to me, Becca,^[3] and I ended up just kinda following her around because I was shy and didn't know anyone else. Being relegated to lost puppy status, I was someone Becca could bring around and introduce as her friend, The New Kid.

For a couple weeks, I felt special. I was intoxicated by that rush of excitement when you're hanging out with someone new and you think it might go somewhere? At least I thought so at the time. It was hot on the heels of my relationship with my first girlfriend falling apart because her mom found out we had sex and accused me of being a predator, which was, um, a lot to contend with at 16. What I'm getting at here is that I didn't know fuck about shit when it came to relationships, but life had been throwing a lot of curveballs at me and it felt nice to get attention from anyone, so I latched on.

One day, Becca invited me over to her house to meet her mom, and it was there that I learned she had two sisters. One of them was Kat, who was a year older than us, and someone I recognized from school. My brain could hardly process that the two of them were related, they couldn't have been more different. Becca adhered to the popular high school girl fashion of the time. Spaghetti strap tops. Skirts. Hair always done. Makeup always on-point. Real femme.

Kat, on the other hand, wore baggy t-shirts adorned with band logos in weird fonts. Big jeans. An array of, like, those thin plastic bracelets that some people wore so many of they could be mistaken for sleeves? At school, she lacked the bold, outgoing personality of Becca, keeping mostly to herself while she listened to her headphones and sketched in her notebook. And let me tell you, that was a vibe I could relate to.

The three of us ended up hanging out for hours that evening, talking about... stuff, and... things... I think. Honestly, I can't recall—I was trying to play it cool in front of Becca while at the whim of my teenage hypothalamus, and that guy was like, "Yo, dawg, play your cards right. Things could totally work out between you two."

And let me tell you, things did not work out.

Before Kat and Becca drove me home, I got both of their AIM usernames, and over the next couple weeks, I chatted with each of them separately. Two different windows side-by-side. In one, me trying to play it cool with Becca while quietly wondering: Does she like me? Am I messing this up? Did I say the wrong thing? Why isn't she responding as much? Oh no, maybe I totally screwed it up.

In the other, me confiding to Kat about Becca: Does she like me? Am I messing this up? Did I say the wrong thing? Why isn't she responding as much? Oh no, maybe I totally screwed it up.

Eventually, once the conversation between Becca and me had essentially dried up, Kat wrote: I'm really sorry. This is just what she does.

While the familiar sting of rejection did reverberate deep within my sensitive, dork ass soul, it was softened by the realization that I had a cool new friend who, but for the grace of god still seemed to want to talk to me, despite the fact that I had spent essentially the entire time we knew each other opining to her about her fucking sister.^[4]

And so our conversations turned away from Becca, away from romantic ruminations, focusing instead on something we both could appreciate: our love of music. We talked on AIM about tracks we found on Kazaa. We traded mix CDs and listened to them together when we hung out. We bonded over feminine rage, and now, every time I scream FUUUUCK in the car while listening to "Vulcan" by Snake River Conspiracy, I think of her.

Yet, despite the anger that was the foundation for most of the music we listened to together, there was an inherent gentleness in how we talked to each other. As we got closer, we discussed where we saw our lives going after high school. About how we both wanted to abandon the cornfields, to run away and truly be ourselves. She talked to me about how much she loved and idolized her mom, and how conflicted she felt about the thought of abandoning her. She couldn't bear the thought of leaving almost as much as she couldn't bear the thought of staying.

I confided in her about my insecurities, and she was someone who always seemed to know what to say to make me feel better about myself. She was a kind, compassionate, optimistic person who helped me through a difficult period of transition. During a time where feeling safe or relaxed was uncommon at best, she elicited that from me.

I think that's the thing I remember most about her: she was someone I didn't have to hide around. I could be honest. Be myself. No transformation. No pretending. And she was there for it. She was someone who, by her qualities alone, taught me what to look for in my friends, and I always find myself excited to meet others who exude the qualities she did then.

Sometimes you click with people. Sometimes it's an intrinsic force that causes reality to ripple for a moment, and everything you wish you could show everyone is laid bare. They know. You know. It's magic for as long as they're there, and it lingers well after they leave.

Kat left after high school, and as life often decides, we lost touch. Before she moved away, she gave me a mix CD that included what I didn't realize would be one of the most profound, touching songs I'd ever hear: "Wish You Were Here" by Rasputina.^[5] I remember how emphatic Kat was that I listen to it, and I love it today like I did then.

The sound of my search is the swell of cellos. The crunchy, thudding march of a bass drum. The gentle pulse of an ethereal vibrato as it trails off almost every other word. Almost as if each word aches to say, but it would ache even more to hold it in.

How I wish, how I wish you were here
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year
Running over the same old ground. How we found the same old fears
Wish you were here

I've been looking for her for years. All of this time wondering if she remembers me. All of this time wondering if I mattered to her like she mattered to me. All of this time wishing I could, at the very least, thank her. All of this time hoping that we've both been able to be ourselves, overcoming mistakes and insecurities, living lives that make us happy, with people that make our world one we're grateful to inhabit.

But if I am being honest with myself, I don't need to find her. Don't even really want to. In the depths of loneliness, of course I want to rekindle old friendships. There's a comfort in reminiscing about the people who make us feel seen and safe. I'd like to believe that she would appreciate the sentiment, but I don't need to know that to know that she already showed me what matters most.