An anecdotal story of a girl, who has the unfortunate burden of sharing a name with California’s most-iconic city, her neighbor, and their relationship.
Holly and I were neighbors from fourth grade through eighth grade.
I remember very vividly a conversation between my mother and I when I was eight. We were in her car waiting for Holly so my mother could take us to school and I said to her, “I don’t want to take Holly to school anymore.” My mother inquires. “She’s weird and smells like strawberry lip gloss.” Of course a prepubescent boy would have the mentality that girls were weird because they smelled sweet. Much to my dismay, my mother continued to give her a ride, I continued to feel uncomfortable in her awkward-girlish presence, and Holly continued being herself.
Holly and I would spend the greater part of four years merely exchanging hellos and waving across our apartments. In an ironic turn of events, it wasn’t until I moved across town at the start of high school we began a friendship that, to this day, presents a very-real feeling of kinship. From acquaintance to affinity, we have since spent 11 years sharing inside jokes, secrets, desires, day-to-day lives, and everything else. Now, in college, we live states apart. I miss her dearly and am always eager for our biannual reunion.