It was 30 years ago, but I remember the day Natasha* moved to Phoenix with perfect clarity. We were eight, sitting alone on the pink carpet in her bedroom while the movers plowed through her house. I can picture her pre-orthodontia grin, teeth merrily askew, and her huge brown eyes surrounded by minky lashes. I imagined that when she left our small Northern California town, it would be like yanking the pull cord on the bathroom light. Everything would go dim.
Natasha and I were neighbors, introduced as toddlers by our parents. In early photos, she's already Herself — embodied, aware of her beauty, eyes sparkling with brilliance or cruelty. It's too simple to say she was spoiled; her quick wit and clarity of purpose intimidated everyone, including adults. Whether she was after a Peaches 'n Cream Barbie, an Esprit tote bag, or your help making another kid cry by hiding the stuffed animal she carried everywhere, it was always easier to just say yes. By the third grade, she was a mini cult leader and the undisputed life of the party.
She ruled our universe from a tiny Victorian house around the corner, enviably empowered to demand, proclaim, and bully by a fizzy, high-femme single mom. In sharp contrast, I was a vulnerable dweeb with the fortitude of wet Kleenex and the charisma of a desk lamp. My reaction to even the slightest perceived insult was to burst into tears and hide behind my waist-length curtain of hair until I could find my way home to fling my shrimpy body on the bunk bed I shared with my sister. My cherished dream (which, OK, endures even today) was to hide in an attic like the kid from The Neverending Story, swaddled in a quilt, reading fantasy novels, blissfully detached and unmonitored. I was the perfect target.
From the start, my relationship with Natasha doled out pleasure and pain at regular intervals. Our first shared passion was her Barbie Dream House — an overcrowded fuchsia paradise that violated fire codes. As the child of a feminist who had banned big-titted dolls (but not the educational, "anatomically correct" one with a penis that my brother toted around), I was in heaven. Some days, Natasha and I spent hours orchestrating classic Barbie scenarios: kidnappings, hot-tub parties, orgies. But her agenda varied wildly: other days, she'd rally a local team of kids to drag my sweater through a mud puddle and chuck it over a fence into a neighbor's yard while I looked on helplessly. I still don't fully understand what flipped her switch from cozy girl-comrade to adorable sadist, other than sheer boredom. Thinking about it now, that's kind of horrifying. But I kept going back for more.
Over the years, I endured creative insults, boldly executed thefts from my sticker collection, public humiliations, and a memorable push off my BMX into a patch of juniper. I'd scamper home afterward, wet with tears and gut-punched with shame. Even if it was the second time that week, Natasha's bullying always surprised me. Every incident registered as a confusing, unavoidable tragedy. Like the weather, or tonsillitis, it seemed inevitable.
Always the pacifist, my mom recommended the Nancy Reagan approach, but it turns out "Just say no" doesn't work for crack or bullies. At eight, my universe was two blocks wide, and there was nowhere to hide from Natasha. Anyway, she needed me, too — a bully without a nerd is a sad, impotent thing. I nourished her, somehow.