"Friendship"

Abby Lewis* was weird. She came into my circle of friends one recess in fifth grade, and for three long years we had to deal with her odd habits and lack of social graces. My friends and I knew there was something “off” about Abby, but we just didn’t know what.

Abby was persistent, and stayed in our group much longer than any of my friends and I expected or wanted. Instead of shutting her out (and risking an intervention by the recess aid or teacher), we took advantage of her annoying ability to appear wherever we were during recess or lunch. Because Abby was totally clueless, we did not pass up a single opportunity to tease her. She was consistently the scapegoat in our favorite game “Four Square,” always the ball fetcher whenever our basketball rolled down the hill during “Knock-Out,” and never “It” when we played freeze tag.

Abby had become a staple in our group. However, whenever anyone outside the friend circle asked me about her, I always vehemently assured the questioner that none of us actually liked Abby, and we kept her in the group because she just wouldn’t leave.

And that was definitely true. We would lament and complain to each other about how annoying Abby was, how she gave us a bad reputation among our peers, and how difficult she was to get along with. In sixth grade, she gave a 10-minute presentation to the class about why she’s so different. I remember it to this day.

“I have Asperger’s,” she declared. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard of this disorder. My father, a child psychiatrist, would come home every night and talk about all kinds of childhood disorders, including those on the Autism spectrum. I remember thinking at the time, “Great Abby. But you telling the class about this won’t make anyone pick on you less.”

Unfortunately, I was right. After her soap box lecture, Abby went right back to being Abby. And I went right back to being the girl who made disgusted faces when Abby picked off her eyebrows, and rolled her eyes when Abby tried desperately to fit in.

My friends and I dealt with Abby for three long years. Finally, at the beginning of eighth grade, we had a discussion. We were not going to let Abby be in our group anymore. That morning, my friends designated me as the one who would tell her. I didn’t want to do it, and to this day I regret being the quiet, meek pushover that I was in that group since third grade. In retrospect, I realize that part of the reason I put up with Abby for so long was that, for those three years, I had the opportunity to graduate from being the group’s scapegoat. My friends stopped making fun of me for saving my paper bags at lunch and didn’t flick grape seeds at me while their focus was directed at Abby.

Despite that three-year grace period, I was still the second-best pushover. Reluctantly, I agreed to be the bearer of bad news. When Abby sat down to lunch, I took a deep breath and cut right to the chase. I remember my exact words: “Hey Abby, we were all thinking…sometimes, friends go in separate directions—”

That was all I had to say. Clueless, imperceptive Abby somehow knew—whether from the tone of my voice or the condescending looks everyone gave her—that she was getting the boot. She picked up her tray, said, “You’re kicking me out?!” and walked away.

My friends smiled as they watched her go. I did, too—but I was ridden with guilt. I felt so guilty, that when I came home, I told my mom. Well, I only half told her; being too ashamed to admit that the words were my own, I put the blame on another friend in the group. She was appalled that anyone would be so mean, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was actually I who told Abby to leave.

That night, I called the girl I had just banished from the group. I told her I was sorry, and that she could sit with us again. She accepted my apology—something I don’t think I would have done—but never came back to our table.

Now, eight years later, I’m studying to be a child psychologist, and I will be seeing patients like Abby for the rest of my life. To this day, whenever I think about her, I experience a twinge of guilt. I hope that my efforts to treat patients like Abby will act as a kind of redemption for how mean I was back then. I used to be ashamed to be Abby’s friend. Now, I’m ashamed that I never was.

*name has been changed