Ali McNally

I was on the phone with a friend last week and we got on the subject of middle school relationships. You know, the kind featured on Oprah that introduce our moms to flamboyant definitions to terms like “hooking up” and “rainbow party.” I have no recollection of attending any rainbow parties in the 8th grade, but it got me thinking of my very first boyfriend. He died a few days ago and I’m again reminded prematurely of how old I’m getting.

I was just growing out of giant ballchain necklaces and South Park shirts. (That’s embarrassing) Once I started listening to better music and looking more like a normal human being instead of a walking KoRn concert, someone noticed me. He wasn’t that great looking, but we both played the guitar and liked the same movies and that was the extent of my 14 year-old standards.

I have this one picture of us at the 8th grade end-of-the-year formal. He looks thin, pale and had that helmet-gelled hair popular among white males in the late 90s. My bright blue contacts made me look like a fish.

We broke up before high school and didn’t talk much afterwards, but I sometimes thought about catching up with him and asking if he ever found that watched Bringing Out the Dead and if he still thought it sucked.

My parents told me his dad found him and the rumors said it was an overdose. But that’s what everyone says when a 21 year-old dies.

I’ve been to the viewings of three high school friends in the past five years. Four, if you count the girl who sat in front of me in homeroom. Funerals for old people are sad but natural, like putting your 20 year-old cat to sleep. Seeing bodies of friends I spent summers with makes me feel old and helpless, regardless of the fact that I turned 21 six months ago.

Rest in peace, Bryan.