Shades of Gray

In eleventh grade, for the school week of my seventeenth birthday in 2004, I wore nothing but black. Black pants, or skirts, long-sleeve shirts and sweaters. Oddly enough a plain black t-shirt has never been part of my wardrobe.

On my birthday, a Tuesday, three of my friends joined me in wearing black, but only one for the rest of the week.

I don’t know why I did it. I said I was mourning my childhood, it would be my last year before entering adulthood. A week or so later I would get a job, at a movie theater, where four years later, I still can get a couple shifts a week if I called.

But mourning my childhood wasn’t really the answer. A week or so before my birthday week I had decided I would only wear black, and planned each days outfit. Why never crossed my mind, I just decided to do it.

When my friends asked me why and my answer was mourning, there was no hesitation, no thinking, just a casual reassured voice. That answer came easily. I thought it was a cool answer, it fit in with who I was at the time, it made sense. Maybe I did believe it then. But now, I don’t know why I wore black, I hope I never do.

In retrospect I can say that I was mourning my friendships. I had five close friends, two were going to college next fall when I still had senior year to go through. One of those two was my best friend since second grade.

The third, a guy, he was alright, a good guy who didn’t know how to move on. He dragged me down. I had to abandon the sinking ship.

Another was a nut job, she was germophobe, who couldn’t touch anyone. Senior year during journalism she would attempt to strangle me with my scarf, just to see how I would react. I didn’t react because I knew she wouldn’t actually kill me.

And the fifth, she was my second best friend. We were destructive for eachother, but like she said, when things were good, they were really good. Before Christmas of that year we would have stopped talking to eachother unless we were fighting.

Maybe all of us did sense things were going to change really quickly. Maybe we were all mourning something.

On my birthday, the Tuesday of that week, the three friends wearing black, and I, were sitting in the den, just hanging out. There was no stereo in the room or tv. The computer on our right side was neglected. We were sitting on a couch, next to eachother, backs to the window, facing a half-wall with the stairs just on the other side of it.

My mom was passing us on her way upstairs. It wasn’t very late, maybe only 8 or so, but in February, it looks as dark as midnight. The inside lights were bright, but not in any good way. It was a harsh yellow color. I remember she paused, giving us a strange look. She asked some question, being a polite, but moved on to her room relatively quickly.

I just think what the four of us must have looked like to her. A college bound tall skinny beanpole, looking even scrawnier in his black jeans and t-shirt, legs stretched out. Next to him the one I would stop talking to by years end, a female epitome of emo in a black skirt and t-shirt in a band’s zip-up hoodie, making her larger figure look slimmer, and dyed black hair. Me, on the verge of tears, with long tendtrils of hair covering my face, in black dress pants and sleeveless turtleneck sweater, leaning against the one guy who could still pass as normal in black jeans and a black microfiber t-shirt and boots, he didn’t look as destructive as he ended up being. All of us, just lounging on a rickety rattan couch.

I still wonder what she was thinking, seeing this line of black, in various shades, from faded to midnight, taking over her den.