A Micro Memoir

She said her parents didn't care about her, that they never spent any time with her. I could see in her eyes how pained she was. It was a desperate sadness. Only thirteen, she had a life that outsiders would envy. She lived in a mansion and her parents drove fancy cars. Her closet was filled with the latest fashions, and she wanted for nothing. Except attention. She told me while sitting in the hallway of our middle school, her parents hated each other and their answer to keeping her happy was to give her anything she wanted, anything material. She had a chauffeur drive her to school for G-d sake. They gave her crazy amounts of cash, and offered to take her shopping. But what she wanted was for them to spend time with her, and she was beginning to feel she had no reason to live. "They wouldn't even notice if I was gone. They wouldn't even care." My heart was aching, I was scared. This wasn't an ABC After School Special, it was my friend. She wasn't even really a close friend, which made it a little easier for me. I marched right into the guidance counselor's office and told her, "I think my friend wants to kill herself." I was too young to know about a cry for help. It's a good thing, because I might have chickened out. I didn't know if she'd ever speak to me again, but at the time it didn't seem to matter. The counselor asked me to tell her everything I could. And I did. Though we never grew very close, she knew what kind of friend I was. She knew I didn't care about her money or her mansion, or what brand her jeans or shoes were. She knew I cared, and I wanted her to live.