2-Liter Coke
by Erin McMahon

"You CRIED?!?!? Awwww that’s the sweetest thing ever!!! I love you," Sarah Jennings gave me a bear hug.

On November 13^th, many of my friends got their senior blazers. Excitement fueled my heartbeat as they walked up the stage, slipped on their navy blazers, and then thudded down the wheelchair ramp on the other side. Starting with A, students up to J had already been jacketed. I watched Sarah climb the steps like everyone else, put on her blazer like everyone else.

But she isn’t like everyone else to me.

The summer before freshman year I decided to go out for the volleyball team. That’s when I met Sarah, our setter. I was surprised when she didn’t ask questions or shy away from the "new kid." Sarah was one of the first people I met at Webb, and definitely one of the most welcoming. I felt the barriers of age and ability collapse and found that she was my friend, end of story.

She taught me how to set, telling me, "Okay so hold your hands like you’re drinking a 2 liter bottle of coke. You’re gonna chug the whole thing down. You wanna catch the ball like that. Then you release it and push your arms way up into the air like . . . like superwoman!!!"

Sarah cupped her hands around the volleyball and pushed it up as far as it could go, her arms stretching up towards the ceiling. I laughed at the time, but in every game I play, I remember a 2-liter bottle of coke and superwoman.

She became my role model.

I’m convinced that if I’m half as cool as she is by the time I’m a senior then I’ll be pretty well off. Thinking of her graduating is bittersweet. I won’t be reminded of who I want to be, but she’ll be following her vocation to teaching, and I would be selfish if I wasn’t happy for her.

Shoot, I want to be selfish and say, "NO! You can’t go. Please stay!" I can never convince myself that as long as I keep her in my heart, she’ll go with me. That’s probably why I’ve had such a hard time dealing with friends leaving.

Sarah and many more of my friends ascended the staircase to claim their handsome garments. Maggie, Quint, Elissa, Rhea Rhea. With each step taken towards the jacket rack and smiling alumni, my friends reached for their symbol of separation between themselves and me. Between the experienced and the inexperienced. Between those moving on soon, and those who will stay.

I don’t want them to move on without me. If they go, I want to as well. But I can’t, and I feel abandoned. Even thinking about it makes me gasp for air and shut my eyes tight so that I won’t be seen crying.

I cling to my friends who have changed me, whether they know it or not. I don’t know how to water down such an attachment, though, because of my inexperience with having older friends. These seniors have had to adjust to the absence of older friends, so I’ll have to learn to adjust too. With time I’ll get used to friends going, but for now it’s so hard to stay behind.

As Sarah got back to her seat, she was congratulated and then remained standing. She was wearing the same headband she wore a few months ago while playing the last volleyball game of the year.

Coach had put me in. I was nervous because it was the only time he’d put me in all tournament. He put me in as a right, meaning I would play in the opposite position as Sarah. She turned to me and gave me a high-five.

"You’ll be alright," she reassured me, as she had been all year. Her encouragement calmed me down and I got in game position. I played the first of three games opposite Sarah. She always stayed calm even during the worst of plays. I couldn’t help but admire such athletic ability and sportsmanship in a sport that I love.

During the next two games I was benched, so I cheered from the sidelines. We were losing fast, but Sarah stayed positive, telling us to push and that we were still in it.

"Game point," parents yelled, as the other team got ready for their final serve.

Before they served the ball, Coach yelled, "Time out!"

"Play this next point with all your heart," he explained, "because it may be the last you ever play here." I immediately thought of Sarah. It was going to be her very last game. I chewed the words, saying them over and over.

"Very last game. This is Sarah’s very last game. Last . . . game," I whispered, trying to hold back tears. I wasn’t strong enough to hold them back, so they were let go and tears streamed down my face. The ball was let go and pounded to the floor on our side of the court. That was it. Over. Done.

Sarah walked back to the bench. She was trying to hold back tears too, but she couldn’t do it either. I hugged her as tight as I could, wishing my role model didn’t have to leave so soon.

I have a problem with change, especially with people going away. I depend on my older friends to counsel me and tell me what I’m doing wrong. From what they tell me, they don’t mind it. When they leave though, I feel lost. I look at graduation as a solemn event, but it’s not a funeral. I need to look at my friends’ senior year as a time of great leadership and well-earned responsibility. I need to be excited for my friends.

John Wyatt was the last to receive his blazer. He had strolled back to his seat and the whole senior class was now standing, being displayed like an exhibit, proudly donning their symbol of leadership and experience.

Mr. Cauz, our headmaster, said some final words and then motioned to the senior class. Applause exploded from the underclassmen, tears flooded the eyes of parents, the whole room was filled with joy.

I was the only person biting my lower lip to keep from crying.