Since Fourth Grade

I’ve loved Lottie since fourth grade.

The day we met is seared in my mind like no other moment. It was a standard October morning: crisp air, crunchy leaves strewn about, and a chill just strong enough to warrant my floppy, navy hat. I’m sure it was completely unnecessary, that hat, which made me all the more embarrassed when she walked in. Lottie Gray. Being in fourth grade, the only girls I’d interacted with were my two sisters and my dog, Plum. I had luck on my side, that day, though. See, I wasn’t a very popular kid, even in the fourth grade. I wasn’t athletic and besides, I hated sports, which seemed like the only uniting factor between the boys at my school. Because of that, I didn’t have many friends. So when Lottie walked in that day, the seat beside mine was empty.

That day, we had a spelling test, and, let me tell you, I’ve never spelled so poorly in my whole life! I couldn’t help but be distracted by her. The first thing that I noticed about Lottie was her copper red hair. Her skin was pale, which made her hair look even brighter. It took me a while to determine what color her eyes were because she never looked at me. But eventually, I was able to catch a glimpse of them. Baby blue. Sitting next to Lottie the rest of that year, I collected a few facts about her:

1) She loved horses. It didn’t take long to figure this one out. A few days after she joined the class, she came to school with a broken arm. This turned out to be a usual occurrence. A broken arm, fractured wrist, a black eye. Horseback riding was her answer whenever asked about these injuries. She must’ve been one incompetent horseback rider.

2) Her favorite color was yellow. Practically every day, she wore a yellow sweater. Hot or cold, that sweater was always on.

3) Just as my unpopularity was a fact through and through, so was Lottie’s popularity. It was no surprise. She was captivating, bold, loud, fun-loving. Assertive, determined, independent.

It’s obvious why I fell in love with Lottie that day in fourth grade. My view of her has changed now. Same red hair, only it’s cut short with delicate wispy bangs. Those baby blue eyes are still there and her skin is just as pale. Appearance wise, my fourth-grade-self’s evaluation holds up. But, personality wise, there are some things nine years of time have changed. She’s still talkative, and hey, she even talks to me from time to time. But her comments range from teasing to harsh insults, and they’re not limited to me. A tad awkward, one pimple too many, hell, not skinny enough…she’ll call you out on it and make sure everyone else knows too.

No, Lottie Gray is not the perfect girl I thought she was in fourth grade.

She is self-absorbed, arrogant, and straight up mean.

Yet I am still in love with her.

Which is why, as Mr. Ward calls out the partner assignments for our history project, part of me hopes to hear my name called with hers. I glance over to where she sits in the back of the classroom, whispering with five other girls. I see a few eye rolls and head shakes. No doubt they’re talking about the stupidity of assigned partners. I actually prefer it this way. Nine years later, Plum still holds the title of best friend. At least she’s as perfect as my fourth-grade self thought.

“Charlotte Gray,” Mr. Brown starts. “And Anderson Webster.”

I watch Lottie’s face crumble as she looks over at me. Her friends offer pitiful expressions. Well, this is what I wished for. The class starts to disperse into pairs. I grab my backpack and walk back to where she’s sitting. Do I call her Lottie? Or is that a nickname reserved for her friends? Charlotte sounds so formal, though. Especially considering we’ve known each other for about a decade. “Known” is kind of an exaggeration. I doubt she remembers the day we met, let alone all the moments between then and now. I make a decision.

“Hey, Charlotte.”

She looks up with annoyance. “It’s Lottie. No one calls me Charlotte.”

“Right, sorry,” I say quickly as I sit down in the seat next to her.

“Class is about to end, so let’s just decide when and where to work on this project,” she says, pulling on the sleeves of her red jacket.

“It’s due a week from today, so we have the weekend–”

“I’m busy this weekend,” she says. “How about Thursday?”

Gosh, she’s going to hate me. “I can’t, sorry. I have a club meeting after school. Wednesday?”

“I guess,” she says. “Let’s meet at eight. At the library.”

Wednesday arrives quickly. I squeeze a glob of gel into my hands and run it through my hair. Fine, it looks fine. I open the cabinet doors beneath my sink and rummage through all the towels and extra bottles of soap. My hands graze a smooth, glassy surface.

“Andy, dinner!” my little sister, Cassie, calls out for what must be the fifth time.

“I’m coming!” I yell back. I spray some cologne and check my hair for the last time in the mirror. “Okay, Plum, how do I look?”

She raises her big brown eyes for a split second and then sighs sleepily.

“That good, huh?” I say. “Come on, we have to go eat.” She hops off the bed and follows me into the kitchen.

“Finally,” Cassie says. Her eyes shoot up to my hair. “Ew, why is your hair so greasy?”

“Cass, come on, give him a break,” Morgan says. “You look great, Andy, promise.”

“Thanks, Morgan,” I say, shooting Cassie a death glare. I take my place in line after Morgan and Cassie. My plate is soon filled with chicken, roasted potatoes, and green beans. I sit down at the table, listening to the usual banter between my siblings.

“The Catcher in the Rye can not be your favorite book,” Morgan says.

“Why not?” Riley asks, his mouth full of chicken.

“Riley, that’s disgusting. Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Cassie says.

He shoves more chicken in his mouth. “Sorry, Cassie, what did you say?”

“EW,” Cassie says. “You’re so gross.”

“Seriously, Riley,” Morgan chimes in. “Grow up.”

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad are having a conversation of their own.

“Oh! Guess who’s coming into town this weekend,” Mom says.

“Who?” Dad asks.

“That’s not a guess, silly."

Dad taps his fork on the table, thinking. “Give me a hint.”

“College,” Mom says.

“Paul?” Dad asks, receiving a head shake from Mom.

In the midst of these conversations, I hear the doorbell ring. “Did anyone hear that?” No one answers me, so I attribute the sound to my imagination.

“The Richardsons!” Dad guesses.

“Holden is the most annoying character ever,” Morgan says as she waves her piece of chicken in the air.

The doorbell rings again.

“Oh, Daphne!” Riley shouts. “Ugh, what’s her last name?”

“Did you even read the book?” Morgan asks. “There’s no Daphne!”

This time, I get up from my chair as the others continue conversing about book characters and old college friends.

“Who’s at the door, Andy?” Cassie yells.

I don’t answer her. Instead, I ask, “What are you doing here?” The red-haired, blue-eyed girl is the last person I expected to see standing here.

“I thought we could work here instead,” Lottie says. “It makes more sense.”

“I mean–”

“ANDY,” Cassie yells. “Who’s at the door?”

“One sec!” I yell back. “Sorry, my younger sister.”

“Can we work here or not?” Lottie asks, fidgeting with her plain navy sweatshirt.

Before I can answer, I hear Mom’s voice behind me.

“Hi,” she says cheerily.

“Hi,” Lottie says. “Andy and I have a history project, I’m not sure if he mentioned it, but…”

“Yeah, change of plans,” I say. “Is it okay if we work here tonight?”

“Of course,” Mom says with a smile. “You’re right in time for dinner. Morgan, make another plate please!” Neither of us can protest because as soon as Lottie sets foot in the house, Mom is pointing out this room and that one, until we find ourselves at the dining room.

“Riley, grab another chair, please,” Mom says.

“Thanks,” Lottie says as Riley gets up.

“Here’s the extra plate,” Morgan says, walking back in. “Oh. Hey, Lottie.”

“Hi, Morgan. Thanks.”

What is she doing here? Morgan mouths to me when she sees Lottie is immersed in a conversation with our parents and Cassie.

Shut up, I mouth back. Be nice.

Morgan just rolls her eyes and sits back down.

“I have a chair!” Riley says. “Morgan, scoot over.”

I’m going to kill you, she mouths as she slides her chair to the right. Riley sits down, Lottie takes her place in between me and Morgan, and the meal continues, with a new awkwardness hanging in the air.

“This is Lottie, by the way,” I say. “We’re working on a history project together.”

“We know who she is,” Morgan says. “We all go to the same school.”

“You’re all in high school?” Lottie asks.

Morgan nods. “Senior, junior, sophomore, freshman.” Her fork flies from Riley to me to herself to Cassie.

“Wow,” Lottie says.

“Yeah, we like to keep things interesting at the Webster house,” Dad says.

There’s a few seconds of scattered laughter, then silence.

Lottie takes a bite of chicken. “The food is really good, thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Mom says.

The painful silence resumes until Cassie asks, “So, Lottie, what are your thoughts on The Catcher in the Rye?”

“Not this again,” Riley says.

“It’s not my favorite,” Lottie answers.

“You’ve read it?” Morgan asks, failing miserably at keeping the surprise out of her voice.

Lottie nods. “Holden’s kind of annoying.”

“See! It’s not just me,” Morgan says excitedly. “I told you.”

“What about The Great Gatsby?” Lottie asks.

“Oh, I love that book!” Mom says. “You know I did my thesis on it?”

“Yes!” Riley exclaims. “Pay up, Dad.”

Dad chuckles and fishes out a five dollar bill from his wallet.

“Six minutes and forty seconds,” Riley said, looking proudly at his watch.

“Doesn’t beat her record, though,” Dad says.

“Three minutes and twenty seconds,” Cassie says, grinning.

“No, remember, she beat that when we went out to dinner last week,” Morgan says. “Now it’s two minutes and thirty six seconds.”

“What happened in two minutes and thirty six seconds?” Lottie asks.

Mom smiles as the rest of us laugh. “I tend to get really excited about my thesis. So my children, and my husband, like to place bets on how long it’ll take me to bring it up. I only bring it up if it feels natural.”

“Um, the reason you brought it up last week was because our waiter said the shrimp scampi was great,” Riley said.

Lottie laughs. It sounds different than her usual laugh. Maybe because it’s accompanied by a large grin instead of a smug smirk. It’s louder, and it rings a little longer. And as the conversation continues, I realize her voice sounds different, too. It’s deeper. There are more jumps in volume from word to word, stronger inflections throughout her sentences. It sounds…less reined in.

“Black Beauty!” The pure excitement in Lottie’s voice pulls me back into the conversation.

“That’s Andy’s favorite!” Cassie says.

“Really?” Lottie asks.

I nod. “I can’t even count how many times I’ve read it.”

“Same,” Lottie says. “This one time,” she laughs. “I had this beautiful copy of the book. The cover was engraved with little flowers and the pages had gold edges. Well, I accidentally left it on the kitchen table one day, and I looked over because I heard this weird chewing sound. And my dog is literally eating the book!” Her hands move excitedly along with her voice as she tells the story, the gestures growing larger until her hand hits my glass of water, knocking it over.

“Oh my gosh, Andy, I’m so sorry,” Lottie says, standing up and grabbing a napkin from the center of the table. She says my name, but her eyes are fixed on my dad.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say quickly, grabbing another napkin.

“Books are exciting. I understand,” Mom says to Lottie.

Lottie’s face flushes a bit, and she smiles appreciatively.

“Here, why don’t I take over?” Dad says, standing up. “Y’all get started on your history project.”

Once in my room, we sit on the floor, her back against the wall, mine against the foot of my bed. Plum curls up right next to Lottie. We stare at our computer screens, scrolling through articles, flipping through old class notes. I catch a glimpse of her notes as we work, and they’re detailed. Maybe even more so than mine. Sometimes, she'll read them aloud quietly to herself with a furrowed brow, and when she types a long paragraph, she rocks her head back and forth just a little. As we work, we toss ideas around, bouncing off one another until both of us are pleased. Her thoughts are…good. More than good.

“You’re smart,” I say. I’m horrified as soon as the words leave my mouth. “I’m sorry, that did not sound how I meant it to, at all, gosh.”

“It’s okay,” Lottie says. “You can be surprised. I would be, you know, if I were you.”

“No, I’m not surprised,” I say. “It’s just that at school, I don’t know, you…”

“I know,” she says.

For a few minutes, the click-clack of our fingers tapping the keyboard is the only sound in the room.

“I–” Lottie starts. I stop typing at the sound of her voice and look up. “I kind of hate the person I am at school.”

“Not even just at school,” Lottie adds. “The way I act, the things I say…”

I don’t know what to say to that. Because the truth is I don’t like the person she is there either. But here, when I look at her, sitting across from me. Really look. She looks…human. She’s not the angel of a person I thought she was in fourth grade. But she’s also not the cruel, shallow person I knew just two hours ago. She’s human. We’re on the same ground.

“Why?” I ask. “Why do you do those things if you don’t like it?” I voice the question slowly, treading lightly along our newfound common ground.

Lottie doesn’t answer right away. She moves the computer off her lap, allowing Plum to lay her head there. This gesture elicits a sigh of content from the happy dog, and a small smile from Lottie.

“Your family is really sweet,” she says as she gently strokes Plum’s fur.

“They’re crazy,” I say with a small laugh, brushing past the fact that her answer didn’t really satisfy my question. Lottie smiles a little. But something written across her face makes me add, “But yeah, they are.”

“Especially Plum,” Lottie says, looking back down at the dog. She starts whispering to Plum, telling her how pretty and perfect she is. “I love my dog, but all he does is eat stuff he’s not supposed to.”

I laugh. “Like your copy of Black Beauty.”

“Exactly,” Lottie says with a laugh.

“You never finished your story,” I say.

“Oh, right, well, that’s basically it,” she says. “My dog ran down the street, and the book dropped in a pile of mud. I brought it back home, but…” Her eyes don’t meet mine as she tells this part of the story, and her voice lacks the same energy as at the dinner table.

Something compels me to go over to my bookshelf.

“The cover is really worn out and the spine is bent in, like, a million places, but,” I say, handing Lottie the old little book. She gently takes the book from my hand and flips through the pages.

“I can’t believe you still have it,” Lottie says.

“What, I mean, you remember?” I ask.

Her face flushes. “Well, you read it, like, every day in fourth grade. I remember thinking you must have been the slowest reader alive.”

I laugh, and so does she.

“It’s my favorite color, too,” she said, running her fingers along the cover.

The green cover, not yellow.

At that moment, a few things clicked. I realized that Lottie was not an incompetent horseback rider. I realized that the yellow sweater was worn not because she loved the color, but for an entirely different reason. I realized that Lottie was spiteful and bitter because she thought she had to be. And maybe she did.

We didn’t talk about it then. Not for a while. But after that night, Lottie Gray spent more and more time at the Webster house, until dinners felt incomplete if there were any less than seven people around the table. She shopped at secondhand bookstores with my mom and helped Cassie practice soccer drills. She became the taste tester for all of Morgan’s baking attempts and the critic for Riley’s short films. It took longer than the others, but she and my dad bonded over birdwatching – a surprisingly shared interest between the two. With time, the Lottie that we saw soon became the Lottie that everyone else saw.

As for her and I, well, there are many things I could say about us. We were a mismatched pair to those who didn’t know us, maybe even a bit so to those who did. But we had found a home in each other.

Oh, and we went horseback riding together. We rode around a little orchard and sat on the soft grass in the shade. Every so often, I imagine I’m still sitting there, under the apple trees, with the girl I’ve loved since fourth grade.