Remember the Smile
My senior year in high school was one of the most memorable years of school for me. That year, so many things happened, that allowed me to get a new perspective on life. First off, I won a scholarship that gave me over $20,000 for college (including a Dell laptop, and separate money for my book expenses). I was also elected to be one of the board members for my school’s newspaper. I have always had a passion for writing, and being on the newspaper staff would give me more experience in the area that I needed most help in, that would also help me in the future.
I took writing very seriously that year, and still do. Writing is a major part of my life; after all it is a serious matter. I loved getting caught up in my articles, even when they weren’t interesting writing topics. Often times I would have to write about petty things, such as the color of graduation gowns, and getting new computers in the library, but I still loved the excitement that came when writing my articles. Seeing my name in print on the newspapers gave me much hope that one day, I would see many more published works with my name on them. My writing was someday going to take me somewhere. I just knew it.
I remember one night; I was in my room working on some brainstorming exercises for an article that was due that week. My door was shut, as I always enjoyed doing my homework with no disturbances. I heard my grandma call both my sister and myself for dinner. I could smell the aroma of the hamburgers my grandma had made, even with the door shut tight. I never liked my grandma’s hamburgers. They were never seasoned properly, and they were always overcooked. I don’t like my beef to “moo” but I don’t like it when it’s burnt either, it needs to be just the right amount of red in order for me to actually enjoy it.
As we sat around the dinner table, we often talked about the day’s events. It was usually boring conversations, about the weather or maybe something that happened at school that day. I noticed that as my grandpa came and sat down to join us, he forgot to turn the television off in the living room. I could hear the news as it played in the background. My mind kept going from the dinner conversation, to the breaking news stories on ABC.
I remember my sister was informing us of something that had happened at school that day, but I was really only half listening. I was trying to listen to the news, because something had caught my attention. The name Krista Pike, and a picture of her now 18 year old self, lay across the screen.
“Natali—can you be quiet for just one minute please?!?!” I asked, not meaning to bite her head off. Something about that name sent a chill through my body that made me burst from my chair, and up from the table into the living room.
I turned the TV up, and listened with full attention. “Family and friends of a young North Valley woman who was murdered this week are saying their goodbyes today. Krista-Rae Pike’s body was found on Monday inside the Madera home she shared with her fiancé and his father. Action news reporter Laurie Penco shows us how people are remembering the victim…”
It was January 16, 2008, two days after the brutal attack on my friend. News of her death was just reaching the community. My knees collapsed from underneath me as I fell to the floor. I could not control the salty tears that fell down my face. My younger sister got up from the table and sat down beside me.
“Sis, did you know that girl Krista?” she asked.
“Yeah… I did… we were friends in elementary school, and junior high. But I haven’t seen her in years. She switched schools before we went into high school”.
“Oh…Are you going to be ok?” she asked, concerned.
“Ya… It’s just… I’m never going to see her again.” I realized. I got up from the carpeted floor, “Can I be excused, please? I’m not hungry anymore”, I asked my grandma as I went to my room. I really didn’t wait for her to answer; I just left, and shut my bedroom door behind me.
As I lay in my bed that night, in my own little world of memories, all the details of our friendship came back to me clearer than ever before. It’s not that we were best of friends, or even really close friends. After all, I never really went to find her after she left our school. I never had her phone number, and she never came over to my house for sleepovers. The idea of not being one of her best friends didn’t seem to matter anymore, because she had impacted my life, just by being a friend. These memories that I had collected, even though they were small, and unimportant to someone else, were all that I had left of her. I was never going to be able to run into her at the store, or see her around town, because she was no longer alive… I was never going to see her again.
That night, I cried with some of my friends on the phone, who shared other memories that they found comforting. Together, we cried, as friends often do. I fell asleep that night with thoughts of Krista in my mind…
I remember the day I met her. She was in Mr. Eicholtz’s 4th grade class, same as me. Her name was Krista Pike. There was just something about her that I didn’t have. The way that she smiled, the way that she laughed, the way that she walked with confidence… There was a glow about her; a glow that I wish I had. And even though I didn’t know everything there was to know about her, she stood out to me as someone I wanted to be friends with, because I wanted to be like her, full of happiness and joy. That same year, during lunch hour in the cafeteria, I sat next to her, and in that moment we became friends.
In 8th grade gym, we had to run the mile. In order to get a passing grade of “c”, we had to get a ten minute time. My teacher Mrs. Wood, had told us earlier that week that we needed to find a partner, so that we could help each other finish the mile, and encourage each other along the way. On the day of the mile, I hadn’t yet found a partner. I was on my way over to the gym locker rooms to change when Krista caught up to me. She hadn’t found a partner yet either, so she asked me to be hers. In that moment we became each other’s encouragement.
As we were heading to the gym together, Krista asked me to read a story that she had been writing, about her best friend. For a moment, I thought maybe that friend was me. But really, after I thought about it for awhile, Krista and I were not the best of friends. We were just friends, good friends.
As I read her story, I came to realize that her best friend was her dog. Her dog was always there for her to talk to and he was the best listener when she needed him. At the end of the story, I came to know that her dog had just died… and she felt that she had lost her best friend. When I was done reading, I looked up at her, and I remember telling her that she would always have a friend in me, and that if she ever needed anyone to talk to, or lend an ear, I was there for her. I remember telling her “Even if you just need a shoulder, I’ll be there to give you mine, and together, we can cry”.
When Krista and I ran the mile that day, we completed with an 8 minute, some odd second finishing time. Together, we got an A. We finished the mile with a good time, and made it through. I realized though, that as we passed the finish line, Krista was in pain. She fell hard to the black rocky asphalt, her pale face stained with tears. She couldn’t breathe. She gave me her locker combination, between gasps for breath, and I ran as fast as I could, to retrieve her Albuterol inhaler, before things got worse.
As I came back, I saw that she was crying from the pain that resided inside of her. I felt like such a horrible friend. Tears began to stream down my face as well; I was feeling guilty for pushing her too much. What have I done? I had never even realized she was having trouble breathing; she just kept going as if she were having no trouble at all getting through the run. But there she was, lying on the ground, suffering because I kept telling her “Come on Krista, we can do this” and “We’re almost there, we got it”, encouraging her, as was the purpose for having a partner in the first place.
Later that day, in Mr. Archer’s history class, Krista kept reassuring me that it wasn’t my fault for her asthma attack. She was great at that; always being optimistic about everything, even when her friends (like me) had caused her pain. Krista was the kind of girl who never let things get her down. That’s how I always saw her, in good spirits, always happy and smiling, looking at the good stuff about life, rather than the bad things.
Sometime later that same year, I went to the girl’s bathroom during my lunch break. I remember it was a stormy, rainy day. It looked as if the night had taken over the day; the light had disappeared from the sky. It was gloomy outside, as the rain poured down from above. I always dreaded these kinds of days, as it made me sad and gloomy seeing no sunshine in the sky.
As I was doing what people normally do in the bathroom, I heard a voice in the stall next to me, crying. I could tell it was Krista. But she was crying… a side of her I had never seen before; as I was sure it wasn’t something she liked to let show. I asked her if she was alright, and was given the reply “Go away!” I knew she didn’t really mean that. After all, I was her friend. So, I did what any friend would do in this situation. Instead of leaving the bathroom, I went and sat on the counter until she came out of her hiding place. As I waited, I wondered what was wrong with her that caused her such a meltdown.
Once she came out, she filled me in, as friends often do. She told me that her and her boyfriend, who I have forgotten the name of at the moment (after all it was over 7 years ago), were fighting and she feared they were breaking up. I sat there with her on the bathroom counter, as she cried on my shoulder. When we heard the lunch bell rang, we walked to class together, and sat next to each other as well, so that her boyfriend wouldn’t try to sit in the no longer vacant seat beside her.
When I got to school the next day, everything looked as it had the day before. Nothing had changed. I thought things would be different. I remember when Donovan, a fellow classmate and victim to a car accident, had died the summer before my senior year. And when everyone went back to school at the beginning of the year, everything was different. But today, nothing seemed to have changed as I had expected they would.
Going into the journalism room that morning, I noticed one of my journalism teachers, Tyler Takeda, in the back of the room by the computers, reading the Fresno Bee. He turned his head, and looked at me as I stood by the door. Our eyes met, and we clicked for a brief moment. I felt as if all the other students in the classroom were staring at me, but I knew they weren’t.
“Tyler…..” I said slowly.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I think I may have found my story…” oh great, here come those salty tears again! I couldn’t stop them. I had no control over the wetness that trailed down my face.
“You sure?” was all he said. Was I sure? Not really…
“Yes… no...” I hesitated. “But it’s a story that needs written… and I think I should do it- For Krista”.
I went to my desk, and took out a pencil and paper, two main ingredients that all writers need to complete the perfect recipe. I jotted down my working title. “Krista Pike: Murdered at 18”. I sat there for the entire period, staring at my blank paper that consisted of nothing but a title. Could I really do this? I would need contacts and references, and facts. I would need to talk to Friends who knew Krista, and who could justify the great friend that she was. Could I handle the pressure?
As I contemplated how to even begin such an emotionally consuming article, Tyler came and sat down in the vacant desk next to me. He took out his own red pen, crossed out my too blunt of a title, and created something magnificent. It was just what I needed to create this memorial piece: “Krista Pike: Remember the Smile.”
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