Nothing Marin did could ever compare to Alice. She got worse grades. Her boobs were smaller. She ran slower. Even her lopsided scrawl got lost beside Alice’s perfectly uniform letters.
But when Marin was upset she always knew that it was Alice who would comfort her, because in addition to being superior at the unimportant things, Alice was also the better friend.

This isn’t to say that Alice was perfect; she had some very genuine shortcomings. The way she hesitated before the last word of every sentence; her unjustified hatred for star wars. It makes it hurt less to think of her as a normal girl, and not the otherworldly goddess that my mind often tricks me into thinking she was.

And this isn’t to say Marin was not perfect, because even after everything that happened I still care for her. A lot.

But on the day Marin and Alice met me, I was blind to the subtle hierarchy of their friendship. All I saw was two tan, carefree, beach girls riding beach cruisers with rusty handlebars and flat tires.