The summer I turned fourteen was a turbulent time.
My mother was divorcing my stepfather. He had started to get a little wacky- showering with his undershirt on for example- and it was the straw that broke the camel's back of an already strained marriage.
So, we left our three bedroom, doorman apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side for Queens and a small one bedroom apartment.
Queens was right over the bridge from Manhattan, but a world apart.
Not only was I going through puberty (I got my period for the first time that summer), which is awkward enough on its own, but I went from an all girls private school to a public junior high school where most of the students had known each other since kindergarten.
I was a foreigner invading their territory. I had taken French (they didn't even OFFER French at this school- just Spanish), I didn't wear Champion sweatshirts, and I didn't know what Z Cavariccis were.
I was lost.

We rented our apartment from a 40- something Greek couple. We lived on the first floor, they lived on the second floor.
They had a daughter who was a year older than me. Her name was Veronika. She was the complete opposite of me. Tall (I didn't even reach five feet until I was fourteen), she had long dark hair (mine was blonde), and she had boobs (I was flat chested until I was 18). I was fascinated with her.
She went to Catholic school (I was a Jew). She rolled her school uniform skirt up as high as it would go (I had NO style and wore acid washed jeans and Keds). She was everything I wasn't, and I worshiped her for it.

We became fast friends.

Veronika was the stereotypical Catholic school girl.
She lied to her very strict Greek parents, she smoked cigarettes, and there's no better way to say this- she was a slut.
She was a skirt rolling, hair flipping, giggling, master. And all of the (men and) boys joined me in my worship.

One of my favorite stories that sums up her slutiness is this-
Veronika's parents wanted her to get an after school job.
She worked in a local bagel shop owned by a man 20 years older than her.
She started having an affair with him.
One day when she got home after a long day of "work", the kind of work that she could have used kneepads for, her mother asked her what the white stuff on her shirt was.
I froze in terror. I thought I was about to witness Veronika's mother's discovery that her little girl was blowing the much older Bagel King. Instead, without missing a beat Veronika said "It's cream cheese, mom".
I was stunned by her ability to lie to her parents' faces, something I could never do. I was a good girl. I never lied to my mother, not for fear of consequences, but for fear of losing my mother's trust. I would lose sleep and get a stomach ache if I thought I might be disappointing my mother.
I also had never done more than kiss a boy. I was afraid of the penis (what if it didn't like me?). Veronika was in a completely different league than me.
I secretly envied her lack of morals.

I spent almost all of my free time that year hanging out with Veronika. I was the Robin to her Batman. It was an unusual role for me, I was usually the leader, but I was desperate to make friends and fit it even if it meant playing the supporting role.

Veronika was never a good friend, but that didn't matter to me- my Manhattan friends had started to drift away from me (they couldn't be seen with someone who lived in Queens!), and almost everyone at school hated me. So, I happily stood on the sidelines and watched Veronika, smoke, drink, sneak out of the house, and fool around with any man she could get her hands on.

I think it is a testament to my mother's amazing parenting skills that she never told me I couldn't hang out with Veronika. She thought that if she did, it would only make me want to spend more time with her. My mother was right. I was a good kid, but I was still a teenager. So, my mother kept her mouth shut, and when Veronika would get into trouble my mother would help her out. Veronika's father was abusive, and my mother's father had been abusive, so she felt sorry for her.

So, without any opposition on the home front I continued to follow Veronika around like a dutiful puppy dog. And she gave me nothing in return. She repeatedly took advantage of me and our friendship. I let her.

The summer that I turned 16 our financial situation improved and my mother and I moved to a big three bedroom apartment.

I had made a new group of friends who were honest and trustworthy. They were good people. But, I tried to continue my friendship with Veronika. I was really bad at breaking ties with someone, and I guess I was waiting for a return on all of the time and energy I had invested in our friendship.

One night, shortly after I moved to the new apartment, Veronika invited me to go out with her, her brother (who was a year younger than me), and some of her "friends". She wanted to go to a club in Astoria, Queens. Astoria was in the same borough that I lived in, but it was a foreign land to me.
The club Veronika brought me to had a sign on the front door "MUST BE 25 YEARS OLD TO ENTER". I thought she was crazy. I looked like I was twelve. I had been to some dance clubs where you had to be 18 to get in, but this was another story. How the hell were we going to get in? But Veronika, wearing a low cut top, did some expert giggling and hair flipping at the guy manning the front door, and the next thing I knew, I was inside.
The moment I stepped inside I felt uncomfortable. There were sleazy older men everywhere, looking at me like I was a piece of fresh meat. My skin was crawling and I was itching to get out of there. I begged Veronika to leave, but knew she wouldn't leave until SHE wanted to leave. Finally, after about 45 of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life, Veronika decided we should leave because they didn't have any dancing.
We stepped outside, but unfortunately my discomfort didn't improve much- It was late, I was in a strange place, and the streets were pretty empty. We started walking. Veronika's brother and a few of her friends were drunk. A car passed us and the occupants shouted lewd remarks at us. The couple of years I had spent in Queens taught me that the people in the car were more than likely gang members, to keep my mouth shut, and keep walking.
Apparently Veronika's brother, even though he grew up in Queens, thought it would be a good idea to stand in the middle of the street, raise his arms in the air, and curse at the guys in the car.
With in the blink of an eye the car had backed down the street towards us, the car doors flew open, and the guys threw Veronika's brother up against a wall and put a gun to his head.

I don't know what happened next, because a cab was driving down the street, and I hopped in and never looked back.

I never spoke to Veronika again. The gun was the last straw. I didn't care anymore how cool she was or how un-cool I was. She had put me in dangerous and uncomfortable situations too many times.

I don't regret the time I spent with her. It taught me to want more out of my friendships.

I still think about Veronika sometimes. Wonder where she is or what she's doing with her life. Did she go to college? Is she married? Does she have kids?
I also wonder what would have happened if that cab hadn't been driving down that street at that moment.

It's funny how you can care so much about someone who never cared about you.