Reimagine Friendship

By Brandy Woldstad

Jasmine's birthday gift blurred the line between real and imaginary. 

How can she help make the imaginary real?

Reimagine Friendship tells the story of two friends who need each other in a beyond imaginable way.

If you enjoy humorous tales with imaginary friends, buy Reimagine Friendship today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandy Woldstad
• Release date: Aug 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393849278

Book preview

1

Jasmine pulled her 2001 Buick LeSabre into her driveway. The engine puttered to silence. She stared at the hood of her car, illuminated by the floodlight mounted between the two garage doors. Her hands gripped the steering wheel. A chill filled the cab of her car. The cool air filled her lungs as she breathed deeply. Her health teacher had told her deep breathing helped one calm their mind, but right now all deep breathing had done was make noise in her car. Slowly, she shifted her eyes to the front door of her house.

Even though her parents were extremely friendly and loved her to pieces, today she questioned their love. She tapped her right index finger on the steering wheel as she thought. Maybe the last seventeen years of her life had been setup in such a way to completely humiliate her today on her seventeenth birthday. Maybe her parents were giving each other high fives for a joke well played, which was why she was afraid to step inside her own house.

What else could they do in one day to embarrass her even further? Would the entire neighborhood be hiding behind every piece of furniture in her house ready to give her a heart attack by shouting surprise? Would her four-year-old squeaky voice from when she struggled to talk play a greeting when she opened the door? Would there be a life-sized cutout of her in the nude when she was three waiting to greet her? Any of these could happen and, of course, it would all be recorded on her dad’s video camera with much commentary and awful puns to be played repeatedly for the rest of her living days.

She shivered. She hated her birthday, because every year her parents did something outrageous that would give her a new nickname at school for the rest of the year. The people at her school probably eagerly anticipated October 13th as a day for a good laugh. She tipped her head back, letting it drop onto the maroon polyester head rest. Her blonde hair instantly became static charged.

She brushed her hair from her face, not that it helped, but it stalled her entrance. If only her parents were normal. Normal parents let teenagers keep their birthdays as quiet as they wanted. They didn’t make someone’s birthday feel like a high school pep rally without permission.

The keys jangled as Jasmine took them out of the ignition. She knew in her heart there were many things that could be worse than her mom making enough cupcakes for her entire junior class in her high school, her dad playing a video in the cafeteria of her childhood milestones, and both parents leading everyone in singing Happy Birthday. Sure, her parents meant well, but did her mom have to sing off key in opera tones? Did the video have to have her embarrassing moments? Did the cupcakes have to be arranged in a way to make a pixel picture of a dragon? Okay, the last item was really amazing. Her mom had pushed tables together for the pixilated display below a stage. Then she asked everyone to walk onto the stage to appreciate the full view of the dragon below before the cupcakes were handed out. Knowing her mom, she probably had the assistance of all the teachers on break the hour before the surprise. Cupcakes, especially her mom’s, were excellent bribes.

For the rest of the day, her peers teased her about being the cupcake girl. Quite a few of the guys from the football team sang her new nickname as if they were singing opera. The quiet of her car felt like an oasis.

She sighed as she slid her keys into the front pocket of her purse. Her rusty car couldn’t protect her from her parents forever. The door squeaked as she opened it. She grabbed her purse and slid out of the car.

Work hadn’t been much better. Her mom had decorated her bakery, Cupcake Kingdom, for a party. When a person came through the door, her mom or the assistant manager would welcome the customer, offer them a cup of coffee, and tell them that in honor Jasmine, the strawberry cupcakes were twenty-five percent off.

It’s Jasmine’s favorite cupcake, so we needed a reason to celebrate.

Each time someone mentioned her name, Jasmine’s mom or Marcy, their assistant, pointed out Jasmine or asked her to come to the counter so the customer could wish her a happy birthday.

There was no doubt her face from noon to now had looked like she had a terrible sunburn or was transforming into a lobster. Too bad it was still two-and-a-half weeks to Halloween.

The heels of her calf-length boots clicked on the cement sidewalk. Overgrown hedges brushed at her leggings. The living room windows didn’t glow with the soft light of the table lamp like they normally did when she returned home. A porch light shone down on the Finley name placard next to the door. She shoved her hands into her black, woolen coat. Her fingers rubbed the silk interior of the pocket. The moving of her fingers did nothing to calm her building anxiety.

The spring on the storm door groaned as she pulled it open. She pressed her ear against the door. No sounds of last-minute scrambling or footsteps could be heard. As she pushed the door open, she braced herself for some sort of cacophony. She turned on the living room light and looked around. The room stood empty.

Hello? Is anyone home?

She hung her purse on a hook near the door. As she slid out of her coat, her dad came from the hall where his office was. He looked like a younger version of Santa with dusty, gray hair and a scruffy beard that touched the top part of his sternum. His reading glasses rested on the edge of his nose.

Welcome home, he said.

Jasmine hung up her jacket. Where is everyone?

Everyone? Her dad chuckled. It’s just going to be the three of us tonight.

Jasmine let out a sigh of relief as she took off her boots. She was the only child, but it seemed there was always someone coming for dinner during the week. It was rare when all the seats at their kitchen table weren’t filled for dinner. Jasmine walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

Her dad followed close behind. Did you have a good day? he asked.

Jasmine almost spewed water all over the kitchen sink as a response. Good? She wanted to say no. She wanted to tell her dad that what they had done left her tormented and teased for the rest of the day. She knew he wouldn’t have known about the bakery attention, but she felt angry toward him for that as well. She wanted to talk about how she hated being the center of attention and that her parents should know this. But, instead, not wanting to fight, she smiled and said, It was nice.

She grimaced at her choice of words, but couldn’t bring herself to speak the truth because she didn’t want to hurt her parents’ feelings.

Good, good. Her dad pulled his cellphone from his front pocket. It looks like Mom will be home in a few minutes. She had to run to the store.

Jasmine walked back into the living room. A small fire burned in the fireplace. She sat on the floor a few feet from it with her legs stretched out in front of her. She wiggled her feet side to side, noticing the frosting smudges that had missed her apron at work and hit her black leggings. She rested her hands on the ground slightly behind her. As she closed her eyes, she could see flickers of the firelight behind her eyelids. The warmth made her wish she could curl up and go to sleep.

The front door whooshed open and groaned as Jasmine’s mom closed it. A plastic bag thunked to the floor.

Happy birthday, Sweetheart, her mom said as she hung her white, faux fur jacket on the coat rack.

Jasmine held in a groan. She didn’t want to hear that phrase any more today. Hi, she said.

Wasn’t it a great day? her mom asked. She walked over to sit in the rocking chair next to the fireplace.

Sure.

Her mom smoothed the front of her ankle length, jean skirt. She smiled. Her blue eyes looked over Jasmine’s shoulder. Jasmine turned to see her dad carrying a package that looked as if it belonged on the front cover of a home decorating magazine.

Jasmine’s eyes widened. Did Mom wrap that?

Her mom and dad laughed. Of course, not, her dad said. I did.

I’d never be able to wrap something that good, her mom said.

Jasmine smiled. Besides detailing cars for living, her dad had a knack for wrapping gifts that neither she nor her mom had mastered. This time, with the dark red ribbon and the silver wrapping paper, he had outdone himself.

Come sit on the couch so you can open it, her dad requested.

Shouldn’t we have dinner first? Jasmine asked.

Please, her mom said.

Jasmine sank onto the blue couch, giving her parents a suspicious look as her dad set the gift in her lap.

Is something going to leap out at me?

Her mom put a hand to the locket on her chest. No. Why would we do that?

With her parents’ behavior earlier, she felt suspicious. She studied the gift in her lap. It looked harmless enough. She pulled her cellphone from the pocket of her purple hoodie and took a picture. The gift was pretty enough it would definitely get posted on her website.

Pulling the dark red ribbon and undoing the perfectly creased edges of the silver wrapping paper felt like a crime.

Go on, open it, her dad said, his voice clipped with impatience or eagerness, Jasmine couldn’t tell. He knelt down a few feet in front of her, swiped his finger along his phone, and pointed the built-in video camera at her. We don’t have all night.

Jasmine’s mom shot him a disgusted glance. Take all the time you need, she said. She straightened her peach cardigan before placing her cupped hands in her lap. The rocking chair creaked as she leaned forward.

Jasmine, perched on the end of the sofa like a squirrel on the edge of a bird feeder, pulled at the tail of the bow. It swished as it came undone. The paper crinkled as she slid her fingers with lightning bolts painted on her nails along the seam. Her father held his arm out, his eyes focused on his phone screen.

Beneath the paper sat a square foot, oak box. A carved medallion rested on the top of it. The sides were covered with two inch wide panels. Curved lines were carved into each one. Jasmine scrunched her eyebrows together as she turned the box in her hands, looking for a way to open it.

It’s an old puzzle box, her dad said. The floorboards squeaked as he moved closer to Jasmine.

Jasmine touched each panel, gently moving it up and down with her finger. Two of them in the front revealed keyholes. Where are the keys?

They are hidden on the side of the box, her mother said. A lock of her gray hair fell from her clip as she moved over to the couch to sit next to Jasmine. Jasmine pushed every inch of the box, searching for something that would move. A small square on the bottom slid out to reveal a key.

Jasmine smiled. She put the key into the first keyhole. A soft click sounded as the lock came undone. She pulled the key out. Her parents exchanged eager looks. Her dad rubbed his palms together in anticipation. Her mom leaned in closer.

Carefully, Jasmine kept her cheerful smile on her face, aware of her father recording her. With the care given to wrapping her gift, she expected something incredible like the latest Game System Pro, VR goggles, or a tablet. She lifted the lid using the tips of her fingers and braced herself for something spectacular.

2

Bongo sat on his couch inside his cozy puzzle box reading his favorite book, The Best Friend’s Guide to Non-Imaginary Friends , when he felt an earthquake. He leapt from the couch, his eyes widening as his house shook to and fro. 

Yes! Finally! Bongo shouted. 

He threw his book into the air. He barely noticed the thud as it struck the floor because at the same time it touched the ground he whooped with joy. Any moment now, his ceiling, the top of the box, would open, and he’d meet his new non-imaginary friend. Making friends was among his most favorite activities. It was right up there with eating ice cream, walking barefoot along the beach, and hanging his head out the car window. 

He stopped in front of his broken mirror to look at his reflection. He shifted his head so that he could see fragments of his face. Most of the glass had gone missing during a rousing soccer drill practice in his living room. Sure, he could’ve tossed the mirror out like a normal person, but Bongo was far from normal and, he figured, why start now? He saw enough of his reflection to know his left eye was still blue and that his brown hair had gotten greasy from not showering regularly. There was no time to shower, so he vigorously scrubbed his hands through his hair, making it stand up in all directions. Spiked hair was his favorite hairdo because he never needed a comb. He brushed the chocolate chip cookie crumbs from his favorite, bright orange shirt, wiped his hands on his fluorescent green and dark green plaid shorts, and tied his bright blue shoelaces into knots. He leapt back from the mirror, saw the blobs of color, and determined he looked presentable. Never mind, he couldn’t really see his full reflection.

Bongo’s box continued to shake. He did a dance that involved punching his fists in the air, drumming on the wall, and moving his feet in a poor imitation of the moonwalk. He cheered like a wild boy. It was great. He hadn’t been this happy since he met his last non-imaginary friend, Gabe, so many years ago that he lost track on his fingers. Not that time mattered to him, because it didn’t.

A click, followed by another click, sounded. Bongo held still, his wide eyes glued to the lid. He held his breath, eagerly anticipating the faint squeak of the hinges.

Then it happened, his new best friend opened the box. He squinted up at the two large, brown eyes that stared into his humble home. Locks of long, blonde hair dropped to the side of the box.

Hi! Bongo shouted to his new friend.

The eyes disappeared. A moment later, his entire house flipped upside down. Thankfully, everything remained in place, except for his plate of chocolate chip cookies, the broken mirror pieces on the floor, and his book. These items landed in the half-open lid. He had fastened everything else to floor with superglue. Bongo didn’t fall out because his last best friend had installed heavy duty magnets to the bottoms of his shoes. When the box tipped upside down, a piece of metal pressed against his red velvet carpet and held him in place. It was an ingenious invention. While it was fun to walk upside-down with magnets on his shoes, it was harder than giving a non-imaginary friend a piggyback outside his box.

Bongo cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. Hello? I’m down here! I’d appreciate it if you turned my house back upright.

The box turned back upright. The metal dropped away with a clunk. Bongo could easily move once again. He was relieved the person, whoever they were, could hear him. Thank you. Would you mind if I came out? Bongo called.

There was no answer. Instead, a hand reached into the box. Bongo stepped to the left and then to the right to avoid getting struck as the fingertips swatted the walls and tapped the bottom of his floor. Not that he could get struck since the person touching the inside of his house didn’t appear to see him, but the instinct of self-protection was still within him. To Bongo’s dismay, the fingers went through every wall and piece of furniture he owned. 

I take it you don’t see my lovely place? 

He jumped to the center of his living room. When he landed, he felt an electric tingle that went through his shoes, up his legs, and into his heart. He grinned. His connection with his new friend was established. 

This is great, Bongo said. He stretched his arms above his head, closed his eyes, and allowed himself to grow tall enough so he could peek over the edge of the box. If anyone could have seen him, they would’ve laughed at the sight of a small tuft of spiked hair and tiny little eyes peering over the edge. As it was, the people in the room discussed the contents or lack thereof in Bongo’s box. Bongo remained undetected.

He stretched his arms above his head and grew tall enough to step over the edge of his box and onto his new best friend’s thigh. Once he was completely out of the box, he stared up at his friend. His heart sank. She didn’t notice him, which wouldn’t be so bad if that was the only problem. But she was a girl. A teenage girl, at that. How could he be best friends with a teenage girl? There were rules. Girls never saw him, because he was