I was in primary school when I heard that crazy laugh for the first time. Other girls in the class tittered and giggled in typical 8-year-old manner: Janine Scott’s laugh was anarchic, dangerous and often inappropriate. I loved it. Sharing an absurdist sense of humour and a love of dancing, we became firm friends.
Frequent sleepovers at each other’s homes were spent choreographing our latest dream dance production and laughing for hours at nothing in particular, amusements in an era devoid of personal computers, internet and smartphones.
But one Friday night, as we lay about her bedroom, chatting, she became increasingly agitated as I mindlessly threw her small brown Teddy bear into the air.
Stop throwing the Teddy around.
Me, laughing and dangling the bear upside-down by one leg: What’s wrong?
Janine, almost crying now: It belonged to Morgan.
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