Tzivy owns me, and like a puppy, I remain hers, exclusively.

As told to Batsheva Eichelberg

Ten minutes left until the global regent. The Byzantine Empire — I don’t know this part. I skim my notes, frantically committing names and dates to memory.

That’s when Tzivy breezes over. “Oh, perfect! I should probably read some of this stuff before the bell.” Tinkling laugh, flick of bangs. “You have such amazing notes.”

“I’m not done here, Tziv.”

Blue eyes roll, the same eyes that view top scores as significant only if they’re effortless. “Oh, come on. I bet you can recite your notes backwards by now.”

My cheeks are on fire. True, I’d studied for hours. It’s a lot of material, and I want to do well. So I fried my brain cramming, while Tzivy allegedly partied, and now my limp hands relinquish my notes to her. It’s only fair. She’s my best friend.

The grades come in. I score three points higher than Tzivy. She snorts. “Marks…”

Snort until tomorrow, I know she’s green inside. Brains, charisma, luck — these things matter in high school.

When I’m elected G.O. president, she tells me how sorry she feels for me, how our school chooses girls who need a boost. When I’m honored as valedictorian, she mocks clichéd graduation speeches. I know she does it to mask her envy. The two of us teeter at the top of the class — socially, academically, even spiritually — and we’re neck and neck at the summit.

Still, I’m always a step ahead, and everyone knows it.

Like true BFFs, we hijack our families’ phones for hours every night. We do it all — sleepovers, Shabbos walks, adventures. However, her barbs, laced with cynicism and blistering grudges, hurt. Most of the time I laugh along, but the constant digs pierce through the thick skin I tell myself I’ve developed, and I break down. Cold wars erupt between us with alarming frequency. I’m always making up with her, though, always confessing to a list of “sins” I never committed.

I could handle the competition. What makes me develop a deep-seated hatred toward Tzivy is the manipulation. I’m afraid to succeed. I’m afraid to fail. I’m afraid of losing her.

It’s as though Tzivy has purchased the ownership rights over me, and I faithfully abide by her rules. She screens my social interactions. I know she’ll desert me if she feels threatened.

“You and Avigail are tight,” she says coolly when she sees us posing for a picture together. Her smirk makes my blood go cold. I like Avigail. We have a rapport. We… we could be friends.