Last night I did the strangest thing; so strange, in fact that I’ve struggled to wrap my brain around it all day long.

My hand shook as text-messaged the least likely of candidates.

I’ve mentioned this beauty in my former writing and bitterly named her “Bertha”; an ugly name for a gorgeous girl. This tale begins so pettily if I admit that I stole her number from my boyfriend’s phone as he popped the hood of his car. “Bertha” had called him, once again. Although we never met, I was acquainted with her pictures on Drew’s Mac.

With my sincere appreciation for beauty, Drew proudly showed pictures, at my request, of the lovelies he had dated. Doll after doll displayed on the screen and I giggled in awe until suddenly, a sparkling blonde, svelte, wide-eyed, giant-smiled girl appeared. I frowned, “You were with her?” She struck me as absolute aesthetic perfection. When Drew went on to describe her fortunate breeding and her keys to a brand new Bentley I found the envy I worked for years to shed off my being rearing its vile head. I asked her name and rejected it immediately. “Ew, she even has a pretty name! We’ll call her Bertha,” I pronounced and started crying. Drew begged what was wrong, as this is so out of my usual character, but I had no answer but that she was perfect (and that I was PMSing). I described her to my mom as “Me. Only way better.”

My mom did the only thing a good mom would do and attempted the cliché, “That is impossible; no one is better than you!” My mom’s voice was no comfort the first time “Bertha” got in touch with Drew. And the third and forth time. She requested his friendship, but I suspected she longed for more. I begged him to never see her again.

I’d never encountered a girl who made me so insecure despite my absolute trust in my boyfriend. So much so that the last time she called I did the unthinkable, silly girl thing and stole her number from his phone. You know, I thought I’d be brave, throw down the “Back off, hoe!” threat. Of course, this I was totally incapable of. The last time she texted him a simple, “Brenda?” and only explained that she never knew my name.

On Friday, Drew and I hopped around Knott’s Berry Farm (a CA amusement park) and waited jumpily in line for the newest roller coaster. He looked down for a bit and in sorrow said, “Hey. I talked to [her] sister on aim last night. She has Leukemia.” Knowing her age, her beauty I must daydream this is a joke, or at least an exaggeration.

It was over the edge. It was undeniably intrusive. It was possibly selfish. My hands shook as I picked up my pink phone as TV on the Radio resounded in my beat-up car headed back to LA. I had her number. What could I possibly say? What if she hates me? What if my boyfriend becomes furious? What words could I write that would mean a lick to an incredibly sick girl?

I settled upon something lame: Peace and love, beautiful.

Moments later: Who’s this?

My stomach dropped. Why did I think it was OK to contact her? Drew’s gonna kill me! Or I’ll die of embarrassment first. Where did I get the nerve to drop into someone’s world without anyone’s permission? What am I doing?

I considered a “never mind” or “wrong number” but this strange exploit felt OK, although entirely inappropriate.

After an eternity, I finally responded, “Brenda. I stole your number a while back in a moment of insecurity. I feel like a huge weirdo texting you but Drew told me your situation and now I feel so intrusive but you’re so gorgeous and I pray all the best for you through this.” *SEND*

“Ah! I just sent that!” I yelled aloud. I felt like such an idiot.

Moments later my phone beeped. It was she. Stunningly: Wow u r special. It doesn’t look good 4 me tho. They said I only have 2 plus weeks. It’s scary but its life. Thank u 4 this. It actually means a lot…”

I read “2 plus weeks” and didn’t hesitate. “Hello,” a breathy, weak voice greeted.

Tears filled my eyes. “Um. I am being so inappropriate, I’m so sorry. I, well, I stole your number like I was tough…you’re just so beautiful and intimidating it made me nervous, but I was never gonna use it…but I still had it…and now I’m using it…I, um…”

Looking back, I regret stealing her number. My actions made my emotional feat a covert and underhanded one, even though I did have the best intentions. Honestly, I didn’t have any motives at all besides an incredible fear that she may be scared. I didn’t think I could cure it or pray her though her final moments, but I do sincerely believe in an afterlife with Jesus. I would never shove it down anyone’s throat, but I couldn’t know a girl was out there dying afraid. I wanted to at least let her know there’s total strangers loving and praying for her, no matter how irrational my actions seemed.

We spoke for a long while and exchanged things that belong to her heart alone, and therefore need not be typed. She sounded afraid, and above all, exhausted. I told her that I believe in miracles and am more than willing to believe in one for her.

I cannot pretend to be all high and mighty or that I had the honor of knowing this stunning girl. She invited me to spend time with her in these potentially final, cherished moments.

Last night, as I called her “beautiful” she laughed again. “Not anymore. I was beautiful; not anymore.” At that moment, the terrible nickname”Bertha” died and I was so appalled that I’d envied her enough to wish her ugly. I was so appalled.

Her name is Sophie and it means wisdom.

Let’s pray she walks, runs, and dances again. Yet, if not, that she departs void of pain or guilt and is full of the wisdom that God is ready to take her in His mighty arms for an eternity.

I was startled out of my light sleep by his figure at my bed’s end. “You still love me, Brenda? Yeah?” His eyes were dim and far away but staring at mine in desperation.

Startled, “Yes, Devon. Of course I love you.”

He smiled towards the wall, stood, and stumbled to his room. I rolled over on the mattress to watch him walk away. His jeans were getting dirtier and dirtier considering his endless nights of stealing cab rides and wandering the dark streets of New York City. His endless collection of white shirts seemed to dwindle and this one was soiled in spilt alcohol.

I glanced at the tranquil, sleeping Leah and considered his question. Did I still love him? Still. I wondered what he did tonight that was so unlovable.

Devon was one of my favorite creatures in NYC. He stabbed my back a dozen times, spread lies about us all, loved to gossip, adored dispute, and proclaimed me overweight once or twice a day. “Fix your posture, and g’dammit lose some weight so you can model. Seriously, bitch, g’dammit!” And he would giggle at his own startling honesty. His perfect, beautiful black skin, skinny physique, and admiration from others in Fashion Week’s “in-crowds” made me never argue. I would merely stick out my tongue or roll my eyes. I found him intimidating, intriguing, and lovable. I was not alone. Everyone loved Devon. And yet, his question echoed in my head. Did I love him? Why did he care?

I stood up in my scanty pajamas, closed the giant, white window and locked it. If Devon could climb the escape in his state, anyone could. I tumbled back onto the mattress and pulled the towel I used as a makeshift blanket over my bum. Another 12 to 14 hour day with the designer I despised closely awaited all three of us in that old studio…

Sometimes by Wiersz

The designer we worked for was, and perhaps still is, a despicable human being. I was never so close to hate until I met him. However, Devon was different. Walking along the street with him was almost like walking down your high school’s hallway with the Prom King. Prom Kings tend to be tormentors of the nerds, players of the adoring females, and yet completed loved by all. It’s almost like their attractiveness and appeal cancels out all of their bad deeds. This was the essence of Devon.

One night Devon, a talented hairstylist (”Ray”), a model, and I stayed up late at the studio. The pretty model was doing lines of coke off the cutting table as Devon and Ray popped pills. I sat tiredly on the couch as the handsome, surprisingly straight Ray passed me love letters. “I like you. Do you like me?” one of them read. I folded the note and stood with my suitcase. “I’m catching the subway now.” I was leaving for another greatly needed visit to my parents.

“We’ll walk you,” the boys offered.

The model rolled her big, pretty eyes, “I’m going home.” Only now do I realize no one walked her. I hope she made it alright; I can’t believe I was too tired to care then.

At the subway, Ray begged for my phone number and I reluctantly gave in. Devon tormented me with simulated sex behind Ray’s back. I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue at him, as always.

I remember feeling so miserable and tired and overworked that when Ray offered to take me out, I agreed if he would please take me to a movie. At that time, we were all so self-absorbed into fashion week and our show that we didn’t even know anything about hurricane Katrina, let alone about March of the Penguins. I reveled in watching a film about animals. There were no arguments and, best of all, no clothes in that entire film.

The night Devon asked the state of my love, I was reminded of so many things; even more of these things do I know now. Perhaps that was the night he told Ray’s ex-girlfriend I was doing drugs and sleeping with Ray. Or perhaps it was his recollection of the night Ray tried to pass me Marc Jacob’s tickets and he grabbed them out of my hand and ran past the velvet rope, leaving Leah and I all dressed up with no place to go. Or maybe he was ashamed he squandered every ounce of his hard-earned money on drugs. Even still, he may have attended another sex party. I recalled one night he attended an exclusive, invite-only sex party. Whatever happened there disturbed him so deeply he stared into space all afternoon.

Whatever Devon’s reason, he continued to climb up that fire-escape many nights there-after, and I grew accustomed to him waking me up and asking with his beautiful almond eyes, “Do you still love me, Brenda?” The answer was always yes, and still is. I hope he is well and in love, especially with himself.