THE UNEXPECTED JOURNEY
It was my first day of fifth grade. I was at a new school, in a new town and alone in the sea of people in the hallway, trying to figure out where I was supposed to wait before school officially started.
There must have been a confused look on my face because a girl with dark brown hair and the coolest messenger bag walked up to me and asked if I needed help.
I told her I was looking for the aerobics room (the designated place to wait if you arrived prior to the classrooms being opened.) She told me she was going there, too, and I could walk with her.
Her name was Kara Taylor and, not only did she walk me to the aerobics room, she sat with me and talked to me about what to expect in this new place until the bell rang and we walked to our classes together.
Looking back, she is the third school friend I ever remember having.
I don’t remember when I learned that she lived two blocks down the street from me, but I do remember I was thrilled.
In my head, Kara was one of the “cool girls” and she always included me. When I didn’t want to ride the bus to school — or when I missed it all together — Kara, me and too many other pre-teen girls would pile into her mom’s SUV for a ride to school.
We were never in the same classes, but that didn’t matter because the kind girl with the dark brown hair was never far.
During our middle school years, we would play volleyball in her driveway or the street in front of her house. I have fond memories of sitting on top of her and her neighbor’s mailboxes, chatting about the day’s events or the boys we thought were cute.
We would go trick-ortreating together until I was called home. She would stay out later and rake in a pillowcase full of candy, which she would share with her other friends and me for weeks after the holiday ended.
As the most organized of my friend group — then and still today — I would help Kara organize her school binder and, occasionally, clean her room when she got in trouble for the mess. It was during these times that she introduced me to new music; she is the reason I can sing almost every Good Charlotte song to this day.
In high school, as is all-too-common, we fell out of touch. During this time, her parents got divorced and, from what I understand, she went through some hard times. Still, we would always smile at each other in the hallways and have friendly conversations if we ended up in the same place together.
For these reasons, and so many more I can’t fit here, I will never forget May 10, 2009; it was the morning of Mother’s Day. My older sister and I were sitting on the driveway at my house, when she mentioned that there had been a terrible wreck on the tollway overnight. She had heard that it claimed the life of a 16-year-old girl and she was expressing her sympathy for the mother who would be spending the day mourning instead of celebrating.
She explained that the young driver had been on the way back from a concert with a friend, when a drunk driver, driving the wrong way on the toll road, hit them head on.
“I think she lived in your neighborhood,” my sister said.
This piqued my interest.
“Her name was ….
Kara,” she told me.
“Kara? Kara what?
What was her last name,” I insisted, hoping the worst wasn’t true.
“Kara Taylor.”
Kontnier is publisher for the Hays Free Press and News-Dispatch. She can be reached via email at publisher@haysfreepress. com.
