​My seventh grade locker stood beside Beth’s and that’s how we met. Her air preceded her; a waft of “Jeans” cologne, a “freshness”; clean and sweet as her fair aisle sweaters and orange levi cordorys, sized 26. Mine were 30 and I had two coveted, expensive pair. Beth had one in every color. The day we began our official friendship she was wearing the orange cords; a barrette with tiny hand painted orange flowers fastened atop a thick, shiny cascade of blonde hair. Orange, being the theme, I offered her one of my carrots. My mother needlessly started me dieting at seven years old; by the time I was thirteen I knew the calorie count of every food item and the all too familiar self loathing upon exceeding my daily allotment.
She gave a quizzical smile and accepted the carrot wordlessly. And that was it.

​Amy popped up in the unlikeliest of places, remote, downtown Mathews County, VA where the mailing address for my grandparents was simply: Callis (my namesake) Moon Post office, Mathews county, Va. Three families Hutsons, Callis, and Hudgens . My brother and I were loitering in the back of a Woolworths, he was spinning around on a lime green pleather stool at the breakfast bar. I had my nose in a Richie Rich comic book when I heard a familiar voice and looked up to see Amy and her brother Adam. Right there, in backwoods nowhereville, VA! We recognized each other, embarrassed as only eleven year olds can get with a most out of the ordinary scenario. Not to mention I had a crush on her older brother Adam. My face, I knew, was turning scarlet, purple red with tell tale blotches spreading down my neck and over my chest.
Her local surgeon father was the connection. They were down for their summer visit and we discovered he was also my grandmother’s doctor. We connected that day and never looked back.

​Although Campbell and I were inseparable; gradually, over time we became a foursome.

​Summers were light, active, outside; on water, in water, … from the salt of the Atlantic ocean to the over chlorinated town pool we dried off only to ride our bikes to the nearest Tennis court or meet downtown for grilled cheese sandwiches at The Red Duck Inn. At night we snuck past the guard at the Cox estate and jumped on their trampoline or camped out at Sandy Cove beach. At home tensions mounted — my brothers’ multiple car accidents, parents’ disintegrating marriage and my mother’s continued downward spiral into depression and alcoholism. Theirs was no better, different but not better. If we couldn’t physically be with each other we filled up space, talked on the phone for hours, silent on both ends as we did homework or watched TV “together” on a school night.

​We escaped into each other, creating a “bubble” which was at times as volatile and combative as anything outside of it but it was ours, a protective balm against that which we didn’t discuss. Not until many years later.