or have a barbecue.
Not anymore, though.
The only dogs in the neighborhood are strays, and barbecues are something I’ve only seen on TV.
A breeze floats through the air, softly lifting Sophie’s hair from her shoulders. I catch a glimpse of her profile as her hair rises and smile to myself. Sophie has no idea how attractive she is.
At school she walks around guarded, paying little attention to the teenage Neanderthals vying for her attention. Kids don’t understand why she’s so quiet and uninterested. They don’t know anything about her.
But I do.
A leaf falls from one of the tall oaks and brushes against Sophie’s arm before falling to the ground. My eyes stay on her as we near our houses.
I like to watch her walk—and not in a sexual way. Don’t get me wrong, she’s got a nice butt. Actually, she’s got nice…everything.
But there’s something about how she walks…how she holds herself high, keeps her head straight and knows where she’s going. It’s beautiful.
I’ve been watching her walk home twenty feet ahead of me since the third grade. That’s when she moved in next door.
We were nine, my life was hell, and she was new.
She was also the reason I went to school. Or got up in the morning. Or kept breathing.
The promise of Sophie.
She drops a piece of paper on the ground without stopping.
It’s for me. It’s how we ‘talk’ on our walk home.
I keep my pace steady, even though I want to race to where the paper scrap fell and retrieve it like a possessive hound.
My feet finally reach where her note landed and I bend to pick it up, barely slowing my momentum.
I open the small folded note. It’s covered in smiley faces. Of course.
Stop staring at my butt.
I smile.
Like I said, she’s got a great butt. But right now I’m not staring at it.
She knows I’m not staring at it.
No. I’m staring at her skinny fingers, wrapped like magnets around the strap of her book bag. Her knuckles are white and her forearm is flexed. She’s tense.
We’re almost home. This is the worst part of the day—for both of us.
I shove her note in my pocket and take a deep breath. We’re each at our driveways now. Sophie doesn’t look over at me or say goodbye. I don’t wave or look at her either.
Because this is the beginning of the end of our day. This is when things go wrong.
This is why she dropped me a note.
Because she knows, and I know, that we both need a little levity before we walk into our homes after school.
Homes.
They’re not really homes. More like houses where we sleep.
Where we eat—if we’re lucky. Where we cry and fight.
Where we bleed and break. Where we cower and scream.
Where we give up. Where we sigh.
Where we barely survive.
I know this because our houses are only twenty feet apart. Her bedroom window faces mine. Her kitchen window faces mine.
We see everything that happens to each other. It’s terrible, intrusive and embarrassing.
It’s also the reason Sophie Hartman is my best friend.
SOPHIE
My mom’s a prostitute. She calls herself a call girl or an escort, but really she’s a hooker.
I resent her.
Not because of her profession. In fact, her ‘job’ has kept food on our table and clothes on our backs for years. She’s beautiful and sexy. I’m sure she’s good at what she does.
No, I resent her because sometime over the last few years, she’s become a drug addict.
I have three younger siblings. I think we all have different fathers, although my mom swears we are all the offspring of some ‘really cool guy’ named Amos.
Amos is a stupid name. I hope she’s lying.
Either way, this Amos guy hasn’t been around for, oh, ever, so it’s just me and the ‘Littles’ (as I like to call them).
My mom, in her selfish, drug-induced haze, rarely comes home. Sometimes I doubt she remembers where home is. The Littles don’t even ask where she is anymore because they’re used to her disappearing for months at a time. It’s been this way
Not anymore, though.
The only dogs in the neighborhood are strays, and barbecues are something I’ve only seen on TV.
A breeze floats through the air, softly lifting Sophie’s hair from her shoulders. I catch a glimpse of her profile as her hair rises and smile to myself. Sophie has no idea how attractive she is.
At school she walks around guarded, paying little attention to the teenage Neanderthals vying for her attention. Kids don’t understand why she’s so quiet and uninterested. They don’t know anything about her.
But I do.
A leaf falls from one of the tall oaks and brushes against Sophie’s arm before falling to the ground. My eyes stay on her as we near our houses.
I like to watch her walk—and not in a sexual way. Don’t get me wrong, she’s got a nice butt. Actually, she’s got nice…everything.
But there’s something about how she walks…how she holds herself high, keeps her head straight and knows where she’s going. It’s beautiful.
I’ve been watching her walk home twenty feet ahead of me since the third grade. That’s when she moved in next door.
We were nine, my life was hell, and she was new.
She was also the reason I went to school. Or got up in the morning. Or kept breathing.
The promise of Sophie.
She drops a piece of paper on the ground without stopping.
It’s for me. It’s how we ‘talk’ on our walk home.
I keep my pace steady, even though I want to race to where the paper scrap fell and retrieve it like a possessive hound.
My feet finally reach where her note landed and I bend to pick it up, barely slowing my momentum.
I open the small folded note. It’s covered in smiley faces. Of course.
Stop staring at my butt.
I smile.
Like I said, she’s got a great butt. But right now I’m not staring at it.
She knows I’m not staring at it.
No. I’m staring at her skinny fingers, wrapped like magnets around the strap of her book bag. Her knuckles are white and her forearm is flexed. She’s tense.
We’re almost home. This is the worst part of the day—for both of us.
I shove her note in my pocket and take a deep breath. We’re each at our driveways now. Sophie doesn’t look over at me or say goodbye. I don’t wave or look at her either.
Because this is the beginning of the end of our day. This is when things go wrong.
This is why she dropped me a note.
Because she knows, and I know, that we both need a little levity before we walk into our homes after school.
Homes.
They’re not really homes. More like houses where we sleep.
Where we eat—if we’re lucky. Where we cry and fight.
Where we bleed and break. Where we cower and scream.
Where we give up. Where we sigh.
Where we barely survive.
I know this because our houses are only twenty feet apart. Her bedroom window faces mine. Her kitchen window faces mine.
We see everything that happens to each other. It’s terrible, intrusive and embarrassing.
It’s also the reason Sophie Hartman is my best friend.
SOPHIE
My mom’s a prostitute. She calls herself a call girl or an escort, but really she’s a hooker.
I resent her.
Not because of her profession. In fact, her ‘job’ has kept food on our table and clothes on our backs for years. She’s beautiful and sexy. I’m sure she’s good at what she does.
No, I resent her because sometime over the last few years, she’s become a drug addict.
I have three younger siblings. I think we all have different fathers, although my mom swears we are all the offspring of some ‘really cool guy’ named Amos.
Amos is a stupid name. I hope she’s lying.
Either way, this Amos guy hasn’t been around for, oh, ever, so it’s just me and the ‘Littles’ (as I like to call them).
My mom, in her selfish, drug-induced haze, rarely comes home. Sometimes I doubt she remembers where home is. The Littles don’t even ask where she is anymore because they’re used to her disappearing for months at a time. It’s been this way
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