In third grade, I lived in a white rent house; forever known as the “white house.” It was in the backyard of this house that I played Pocahontas, and Little House on the Prarie, it is also where I met him. I don’t remember his face, or his name, only his age: sixteen, his buzz cut and the fact that he live with his grandma.
I was a quiet girl, with long brown, curly hair falling past my shoulders. I was nine. The boy and I became friends of sorts talking through the chain link; the criss-cross of the metal keeping me from his full face. Eventually our friendship moved from the backyard to the Front yard, where there was no chain link and things blurred together. The two yards meeting in the middle, mirroring the friendship of the boy and I.
Soon a game developed, a new version of hide and seek perfect for two. I would hide a piece of paper, and he’d try to find it. I hid it in the same spot every time, the huge terracotta *** on my front porch: the one with no plant life, only black potting soil with the white fertilizer specks.
I remember staring down at the small white paper as he quickly scanned the porch, not really looking. Then his eyes would latch onto me. He’d kneel before me, and ask the question I would always dread, “Where did you hide it?”
I didn’t dread the question itself, just the after. He would take my hand and lead me over the boundary between our yards. The one that was invisible and mirrored our friendship.
I remember looking down at the green outside carpeting as I climbed the steps to his grandmother’s house, hand in hand with the boy. He took me inside, down a long hallway to his room. His grandmother wasn’t home. I stepped into the room, my tennis-shoed feet sinking into the thick carpeting, which was so very much like my grandmother’s.
He closed the door; I remember exactly how the lock clicked into place before he turned to me, smiling.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he said “you hid the paper in a place I couldn’t look at outside.”
I told him it was in the big *** outside my ouse then, afraid, but not really sure of what.
“No,” he said, “I check there. Why would you lie to me?”
And that was when he lifted my shirt, exposing the chest of a child, with my baby fat belly, and not a hint of puberty. The pants were next. I remember watching them, red with white hearts, the shorts my mother had made me falling to the ground, pooling softly around my ankles. I never said no, I was only silent, my brother was four at the time, he was the cute one then, so I desperately wanted the boys attention.
I was standing there in my underwear, too tall socks, and tennis shoes. Glancing towards the door that seemed to have grown in size, like the Christmas tree in the Nutcracker.
His hands went to my *******, sliding them down to my ankles, making the familiar swishing against the dry skin of my legs as they went down. He just sat there for a moment, staring. Finally he said “Well, I guess the paper must be out there after all.”
He pulled up my ******* and helped me into my pants. He opened the door, which had returned to normal size, and lead me out into the sunlight, crossing the invisible boundary of our yards. He plucked the paper from the planter and smiled.
“You know if you want to be on the internet all you have to do is show your underwear.”
He turned and walked away then, dropping the precious paper on the boundary of our friendship as he went.