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05:41am | Mar 26, '06 |
Comments(3)We're both sophomores in high school now. I'm fifteen; she'll be sixteen in a week. I know when her birthday is, of course, just as she knows mine. Birthdays don't change.
Almost sixteen, yeah, but I can still see her the summer I turned twelve; the first day we met, the day I moved into the newly built house at the end of her street. I was standing half-asleep in the sunlight, looking in despair at the expanse of bare dirt that purported to be our lawn. And suddenly she was there in front of me, all buck-teeth, gangling legs and tumbling, tangled blond-brown hair, tall as I was and unafraid to claim every inch of it.
"Hi, I'm Amy," she said, jumping agilely over the exposed water meter and looking right into my face.
"I'm David," I mumbled, but couldn't help smiling, answering her frank appraising stare with my own.
Two hours later we were covered with mud, in the midst of a great canal-digging project in the bare gravelly dirt of my "lawn." She landscaped it with wild flowers from the draina
