“I want a refrigerator in my bedroom.”

“I want a TV in my bedroom.”

“My parents have a TV in their bedroom,” Mabley says. “They used to let me watch cartoons with them on Saturday morning. But now Dad says I’m too grown-up.”

There are twigs and leaves all over the road because of the rainstorm, and I kind of kick them along as I walk. Water is still running along the curbs and making noise as it goes down the drains.

“I share a bedroom with my mom,” I say.

“Oh really?” But I think Mabley feels embarrassed, because she doesn’t say anything else.

“I don’t think she’d let me watch TV in bed,” I say. “She won’t even let me have a phone.”

“Phones are bad for you.”

“That’s what my mom says.”

“They suck out your brains and turn you into a zombie. I’ve seen it happen.”

“You sound just like my mom,” I say.

Then we’re at Granma’s house, and Mabley kind of looks at me, like, See you tomorrow, and walks up her own front steps. Mom’s Toyota isn’t back yet—it’s just Granma’s Volvo in the driveway. When I get inside, Granma is messing around in the kitchen and puts a plate of waffles on the table for me. “How was your second day of school?” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

Mabley is one of those kids who seems to know everybody. She’s always friendly, even early in the morning; people like her. And she’s good at noticing stuff. If somebody has a new haircut, she notices right away and says something like, “You look nice today, Colleen. You had a haircut. They did a nice job.” She says this kind of thing to the boys, too. She doesn’t care who she sits next to.

Some days, I think we’re becoming friends. She says hi to me in the morning, and we get in line for the bus together and share one of the bench seats on the way to school. But then at other times, she talks to somebody else, kids I don’t know. She’s really the only one I talk to.

I’ve started catching the bus by myself. Mom likes to drive in early. “Just to get my head on straight,” she says, “before the chaos begins.” I always check for Mabley when I walk up the road to the bus stop. There’s usually a handful of tired-looking kids standing around with backpacks at their feet. One day she isn’t there, and I wander over to look at the house with the refrigerator on the front porch, when somebody grabs me from behind.

“Pinch, punch, first day of the month,” she says. It’s Mabley.

I stare at her.

“It’s the first of September. My great-aunt taught it to me—she was born in Wales. I’m named after her, even though she spells it different.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Here’s what you’re supposed to do back.” She pretends to hit me, then kind of scuffs one of her sneakers against the back of my leg. “A slap and a kick, for being so quick. Unless they say no returns.”