Four years old…

I love spending time with my dad, especially when he works on cars ’cause it’s the only time when he really talks to me and does stuff with me. He’s working on the Challenger while I play with my toy car, driving it really fast back and forth across the Challenger’s bumper.

“Micha, can you hand me that wrench?” my dad says with his head tucked underneath the hood. It’s a really old car that he’s working on fixing up, but it seems like it’s taking him forever. I don’t know why he just doesn’t drive it the way it is now. I think it looks pretty fun and all the sides are different colors.

I jump off the bumper and dig around in his toolbox near the back end until I find the wrench and then I walk to the front and hand it to my dad.

“Thanks,” he mutters and goes back to working on the engine.

I get a juice box out of the cooler, lean against the fender, and stare at the next-door neighbors’ house. It looks a lot like mine, but there is a lot of trash and car parts are everywhere and it looks like nobody ever cleans up.

I’m about to head back to the trunk when the door swings open and the girl who lives next door steps outside. She looks like she’s going to cry, but she looks like that almost every time I see her. She’s got hair that’s the same color as our red mailbox and every time I talk to her, her eyes remind me of leaves. Her name is Ella and she always has tears in her eyes. I’m not sure if it’s because her mom is yelling at her all the time or because they make her take out the trash every day. Whatever it is, she always looks like she’s gonna burst into tears. I asked my dad once why the neighbors were always yelling and he said it’s because they are a messed-up family.

I grab another juice box out of the cooler and wave to her as I step out of the garage. She doesn’t wave back, but she’s usually shy at first, like she thinks I’m the boogieman or something. With her head tucked down, she wipes the tears out of her eyes and walks down the steps. She doesn’t have any shoes on and the cement has to be hot under her feet.

“Hey, Ella,” I say again, walking up to the fence between our houses.

She stands at the corner of her house with her arms crossed, staring at the ground. She barely talks, and half the time, even when she’s talking, she looks down at her feet or the ground or at the trees.