You go to a Catholic school, my neighbor, Chelsea. One afternoon you stood on the corner, come and play with me, you called. I guess I felt bad for you, so I stepped out into the cool, crisp fall air. Why didn’t you want to play with my little sister, who was your age? But it was me, the oldest, you wanted to befriend. So I plodded out of the house. Didn’t you notice my boredom, my pleading look toward my sister’s bedroom, my occasional sighs as the sun began to fall lower and lower on the horizon? But you obviously didn’t detect my annoyance, because you were back on the corner the next afternoon; tapping your foot, hands on your hips, looking just like a puppy dog waiting for his walk. Again, you talked and you laughed, you played and you skipped until you were worn tired and the streetlights came on and lit the dark, eerie street. Oblivious to my desperate gazes toward my house, you waited day after day, week after week. Months passed. One day, I saw your dad hang a FOR SALE sign on your lawn. I smiled, realizing I could soon count down the days until your move. Yet, somehow I knew that as my bus rounded the corner the next day, you would be there, waiting.