This is My Message to You

Red

RED

When my mom told me that the new neighbors were moving in that Saturday, I had my fair share of suspicion. At five years old, I was smart enough to know that I wanted someone nicer than our previous neighbors, who took away my sidewalk chalk because I colored on the pavement in front of their house. However, I hadn't thought much of all the options I'd seen walking in and out of that house for the past couple months.

As my mom mixed a batch of cookie dough at the kitchen counter, I drank milk out of a plastic cup at the table, kicking my legs and asking her questions that she didn't have the answers to. She popped a tray of cookies in the oven, wiped her hands on her apron, and said, "Why don't you come with me when I bring these over to them?"

So a few hours later I found myself walking up to the porch of the yellow house next door, clutching my mother's hand. As she rang the doorbell, I looked down at my feet and admired my shiny red new shoes. (I remember they were red because just two days later, Connor ruined them by painting them black with mud.) When I looked back up, a very pretty blonde woman stood in the doorway, a smile breaking across her face.

"We wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood," said my mom, holding up the plate of cookies. "We live in the house next door –"

I stopped listening to the adults once we got inside, instead inspecting every inch of the house. A large clock stood in the corner of the front hall, emitting a gentle tick-tock as its golden hands rotated around its ornate face. I loved that clock from the moment I stepped into the house; Connor always joked that he'd make his parents leave it to me in their will.

The woman introduced herself as Miriam Kjellan, but I wouldn't know her as anything but Mrs. K until at least the fifth grade, mostly because my tongue couldn't wrap itself around that last name. She showed us into the kitchen and gave me a glass of milk and a cookie, and I decided that she was already infinitely better than our last neighbors. I think she was surprised by my precociousness, but I was used to adults: my sister was thirteen years older than me.

Probably around my second chocolate chip cookie, Mrs. K said, "I think that's Doug in the driveway right now – you can meet Connor, Riley. He's right around your age."

Minutes later, a boy crashed through the side door in an explosion of mud and energy, shouting, "Mama, mama, I made three goals!"

"That's great, dear," said his mom calmly. "Connor, this is Riley – she lives next door. She's five, too, just like you!"

Today, I remember a shock of dark hair and the bluest eyes I've ever seen, but back then I just remember looking at this new specimen of a neighbor and thinking that we were not going to be friends. He tracked dirt and grass into the house from his soccer cleats, took a cookie off the plate without washing his hands, and only stopped talking long enough to flash me a smile already lacking a few teeth.

"Riley will be so happy to have someone to play with," said my mom, smoothing down my curls with one hand. "There aren't too many kids on this street."

"Do you play soccer?" demanded the boy, his mouth all chocolatey. "I'm the best player on my team, and I'm gonna be a pro when I grow up! I bet I'm way better than you! Can you even score a goal?"

That was the day I met Connor Kjellan.

And also the day I started playing soccer. 

~Here's part dos! Let me know what you think!

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