I fly by the red-bricked townhouses all lined up on the street on my red scooter, red rubber wheels made of fire wearing out as they roll across the pavement. The other kids run after me hollering and laughing. I zoom past the fence full of purple-blue morning glories all reaching out for the sun with their slender stems, the landfill behind it, the black dog on the third-floor balcony, and right by the corner of the intersection where I know the way home by car. With red sparks flying, I screech to a stop in front of a painted white, flower-filled balcony. There is a stone duck on it staring out at the small parking lot on the opposite side. An old, white lady with white hair and bifocals is sitting on a straw chair reading a thick book. The clear blue sky lets the sun sprinkle its serene rays down onto my face. My black mushroom hair turns white and warm. A cordial breeze blows my short hair into my squinting eyes as I look behind me. The towering trees on the side are full of chirping sparrows but the ground is full of weeds and litter: bottle caps, crumpled tissues, and an icky newspaper. Drops of light filter through the dense tree leaves and fall on the garbage and even it seems beautiful. Everyday that’s nice I ride my scooter made of fire and play with my friends.
Come a back! We now play cops and robbers!
I turn my head to look at the one-armed boy with his protruding forehead and beady eyes. I yell I know even though I don’t. I don’t like that kid. He’s slow, and doesn’t speak correctly. All the other kids pay him no mind and we always forget that he is part of the game. I was born like this he said. I don’t know why but I thought he was telling a lie. For what reason he would tell a lie? Who knows. I think it was because I was dumb and petty and an angry girl that I didn’t believe him.
I can tell when this boy is sad when we exclude him. Often times, we can read him like an open book, but other times, he is so distant in his lonely world and nobody can reach him. We wouldn’t even want to anyway… When I say I hate you to him, he replies with a simple and frustrating okay. I feel so vexed whenever he doesn’t fight back. And he never does. He is too nice. When I go to sleep that night, I feel sad. There is something gnawing at my chest. I was taught that this little monster had a name: Conscious. With all its slick sides and slithery limbs, it crawls into my mind and berates me. I know I should stop and I know I should try to lock my chattering box but I know it won’t work, or is it that I felt like it won’t work? My battle with Conscious happens everyday that’s nice.
We played everyday it’s nice, and everyday we yelled and hollered and disturbed that wrinkly lady reading a book. Shhhh. Be quiet. You kids are disturbing the peace. That's what she said everyday that’s nice. We would all stop for a second and look at her. She was a unique individual in my asian, hispanic, latino community. That’s better she would say. Then we start yelling and hollering again. She sighs and goes back to reading. Yes, this happened everyday that’s nice and everyday that’s nice I say something mean to the one-armed boy: You’re ugly. Nobody likes you. Leave us alone, he’ll say okay and I’ll feel bad that night all over again.
That old, white, wrinkly lady with white hair and bifocals sitting on a straw chair reading a thick book always telling us to be quiet on nice days disappeared. She lived in a red-bricked townhouse lined up on the street, same as me, but had a white painted balcony with flowers that came with the winds that blew in March until August. Mine was black and had pigeons on my red roof. Her stone duck is still there staring at the small parking lot on the other side. But that old lady is no longer there. I wonder where she went. I would pass by her white painted balcony everyday yelling and hollering but she wouldn’t appear. The flowers gradually stopped growing and the group of kids I played with disappeared. All except the one-armed boy. He satyed here longer but I didn't talk to him. I wish I did. I was waiting for a chance where I had enough courage to say: I’m sorry. I never got the chance because I was a coward. I waited too long and one day, he disappeared too.
The blistering sun turns my now shoulder-length hair into burnt noodles, and my scooter made of fire disappeared into someone else’s hands when I left it in the park. Even though years have passed, I’m still here left with all my regrets and the duck, now moldy and green. Where do I go now? Everyone has gone there own ways… I am shoveling the dirt from my own path, but I don’t know if I’m shoveling in vain. Am I just shoveling in a circle in my small, limited community? Or am I finally entering a new world?