She was playing tennis in the street with her friend, Yvonne. The yellow balls burst forth from the asphalt like stars painted with a big fisted yellow crayon. They suck and pop back and forth between Yvonne and her until a boy crosses the street, catching one in his fist, raising it high in the air. He isn’t just any boy. He is THE boy. THE boy that everyone likes because he is nice, smart, cute. He angles towards Nicole and grins, showing his bottom tooth that sticks out and makes his face perfectly beguiling. He is the epitome of young love. He is a sixth-grade catch. “Race you to the tree house,” he says, and like a streak, he’s off. Yvonne and Nicole hesitate, and in that moment they see Yvonne’s younger and decidedly more attractive sister heading them off for the tree house and the boy. Yvonne grabs her sister’s long brown pigtails and throws her down on the pavement, never-minding that this leaves her sister’s left cheek scraped and bleeding. She runs home crying. They make their way to the backyard and climb the tree, feet-over-fists, to get to that boy. Now seated comfortably, the three of them talk about school parties, homework, parents and siblings; the air around them is electrified. Nicole is sure it is Yvonne that he likes. She is blonde and angular, a ballet dancer, always poised, like a jewelry box doll. But Yvonne is sure that he likes Nicole. She has said that her nose is too big and crooked, that at least Nicole has b***s and wears a bra, that she has darker skin and silky gray eyes. She says Nicole’s hips move when she walks. These things count with the boys, Yvonne has told her. But for now, they sit triangulated, the boy, a straight up-and-down girl, and a curvy girl. Darkness falls and the boy takes Nicole’s hand. Yvonne looks away. He leans forward and Nicole can smell toothpaste and soap. Todd’s lips brush hers. The softness catches her off guard and she giggles as they kiss. She is twelve.
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