June 1st 1997

Age: Five

Lyrik

“This is our new house?” I ask my mom.

Brown paint that had seen better years, long ago, covered the entire house. I bet it was once a dark elegant brown, before someone left the home to rot.

Why would someone do that? Just up and leave their home, not caring what happened to it?

I didn’t want to move here, I begged my parents not to move here.

“This is it, Lyk. You’ll be happy here, you’ll see.”

No, I won’t.

I liked living near my Grandma, she loved me a lot, and now she’s gone. She left us, and won’t ever come back. Mom and Dad said we had to move to a new town, in a new state.

We had to, ‘Start over’.

I’m not sure what we had to start over exactly, it didn’t sound like fun.

Dad pulled into the driveway, the concrete was cracked and worn, I could see pot holes littered about. It could fit two cars, maybe. The yard was overgrown, wild in nature.

Where was I going to play?

Mom opened my door, I got out of the car and looked around.

It seemed that the entirety of the yard was on this side of the house, next door to the home I wished we were moving in to. Next door sat an old house, like ours, this one was beautiful though. It was taken care of, bright green blue grass covered the front lawn, and wooden chairs sat on a large wrap around porch.

I wanted to live there.

I look back to my new home, peeling paint, no porch, the grass basically weeds and I wonder how two different homes could be side-by-side.

“Why don’t you take this inside for me, Lyk, we need your help if we’re going to sleep inside tonight.”

“Okay, Mom.”

 

June 4th 1997

We’ve lived here for three days and I hate it. I don’t want to live in the stinky old house anymore. My parents don’t care that I don’t like it. My room smells like what Mommy calls mildew, she says that the carpet must’ve gotten wet and now mold is growing on it. I don’t know what mildew or mold is, but they smell, really, really bad.

Mom says that I’m getting new carpet today, it shouldn’t smell so bad then.

I hope.

The only nice thing about my new bedroom is that I have a big window. The roof sits just below it, flatly, so if I wanted, I could sit outside on it by myself. So, then I wouldn’t have to smell the mold.

Mom and Dad warned me not to open the window though, but I will anyway, I’ll be safe.

It takes a little strength, but I manage to tug the window open a little, across the way I can see the window from the nice house. It’s aligned with mine, and there’s a boy standing in the window looking at me.

Maybe he’s my age.

Maybe we can be friends.

“Hi!” I yell.

His eyebrows rise up, all the way to his hair.

“Go away!” He yells back at me.

Well, that’s not nice.

“My name is Lyrik. Do you want to be my new friend? What’s your name?” I ramble out in excitement.

“I’m not telling you. Go away!”

Maybe he isn’t my age.

Maybe he doesn’t want friends.

I shut my window.

Mom takes me with her to pick out my new carpet, she didn’t give me a lot of choices. I wanted bright pink, she said no. I ended up choosing a dark blue color, it was the only one that wasn’t ugly.

When we get home, she asks me to check the mailbox.

I like checking the mail. I hope that when I’m older, I get a lot of mail and everyone writes me letters, like my Grandma.

Mom doesn’t know it, but I always look to see who is mailing her and Dad things. I try to guess what’s in each envelope. Sometimes people like Chase and Citi send them stuff, I’ve never met those people, but they seem like good friends, because they write Mom and Dad a letter every month.

I want Chase or Citi to write me a letter, it never happens though.

I pull the mail out of the old rusty black box, then begin reading through the mail. Wondering who sent letters today.

Oh, my God!

Someone wrote me a letter!

In messy handwriting is my name on a small envelope.

Mom always said that I could open mail the day it came addressed to me, and today is that day!

I drop the other envelopes on the cement, excited to open my letter.

I rip the envelope to shreds, pulling out a small piece of paper with the same messy handwriting.

 

Lyrik,

I want you to move. I don’t know why you’re my neighbor but I don’t want you to be. Your hair is brown and brown is not pretty. Please leave.

Anson Blake

 

Who is Anson Blake and why is he so mean? Is he the boy in the window? Such a mean, mean boy. He will never have friends with an attitude like that.