10

I moved for the first time the summer before kindergarten. It was not the last time I moved; over the next few years, I would move so many times that the boxes would hardly be unpacked before we’d packed up again. But this house was bigger, with enough rooms for both my brother and me, just not one of us.

On the first night we were living there, the neighbors from up the street knocked on our door carrying a cake that said “Welcome to the Block!” in pink icing. They had three children, just like we would, soon, and the man had his hand on the woman’s shoulder. My mother was surprised, but pleased—at the very least, she seemed pleased—and invited them in. The house was a mess, boxes piled here and there, our couch the only furniture unpacked. My mother was not, and never would be, the kind of woman who baked “Welcome to the Block!” cakes for new neighbors and she always received company too loudly. I knew this at five years old.



The neighbors had two boys. One of them was exactly seven days younger than I was, but he always insisted he was older, because the four in October 4th was a lower number than the twenty-seven in September 27th. His brother, Rob, two years in my senior, offered the patient logic time and time again that I couldn’t be the younger: I was in a higher grade. Rob was the first friend I chose for myself.

We ate the cake off of a folding table and paper plates. The younger brother made his into an airplane when he was finished. His mother scolded him. Even at five years old, I was uncomfortable with having people in my house that didn’t live there. I kept that with me through all of childhood, through all of adolescence.

Because I was five, I was distracted from my discomfort by the first friend I chose for myself, who I made on that first night. Even though Rob was a boy, he would play make-believe with me. He had a rabbit named Snow White. He taught me how to read second grade words even though I was too young. His cousin never liked me and I never liked her but we both loved Robbie and so when she came over we took turns hiding with him, playing quietly so as not to be found.

As I played the damsel in distress on the floor, forgetting that I didn’t like strange people in the house, forgetting that my mother was talking at volumes too high, forgetting my shame at the boxes scattered here and there—as I played the damsel in distress on the floor, I didn’t realize that that night was the most important one of my first five years.

(Why do teachers like making you imitate other authors so much? This one is Amy Tan, Fish Cheeks.)