Finally, after I count twelve seconds, the girl nods. Just barely, but enough. I offer her a smile but avoid looking at the boy, whose mouth is still hanging open. Up close, the girl’s golden hair is no longer the color of the sun; it’s more like the sunset, streaked with warm reddish and orange hues. And it’s so long that it’s braided into one long thick braid that wraps around itself twice with giant bows on the ends. The bows don’t lay down flat; they each stick out like giant flaps beneath her ears. As she moves, I expect them to bounce up and down, but they stay stuck beside her head like they glued there. I decide to call her Pippi—since she ain’t told me her name yet—for one of my favorite book friends, Pippi Longstocking. Cept she’s blond-haired, blue-eyed Pippi, with a look in her eyes like she’s scared and excited all at once.
The girl—blond Pippi—hands me a cracked stub of chalk, yellow, and goes back to her drawing. The boy is too busy watching me to draw. I think bout what I can make with yellow. I shove the stub to my nose and yellow dust floats in the air. I decide to draw a garden, starting with the sun. But when I see the garden in my mind, it has trees that reach their arms cross to each other and block out the light, so I use the yellow for a bird instead, that sits watching in the garden’s tallest tree.
We stay there like that, not talking, just drawing, for seven pictures. I draw two of those pictures: my garden with the yellow bird, and a portrait of Momma. I try to draw her as best as I can remember, but the white kids don’t have no brown chalk, so I make her skin yellow. Like this, she looks just a little like me. The girl draws four pictures. She don’t spend too much time on any one. She draws the flowers, animals near some trees, a school, and something that I think is a little girl. But with two big boulders where there should be lips and a mop on her head instead of hair. The boy only draws the one picture, the family, which he ain’t touched since I came over.
“Who’s that?” the girl asks, pointing at my drawing of Momma.
“That’s my momma,” I answer shyly, “but I drew her a little like me.” I smile and the girl smiles back. I think we might be friends. Even though I still don’t know her name yet.
“Pretty,” says the girl with no name. I feel proud when she says it, not cause she likes my drawing, but cause she thinks Momma is pretty.
“Thank you,” I reply with a big grin. “What did you draw?” I point to the mystery picture that’s either a deformed doll or a wild animal.
“It’s you.” She says it so sweet that I almost forget to be insulted. Almost. I look back down at the picture, at the too-big lips, thick nose, and nappy hair. Is this how I look to her? I force myself to smile cause I don’t want her to feel bad.
“Oh,” is all I can think to say. I go back to coloring my already finished picture.
“My name is Charlotte,” says the girl, “and this is my brother, Bobby.” She smiles. I wonder if she knows the drawing made me sad, but I figure probably not, cause now she’s smiling big and sweet. But not the boy, Bobby. He squints like he’s thinking bout something real hard. I think it’s funny that I said my name so long ago, but just got their names now.
“My name is KB,” I tell them again. I don’t know what else to say. I wait, but they don’t talk, so I pick up another piece of chalk and get back to work, pretending not to feel their stares.
“Give it, Bobby!” Charlotte’s shriek interrupts my fake concentration. I look up and see Bobby holding the red chalk above his head, high so Charlotte can’t reach.
“Come get it,” taunts Bobby, waving the chalk. I wonder if I should jump into the argument, but I figure it’s not my place. This is probably what it looks like to watch me and Nia together. I sit back and pretend not to notice as Charlotte’s eyes grow watery, and Bobby makes up a silly dance that makes things worse. A part of me wants to cry for Charlotte, but the other part wants to laugh with Bobby. I guess there are always two sides to a story, just like Momma always says when me and Nia get to fighting over something.
“I’m going to tell Mom!” Charlotte stomps off.
Bobby considers her warning, drops the chalk, and yells, “Here, crybaby, take it!”
At the sound of Bobby’s surrender, Charlotte returns, pouting. Then she picks up the chalk again like none of it happened at all. I watch the two of them for a few seconds before I go back to my drawing. I guess sisters ain’t the only ones who fight.
Bobby runs off to the back of the house, kicking rocks as he goes. I worry that he plans to tell they momma what happened. But Charlotte don’t seem to be worried. I study her as she concentrates on her drawing. Every so often, she chews on the ends of her hair. Seems like the more she concentrates, the more she chews. She wipes her skinny nose with the back of her hand as I memorize her eyes. I ain’t ever seen blue eyes like hers before. They are swimming pools full with clear water that, if she blinks, will surely spill over.
“You done with the green?” Charlotte’s question makes me jump. She don’t seem to notice, stretching her hand out toward the stubby green chalk, which I was using to draw a vine.
“Sure.” I hand it over quickly, even though I really ain’t done with it.
“Do you like to read?” I ask, looking for a conversation to start. We ain’t barely talked since I first came cross the street. Even though I like drawing with the chalk, I want us to be friends, too. Lansing’s been lonely without any, especially since I ain’t got Nia no more.
“Yep,” Charlotte says without looking up, “I love to read.”
I watch her for a few seconds, notice the way she scrunches up her face when she’s tryna draw a straight line. “Have you read Anne of Green Gables?”
Charlotte quickly looks up. “No, but all my friends at school have that book!” Her response is more excited than I expect. She’s smiling from ear to ear now. “I really, really, really want to read it! But my mom won’t buy it for me. She says it’s too grown-up for my reading level.”
“Well, how old are you?” I ask.
“Ten,” replies Charlotte.
“Me, too!” I exclaim. “But I’ll be eleven next month,” I finish, in my most mature voice. “So why can’t you read the book, then, if we the same age?”
“I’m not sure.” Charlotte stops to consider my question. Then whispers, I think to herself, “She never lets me do anything.” Her head stays down after that. She looks sad now, with her head low and her tiny lips forming a pout.
“You can read mine,” I say, quiet. I ain’t sure I wanna offer her my best book, but now I’ve done it and it’s too late to stuff the words back up in my mouth.
“Really?” Charlotte’s eyes open wide and round like saucers.
“Sure,” I respond, even though I’m not sure at all. Charlotte don’t say thank you after that, but I can see the thank you stretched cross her face. I wonder if I have time to read my book one more time, before I give it to her. But I don’t say that. I’m happy to have something that’s like a treasure. My book helped me make a friend. A friend that likes to draw and read and has a mean older brother. Just like me and mean Nia.