I hurry into my bedroom and the door slams behind me. I've got too much to do to dilly-dally. Turning my backpack upside-down, I promptly empty textbooks, notebooks, several half-used pencils, an eraser, and--ew, what's that? Some wrapper from awhile ago I never had time to throw out--onto my bed. Some old notes float to the ground like dead leaves in autumn. I begin.

***
Light. Light pours from my bedroom window onto my multicolored carpet. Ah, I love spring. Birds flirt outside in the warm weather, and a symphony of vibrant greens play upon the leaves of the budding trees outside. How could I resist taking a walk in this beautiful weather? I grab my house keys and head out.
***
Observation rules my life. I take the books from my dumped-out backpack and drop them on my desk, then open the blinds to my window. I can see the people walking down the street. There's a mother and her baby--they always take a walk around this time--and an old man mowing his lawn in the house across the way. Opening my notebook, I continue work on my novel.

***
I'm so glad I decided to take a walk; this weather is beautiful.
As I stroll toward the neighborhood trail, I come to a tall, navy-blue house. The house is upright, with lots of right-angles. Like the girl who lives there, it seems to always be at work. I have nothing against hard work, but this girl, she never seems to notice the world around her. She's always doing something in that stuffy old place.

I want to help her. I really do. I've tried to be nice to her at school, but she just pushes me away. She even was rude to me after I found out that we lived in the same neighborhood. Rude.

I walk past.

***
There she goes. We've lived in the same neighborhood since fifth grade, and she never even says hi to me. What a snob. Of course, she likes to pretend to be nice to me at school, but I don't buy it...not a bit. I wonder what she really thinks of me. But I suppose that doesn't matter, anyhow...once I've written my novel, I bet she'll be begging for my attention. And I'll just laugh in her face.

Inside, my heart breaks. People have never really been nice to me. I look down at my book. My novel characters are my friends, the ones I confide in, the ones who keep me company, but they can never really substitute for people. If only I had a chance to have a friend...
***
I reach the trail. A jogger runs past, their basset hound panting. Their flab jiggles around--the dog's flab, that is!--as their bubblegum-pink tongue hangs out.
I wonder what that girl does up there. Maybe I should ask if she wants to come on the walk with me. Yes, I'll do that.
The dirty gray cement sidewalk under my feet, the faded wood fences, the tiny red ants running around like they're getting ready for a surprise birthday party--these things I love. I wonder if she notices them, too.

I reach the house. I walk up the stairs without touching anything, afraid to mar the perfect white paint covering the railing. The door is large, with a heavy gold knocker on the front. The knocker has a lion face. I wonder if the girl inside will ignore me, or if she'll bite. Like a lion. I don't know what to expect, so I knock.
***
A knock at the door? Who could that be? I look outside. I think that I must have dreamed it, but then someone knocks again. No one ever knocks on our door. I walk downstairs.

Cautiously peeking through the window, I see snobby whats-her-name. She probably is at the wrong house or something. I turn around quietly and start to tiptoe up the steps. Nobody's home--nobody she would want to see.

But halfway up the steps, I freeze. What if she really does want to see me? Is it worth taking a chance--worth another broken heart? No, maybe it isn't. Or maybe it is. I'm not into taking chances, but this chance I take. I walk back down and open