The Boy Next Door

     All my life, I've lived in the same house, on the same street, in the same town. And all my life, there's been two empty houses next to me. I don't know why, but they've never been bought. It would be creepy, but I'm used to it. Plus, they're not creepy looking houses at all. They're very nice looking actually. 

     On my street, there's only ever been one other person within five years of my age. Her name was Sarah and she was a year older than me, but more on that later. A few months ago, someone moved into the house a few down from me. That house had also been empty for some time. I was kind of curious as to who it was, but I'm not the kind of person to show up at someone's door to see who they are. So I just shrugged and continued with my life. 

     Across the street from me, a house had been being built for about a year. The family had finally moved in around Christmas, and so the bus was having to stop three times in a row on my street. The bus driver ended up moving us all to the driveway across from mine. And so after a few awkward hellos, I finally started talking to the boy down the street. 

     His name is Jake. We played soccer together and he cut his hand on a rusty nail so he had to get a shot or something from the hospital. Since then we've been friends. We talk every morning at the bus stop and make the quiet kid whose driveway we're in feel uncomfortable. Not our fault, he doesn't talk. 

     Now that it's summer, I play soccer in my front yard almost every evening. Most of the time he comes and plays with me. When he doesn't, I find myself looking into his yard every second. I can't help it. I really like him. As a friend. For now, until he comes the stereotypical boy next door. 

     I've never had a friend neighbor before. Well there was Sarah, but that's a long story. 

Until next time,

~Marina