There used to be a girl down the street, older than me, maybe eight-—Joanna, Susannah, something. She was the crossing guard on my corner. That’s what I want to be someday. Everyone sees the crossing guard. Last week, two men drove up in front of my house and told her to hop in because her dad was in their car. Last week, she was on my corner. This week she’s gone. I hear she still lives down the street, but I’ll never know for sure. She doesn’t come out anymore. I wonder if those men thought she was me; after all, it’s my corner. Or, maybe no one knows I’m here.
[Other images in this scrapbook can be found here.]