She must have been around seven years old, with pigtails bouncing as she pedaled. Suddenly, she lost control and fell off her bike right in front of my house. “Oh no!” I exclaimed, rushing over to help her. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
Before I could reach her, a woman—her mother, I assumed—came running over, yelling, “Get away from her!”Startled, I stopped in my tracks. The mother grabbed the girl, her eyes wide with panic, and hugged her tightly. “Are you hurt, Jenny? Did she touch you?” she asked frantically, looking at me like I was some kind of threat.
“I just wanted to help,” I said softly, feeling a lump in my throat. The mother didn’t respond. She picked up her daughter and hurried away, leaving the bike behind. I stood there, confused and hurt. I noticed one of the neighbors, Jules, walking her dog near my house. She had seen the whole thing. Jules was a peculiar woman.
She always wore long skirts, and her eyes were painted with blue eyeshadow, her lips bright with pink lipstick. She was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “Good afternoon, Jules,” I called out, trying to sound cheerful.She didn’t reply.
Instead, she clutched the leash of her small dog and quickly crossed to the other side of the road, muttering to herself. “Why is everyone so unfriendly?” I whispered to myself. “Is it something I did?” Back inside my house, I sat by the window, looking out at the empty street. “Maybe they think I’m weird or something,” I murmured, trying to make sense of it all. “But they don’t even know me.” I picked up my journal and started writing. “Day three in the new house. The neighbors are still avoiding me.
