“Come on!” she whispered. We’d snuck into the McGuinn’s basement where Andy kept his bicycle. He rode that bike up and down our street most days, and evenings hoisted it over his shoulder to walk it down the concrete steps. That day, Andy and his old mother weren’t home. He talked like a kid, like us, but he was strong like a man. Black hair covered his legs. He was gentle. The adults didn’t explain it. “Come on!” she said again, but I didn’t move. I was sitting on Andy’s bike, my toes barely touching the floor, trying to understand.
Beth Anne Cooke-Cornell lives in Salem, MA. She admits to sneaking into her neighbors’ homes when she was a child. Twitter: @BACookeCornell