It was a hot, bright day. Everything was burning -- the roofs, the shrubs(1), the asphalt, our bike seats, our skin, our hair. Allison's father was watering the lawn, and Allison and I rode our bikes over the soggy grass and through the whirling(2) water that jetted out of the sprinkler(3).

I lived on Prospect Street then. I was eight and Allison was ten. We were the only kids on the block, so we were best friends by default. I looked up to Allison, even though I didn't share her interest in Barbies and Hall and Oates(4). During the summer, we spend a lot of time riding our bikes, playing Clue, and pretending to be married. But I don't think she liked me very much, and I don't know if I liked her either. [...]

I was the firest to see the younger girl standing in the middle of Prospect Street, straddling(5) her bike, watching us. I heard someone laughing when I almost collided with Allison. I looked up, and there she was.

I smiled. She smiled back.

Prospect Street was in a white, lower-middle-class neighborhood. Most of the houses were about seventy years old, of simple, sturdy design. [...]

The girl, dressed in Kelly-green shorts and a T-shirt, looked small against the plainness of the road, but her smile was expansive. The house across the street from Allison's had been sold the week before, and I guessed the girl must have moved in there with her family.

As Allison came out from under the arc of water, she looked at me. Then she stopped her bike turned to see what I was grinning(6) at. As I said hi to the girl, I heard Allison say, "Get out of here, nigger," with such contempt(7) that I froze, my smile still glued on my face.

The girl kept smiling, too. Allison swung one leg over her bike seat and faced the girl. Holding her bike with one hand, Allison pointed to the house across the street with the other. "I said get out of here, niggher, or I'll beat you up."

The girl's smile disappeard. I also stopped smiling and looked at Allison. Her