Joe Brown

On Staten Island, it seemed like the kids I knew were always moving away. My best friend, Star, left at the end of second grade. I loved her name, I loved her giggle, I loved her chattering and her curls. I loved her tall, deep-throated father who would bring their mutt, Mister, in the car to pick up Star after school. He was the only father in a sea of mothers outside the schoolyard. Sometimes he would drive us back to their house, and Star and I would do homework with the radio on and Mister dozing on Star’s bed. We made bracelets from lanyards, we played jacks, we memorized our state capitals.

Want to read the rest?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.
The password field is case sensitive. Account & Password Help.