She was nine when I moved in, a spidery little kid, all gawky and self-conscious as only a city kid can be.She was nine when I moved in, a spidery little kid, all gawky and self-conscious as only a city kid can be. And she was bright and sweet and unaffected. She was the landlord's daughter, and the fact that such a neat kid would be in my new apartment building was one reason I took the place. The trouble started three years later. "Hi. This is Angie." (As if I might not recognize her voice. Sure, she'd been less likely to spend time chatting with the old guy on the fourth floor in the last year -- especially the last few months -- but that was okay. And her voice was immediately recognizable, nonetheless.) "I have to do this paper for school on volcanoes and I was wondering if it would be okay if I looked at some of the books you have." (She knew about the book collection, because she'd seen it.) "So, like, if it's no hassle, let me know when you get a chance, okay? The paper is due Monday. Thanks." (I was listening to the recording on my answering machine on Thursday night.) On my way out the next morning, I slid a note under the door of the owner's apartment saying Saturday, around noon, would be fine. My Main Squeeze was out of the country on vacation and if Angie needed more time or help, Saturday would be no problem. I made a mental note to clean up the place when I got home from work Friday night -- I like to sleep in on Saturdays -- so it would be presentable when Angie came up to raid the books. |