I was in third grade when I officially met her. Sitting on the school steps waiting for my mom to pick me up (late as usual) now that she was trying to be a Corporate Cathy, I noticed an impish girl cowering at the bottom of the steps, crying like a baby. She didn't have any friends, since she was shy and lived on the east side of the tracks. She was one of the few farm girls in our school and sat two rows behind me in class.

"What's wrong?" I asked, feeling sorry for her.

"My mom forgot me!" she hollered, her hands covering her pathetic, wet face.

"No, she didn't," I consoled.

"She's never this late!" she cried.

"Maybe she's stuck in traffic."

"You think so?"

"Sure! Or maybe she got a call from one of those nosey sales people that always asks, 'Is your mother home?'"

"Really?"

"Happens all the time. Or maybe she had to stop for snacks, and there was a long line at 7-Eleven."

"Would she do that?"

"Why not, you have to eat, don't you? So never fear. She'll be here."

And sure enough, a blue pickup drove up with one apologetic mother and a friendly, fluffy sheepdog.

"My mom says you can come over Saturday if it's okay with your parents," Becky said, running back to me.

No one had ever invited me to their house before. I wasn't shy like Becky but I was just as unpopular. I was always late for school because I overslept, I wore sunglasses in class, and I had opinions, all atypical in Dullsville.

Becky had a backyard as big as Transylvania—a great place to hide and play monsters and eat all the fresh apples a growling third-grade stomach could hold. I was the only kid in our class who didn't beat her up, exclude her, or call her names, and I even kicked anyone who tried. She was my three-dimensional shadow. I was her best friend and her bodyguard. And still am.

When I wasn't playing with Becky, I spent my time applying black lipstick and nail polish, scuffing my already-worn combat boots, and burying my head behind Anne Rice novels.