Starting With You

Prologue. He was a boy, and I was a girl.

Teddy, age 8

WHEN I WAS EIGHT, MY MOM MOVED us across town to a house on the end of a cul-de-sac. My dad stayed in the old house, a rundown two-bedroom ranch right in downtown Lake Hope, within walking distance of the only three bars in our small town in rural Minnesota. Lucky for him since he lost his driver's license for being caught drinking and driving a few too many times.

I'm pretty sure that last time was the instigating factor behind our cross-town move.

My sister, Sarah, and I went from sharing a bedroom to finally having our own rooms. And a yard. A yard that butted right up to a cornfield — or bean field, depending on the year. Two fields wrapped around the perimeter of the cul-de-sac, divided in the middle by a small area with dense trees that, to kids, felt like some magical forest begging to be explored.

To my older sister, the move felt punishing, so far removed from the circle of her friends. To me, it felt promising. Like this side of town could just maybe be the fresh start we all needed.

Separated from downtown where my dad undoubtedly occupied some barstool. Away from the late-night whispered fights and slurred insults and subsequent fuming silent mornings that clunked around too loudly in my 8-year-old brain. Free of unstable moods and tense rooms.

Standing dead center in the circular drive at the end of the cul-de-sac that moving day, I slowly spun around, taking in the 360-degree view.

Directly across from our new house was a white house with a deep front porch and a bright yellow door. It wasn't until a bit later that I'd learn the story behind the door's color. All these years later, and the door is still yellow, a faded, muted color now, as if the joy of the memory somehow dulled in the passing of time.

In front of this house, lined up alongside the curb, was a basketball hoop, facing out toward the open circular drive that joined all the houses at the end of the cul-de-sac.

An abandoned basketball rolled toward me on a gust of wind. I kicked out to stop it with my foot, my pink flip flop flying off in the process. It clunked down a few feet away from me, after its pathetic arc in the air.

"Whoa, easy," a voice laughed from behind me, accompanied by gravel crunching under tires.

A scrawny boy I knew from school came to a screeching halt on his bike in front of me, a crooked grin splitting his face in two. "Seems dangerous for you to play ball in those shoes."

I picked up the ball and dribbled it a few times. It was losing air so the bounces felt off. Wrong. I tucked it under my arm, kicked off my other flip flop and faced the boy. "Who needs shoes anyway?"

I dribbled once, twice, three times before swinging the ball two-handed between my legs and launching it up at the hoop, granny-style. It completely missed and plunked on the ground, bouncing a few times, before rolling into the grass in the yard behind the hoop.

Laughing, the boy rode his bike over, hopping off and dropping the bike next to the ball before he snatched it up and whirled toward me. "You're one of those people that are just bad at all sports, huh?"

Popping a hand on my hip, mimicking my big sister from just this morning giving my mom attitude about the move, I rolled my eyes. "No. Not all sports. I am super good at hoola hooping and jump rope."

He laughed more at this declaration. "Pretty sure those aren't sports. Just things you play at recess."

He must have sensed I was becoming truly angry then, because he held the ball out toward me like a peace offering. "It's cool if you suck. Just means I'll always win!"

"Whatever. That ball is flat anyway." My words sounded pathetic even to my ears, so I straightened up and wiped my palms on my jean shorts. Pointing my thumb behind me at my new house, I told him, "We just moved in. Me, my mom and my sister."

"Yeah, I know," he said. Cocking his head toward the hoop, he asked, "Wanna play P-I-G? My dad taught it to me last year. He said whoever the winner is gets to make the decision."

"What decision?"

"Any. Whatever you're trying to decide. Once my mom and dad played to see who got to choose what we had for supper. My mom won and chose pizza." He finished this explanation with a few dribbles while jogging to the hoop. He tossed the ball without finesse, swishing it through the net, catching it on the rebound and twirling toward me again. "So...do you?"

"Do I what?" I asked, somewhat stunned by this kid who suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

I knew him, of course, having gone to the same school from preschool on. In a small town like Lake Hope, there was no hiding. Everyone knew everyone. And I certainly knew Jensen Anderson.

This could very well have been the first time I spoke to him, though. At least the first time outside of school anyways.

He was friends with everyone. It seemed that way to me at least. Always bustling between groups, fitting in wherever he landed.

Me, on the other hand, I stuck out. I wasn't girly enough for the girls and not Tomboyish enough for the boys. It never seemed to matter up until recently. An invisible line dividing the boys and girls had been erected, and I hadn't exactly figured out just where I belonged yet.

So when Jensen offered me an olive branch in the shape of a basketball, it took me a moment to recognize the gesture for what it was.

He laughed at me in the way I would grow to know meant I was amusing him. Amusing Jensen was something I have always been especially good at, even when it wasn't intentional. Which it usually never was back then. Or now, if we're being honest.

"Do you want to play P-I-G?" he asked again, staring intently at me with amusement alighting across his stupid, dirt-smudged face.

"Only if the winner gets to say whether hoola hooping and jump rope are real sports or not," I said in my sassiest voice.

"Fine. But fair is fair. Once I win, you have to admit you're wrong."

I stole the ball out of his hands and threw it toward the hoop without thought. It bounced off the backboard before swirling around the hoop and sinking in. I smirked at the kid who was about to become my best friend, daring him to bring his A game.

I'd love to say I kicked his butt. But that first shot was pure luck. I quickly spelled pig and was forced to admit I was wrong about hoola hoops and jump ropes. I was vindicated weeks later, after I slowly improved my game, when he was forced to hoola hoop for all the cul-de-sac kids to watch.

After that first day, my family and I quickly became integrated into the cul-de-sac community, and soon it was hard to imagine a time before. Well, except twice a month when it was our weekends at my dad's house, back at the old two-bedroom ranch house downtown. Then it was easy to remember. And all the more reason to forget again the moment we were dropped back off at my mom's house Sunday night.

When I was 8, my mom moved us across town to a house on the end of a cul-de-sac, I got a best friend and finally felt I fit in somewhere. That's also the same year my best friend lost his mom, and his dad was left to raise two kids alone. I have a feeling if you asked Jensen about the year he was 8, the tone of his tales would be less cheerful and celebratory than mine.

But, if we're examining things honestly here, then we should also consider that maybe that's always been the way with us—not always on quite the same page.