The girl from the 11th street walked with her face down and tears welling from her eyes. She strolled as if she were moving towards me but ended up passing by and brushing her small pale arm with mine. I then saw the true power of words, how it could transform people of the brightest smiles into puppets of despair.
She just moved to our subdivision when I first saw her. The 14-year old girl, her combed black long hair streaked with gold, her school uniform so ironed out straight as though it bore no crease, the girl who carried a blue bag with a bigger size than her, the girl from the 11th street. I saw her whenever I waited for the school bus to pick me up for school. I saw her whenever I returned home as well, tired and wasted from my school. She was always half walking and half hopping as she went to their house. One morning, not looking where I was going, I even had the chance of bumping her and knocking her load over the sidewalk. Totally ashamed of what I’ve done, I immediately picked up her scattered things and repeatedly apologized to her. Still feeling embarrassed, I offered to carry her bag and walk her to school. with her jolly voice, she answered, “Thanks but no thanks, you are probably busy and probably late”. It felt nice, as if she were my little sister. I’ve always wanted a sibling younger than me.
Until one day when I have returned to our subdivision from our school, tired and wasted as usual, I saw her. The girl from the 11th street walked with her face down and tears welling from her eyes. She strolled as if she were moving towards me but ended up passing by and brushing her small pale arm with mine. Her black-gold hair was all in tangles, her ironed uniform was all in disarray, and her bag, her big blue bag, was left open and left on the middle of the road. At the other side of the street, I saw a group of kids with the same age as hers. Some were shouting what seemed like insults, some were throwing what seemed like stones. All of them were laughing, pointing at the direction of the girl from the 11th street. The sun was on its orange glow and started setting already. I looked at her again; she continued walking, her back towards me walking farther, farther, and farther still.
My day went by not seeing her, and then came two days, then three. Four days have passed already. While walking, I saw a tarpaulin hanging outside a house, on it was written in big letters:
“Vanna D. Beaufort
December 11, 2000 – February 9, 2015”
And beside was the picture of a girl who is smiling. I did not see the big blue bag in the picture, nor was she wearing her ironed flat uniform. But her gold-streaked black hair made it easy to recognize her. She was happy in the picture, unlike the day I last saw her, the girl from the 11th street.
