HONESTLY

Trust

When I was eight, Nate Stanton, a slightly awkward nine-year-old boy, moved into the colonial across the street. Before his arrival, I had lived in a mainly kid-free neighborhood so I was excited at the thought of hanging out and going on the bus with someone similar in age.

The day our new neighbors, Lynn and Rob Stanton, moved in, my mom insisted we walk over and introduce ourselves. As we headed across the hot pavement, I hoped Nate and I would hit it off, or the summer would be a long and lonely one since both my parents worked full-time.

When I finally met Nate, I noticed we looked like brother and sister, other than Nate's height which was an inch or so taller than me at the time, we both were thin and had short, chestnut hair. The other feature that stood out was the dimple on his left cheek, the placement seemed so perfect, almost fake.

"Why don't you take Nicky to the backyard and show her the spot for the tree house," Nate's mom said cheerfully.

Nate seemed slightly quiet and shy, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"Ok," he said with a prepubescent tone.

When we walked towards the backyard and turned the corner, I was surprised how open and flat the yard was. We were never invited over by the grumpy old-man who lived there before.

Nate pointed up to two, larger-than-life, oak trees situated off to the right.

"That's where my dad and I are going to build the treehouse," he said innocently while his dimple appeared once again.

"Cool!" I said enthusiastically, crossing my fingers we would get along.

From that day forward, my wish did come true, and we became fast friends. The rest of that summer we were inseparable as the treehouse came to life. I watched the painstaking process as each piece of lumber was placed, just so, up into the trees. Weeks later, Nate's treehouse emerged, almost like a tiny home up in the clouds because it seemed so high. There were some final touches that still needed to be completed.

One day when I was over Nate's house, his parents asked him what color they should paint the walls.

He turned to me and asked, "What do you think, Nick?"

Nick was Nate's nickname for me. I sometimes wondered in the back of my mind if he called me Nick so he didn't have to explain to his old friends that his new friend was actually a girl.

"Yellow, like a sunflower, they always make me smile," I replied.

Nate seemed to have no opinion and agreed almost immediately.

At the beginning of school that year, I showed Nate around the halls of the elementary school and after school, we would spend hours in the completed tree house, just being kids, with a "No Electronics Rule," while up in the clouds.

At the same time, our parents became friends, taking turns hosting drinks on the deck at night. When Nate's parents found out they were expecting a "surprise," a baby daughter, my mom supported Nate's mother, who was overwhelmed at the thought of having a child after forty.

The two women became best friends, just like Nate and I. They had a bond that couldn't be broken.

Nate was the first person who ever heard me play my guitar other than my parents. I was hesitant and didn't think I had much talent, but Nate told me to sing louder not softer, and encouraged me to write my own songs. When I said I didn't know how to coordinate a melody with lyrics, he didn't buy it.

"I dare you, Nick," he declared with a mischievous grin, ear-to-ear.

The bet was on and the terms were set.