Twelve years old.
Third floor, Block 49, Mayfair Apartments.
I delivered the Columbian to her door.
She paid me a few times—
Her hair a little messy.
There was something about her that felt caring.
I had a small crush on her.
Not the kind you tell anyone about.
Just the kind where you hope
she’s the one who answers the door.
She was a tomboy—
tough without pretending,
kind without trying.
She used to go out with Rod,
a red-headed kid from a standalone house,
behind the school.
Rod was the second toughest guy in school.
The first was Ed—
a fat kid with a silent stare
who’d get you in a headlock
Then he’d sit on you so you couldn’t breathe.
One day at lunch, C-Rane and I went to Rod’s place,
smoked cigarettes and listened to music
Kiss Alive I. First time I ever heard them.
Christine wasn’t there,
but her name was.
She disappeared on her way home.
Six weeks later,
they found her body by the dikes.
Stabbed.
Strangled.
Left.
At first, they didn’t even treat it as suspicious.
I still remember that afternoon—
delivering the Columbian,
her face on the front page
as I dropped the paper at her door.
That moment never left me.
She was one of us.
And then she wasn’t.