I started riding my bike past Stacy's house on Saturdays and Sundays. I'd zip by, turn around, zip by again, sometimes take a spin around the block ... and some days I wouldn't see Stacy at all. But sometimes I would see her; she'd be stepping out of her station wagon with her parents and little brother, all lugging brown bags full of goodies, and she'd screw her face up at me and say "Why are you always here?" and my heart would burst with pleasure that her glance had actually met mine, that the gorgeous gumdrop green light from her eyes had actually shone into my own thirsty plain brown eyes for one incredible moment.

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