The best way to describe my relationship with Sam would be to say that he takes off his shades when he's talking to me. No one else. You'd have to know Sam to understand, perhaps, maybe. Parents seriously believe Sam wears his shades while sleeping, but when he's talking to me, even if we're at a crowded party, he raises them slightly so I can see his eyes while he's talking. It makes me feel special, it does, but I don't let him know that. And that's how we understand each other: Sam shows me close attention while others pretend not to, and I react coolly towards Sam while others constantly load him up with close attention.

Sam works in this silly tiny bookstore in Chauntley. He lives in Chauntley, too. It's about a fifteen-minute bicycle ride from my house to his, but I rarely go there, unless he's bought a new record. Mostly, I see him at Curzon Parlor, the bookstore where he works. I don't think more than ten books are bought there per month, so I don't know how it stays open. Mr. Richards, or Ricks, opened it years and years ago, and introduced himself to the lady who owns the malt shop next door. They were engaged the following week. Ricks and Mrs. Ricks crudely knocked down half of the wall between their stores, and it's been a hybrid bookstore and malt shop ever since. We go there after school to talk about books and music and other things, and to consume gallons of milkshakes. This all began with one of Sam's ideas, but that's another story.

Anyway, Ricks and Mrs. Ricks still staff their shops separately, and when Sam isn't buying records, listening to new records at home, or playing them at parties around town, he's working at Curzon Parlor.

Sam's a good occasional friend, and I don't mean that in a negative way. He seems to know when I need some company and when I'd prefer to be alone, and in return, I believe I'm outgoing enough for him when he's hyperactive, and tame enough when he'd prefer some good conversation. Sam and his shades. You should see him. He makes Elvis look as uncoordinated as a day-old calf.

My other good occasional friend is Kristy. Kristen Flower. Seriously, that's her name. She lives up to it, too, she's as beautiful as any perfect-petalled rose. Or poppy, poppies are my favourite. Kristy changes her boyfriends with her hairstyles: daily. She is always extremely busy organizing her dates so they don't clash, and meeting up with them, but she is awfully forgetful. Many a date of Kristy's has opened the door to Curzon, to find Kristy and me lounging around at the counter, when she was supposed to have met up with him somewhere else, an hour before. Kristy has an ability to smooth troubles away with a smile. She apologizes once, and her jilted date's expression turns from a stunned gasp (a photographer should document these forgotten lovers as they stand in the doorway, aghast) into a pleasant sigh, and they simply pull up a barstool and join our chatter as if nothing happened.

Because Kristy has neverending encounters with boyfriends, new boyfriends, and possible new boyfriends, she is a wonderful source of information for me. For my writing, for my characters. Sometimes I'll even take notes while she tells of her latest conquests. The funniest (in a not-very-nice way) thing is when one of Kristy's forgotten dates has joined us, and she's talking about having to end her relationship with this boy, or that boy, and her forgotten date will laugh and rest his arm along the back of her seat, possessively, with a smile that says, "Ah, that won't happen to me, though."

Whenever that happens, I know Kristy's planned her break-up words to that boy within the next five seconds. I know Kristy. I know she needs to meet a boy who isn't looking for a girlfriend, if that makes sense. It's not something I can explain to her, though, because then she would really start searching in the wrong places.

So, that's Sam and Kristy for you. I would have written about something outrageously interesting, except my previous attempts at storytelling have been glorious failures, you see. Stories of the future, stories of other planets, unknown places, and people I've never met. My grades are poor in creative writing, while my factual papers get great grades. Mme. DuClos curls the line, "Write about what you know, Kate." at the top of every story.

I'm writing about what I know.

At ten-forty on Tuesday night, I dragged a bundle of clothes out from its hiding place under my bed. Having no black clothes of my own, I dressed in my sister's - she's at boarding school, like I used to be - black pants, black mary janes, black coat, black polo-sweater and black hat. I opened my side window and crept to the back lane with my bicycle, then rode for fifteen minutes, without passing a single car or pedestrian, until I had reached Sam's house. His side window was left open for me.

Sam was sitting on one of his many big, gold cushions, by his record player. Without his shades.
"This one's 'El Questo'," he said, without looking over. "Has a latin influence to it, hear?"
We listened, crooned along with other, more familiar, lyrics, and commented briefly on the new records, for an hour or so, and then I rode home. My parents have this strict opinion on not socializing with boys in any way. Except to say, "Hello," at church.
As I dropped to the ground outside his window, Sam whispered the goodbye that he always whispers, and I gave the reply that I always give.
"Say hi to Ben from me, goodnight!"
Ben is my pretend boyfriend, but that's another story, too.
"Will do," I whispered back. "Goodnight."

My favourite time is on these occasions, say, once-monthly, when I ride home around midnight. There isn't a sound past the bicycle wheels' swish, swish, swish - there isn't a light but for the moon. I ride so fast that I think I'll be sped into the future. That I'll turn the next corner and mini spaceships will be hovering in the place of houses.

As per usual, I jumped back up to my window ledge, closed the window, replaced my sister's clothes, knelt and said my prayers, and went to sleep.

A once-monthly Tuesday night. And Sam, and Kristy. And, definitely, Curzon Parlor. Those things I like the most, I suppose.