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Amanda grabbed her diet soda from the console of her car and locked the door with the remote. As usual, she
was the only one on the path leading to the oldest section of the cemetery - the part where the headstones were
broken and the grass was never cut. The sunshine barely managed to penetrate the dense foliage and she
stepped cautiously over the overgrown briars and other weeds.

She religiously visited the grave of her friend at least twice a year, perhaps more often if she was overwhelmed
some life-changing event. Here, she could put it all in perspective. Here, she was with a friend. She sat back
against the tree and drifted back to the most profound and tragic time in her life. Slowly, the face of a skinny,
unkempt girl emerged as vivid and full of life as she was almost twenty years ago.

Amanda was back in third grade. Cindy, a new girl in school, sat in the desk in front of her and Amanda would
stare at the back of her head. Only the top layer of her hair was brushed and she could see through the smooth
layer to the knots and tangles rooted beneath. The color was medium brown but it always had a gray, ashy tint.

She always noticed Cindy's shirt and had already seen it twice this week. It was a solid dirty yellow and Amanda
could tell it was the same shirt by the small tear right at the collar seam.

"Hi," Cindy said to Amanda every morning before class. Her bus was one of the last ones to arrive because it
had a long route. At least three times each week, she'd run into class just before the teacher started to take
attendance and apologize.

"That's all right, Cindy," the teacher would say. "Please take your seat."

"You dropped this," Amanda said and handed Cindy her pencil that had fallen out of one of her books. It was
just a pencil stub really, chewed with no eraser.

It was only one kind gesture, but it changed Amanda's entire life. Looking back, Amanda never recalled Cindy
with a pencil longer than three inches.

"Thanks," Cindy whispered.

She always made good grades. Amanda knew because sometimes the teacher let them grade each other's
papers and she regularly graded Cindy's. She rarely raised her hand to answer a question, never passed a note,
and never got in trouble for talking.

The class went to lunch at eleven-thirty each day. Although every day Cindy stood in the lunch line in front of
her, Amanda never asked her to sit with her or her friends. None of the boys go near her because they say she
has cooties. All the cool girls, including Amanda sat together and griped about homework, parents, and those
same nasty boys. Cindy would sit with the girls but there was at least a one-chair separation at the table.
Amanda would watch her out of the corner of her eye because Cindy caught her staring once and it made her
feel bad.

There was no food left on her tray when she carried it up to the trash. Not even the gross food like the spinach
or lima beans. Some of the other kids taunted her about it, but she only smiled and took the teasing in stride.
Amanda could feel the anger boiling through her veins as she recalled getting angry for Cindy.

The lady who stood at the trashcan to empty the trays even noticed.

"You sure do eat good youngin'," she'd say, almost every day.

Amanda took a deep breath and a sip of soda, and calmed a little when her thoughts drifted to recess.

Cindy would sit on the same bench on the side of the playground. She'd dangle her feet and scrape her toes
against the asphalt. Amanda didn't know where the hole in her sneakers was made by her habit, or if it was
there when someone gave her the shoes.

Her large brown eyes peered out from beneath a fringe of dark eyelashes. She'd smile and watch everyone run
around, burning the morning's build-up of energy. Sometimes Amanda would see her giggle behind her hand at
something funny. No one ever asks her to play with them.

The teacher would ring an old rusty cowbell and the class would follow her back to class. Cindy would walk
close enough to Amanda and her friends, and to someone on the outside it would seem as though they were all
good friends. However, the girls knew she kept just the right amount of space between them.

That particular day after recess, the class settled down for art. Amanda liked to peek over Cindy's shoulder and
watch her draw.

"Amanda Stewart," the teacher called out. "Do your own work please."

Cindy was truly an artist by third grade standards and her art was displayed all over the classroom. She liked to
draw animals and they looked very realistic, except for their eyes. She colored them red and they looked like
demons. She'd always hum when she drew, but only Amanda could hear her. It wasn't anything she recognized,
but it sounded happy.

She often wondered if Cindy knew she didn't have to press so hard on the crayon to get the colors bright - like
those cute little animals were supposed to have bold red eyes.

Art was Amanda's favorite subject and always hated when the teacher announced it was time to clean up. It
was Amanda's turn to pick up all the glue bottles and put them back in the cabinet. The teacher asked Cindy to
go outside and bang the erasers together to get the chalk dust out. Amanda picked up all the scraps of paper
off the floor around Cindy's desk and threw them away.