My daughter’s best friend wore sunglasses at dinners, through sleepovers, and while brushing her teeth. She never removed them where anyone could see. Then boys at school ripped them off. My daughter came home sobbing. Only after telling me what she saw did she admit why her friend didn’t trust her.
The first thing Sofia did when she moved next door was tell my daughter her chalk house was wrong.
“Your windows are on the roof,” she said.
Anna planted her hands on her hips.
“They’re for birds.”
She moved next door.
I watched from our porch, holding a basket of laundry.
Anna drew a tiny door halfway up the wall.
“For short birds.”
Sofia laughed so hard she dropped her chalk.
Anna drew a tiny door halfway up the wall.
They’d known each other for five minutes.
By lunchtime, they were best friends.
Sofia was seven, just like Anna.
She had moved in at the beginning of June and was polite, funny, and bossy about board games.
By lunchtime, they were best friends.
She also wore sunglasses everywhere.
At first, I barely noticed.
It was summer, and the girls spent their days racing scooters and drawing chalk villages across our driveway.
Then she started wearing them indoors.
She wore sunglasses everywhere.
At lunch, during cartoons, and once while helping me roll cookie dough.
“Careful,” I told her. “You’ll get flour on your glasses.”
She wiped them with her sleeve.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Suzana.”
“You’ll get flour on your glasses.”
I smiled.
But I wondered.
My husband, Harry, was away serving in the army.
Anna missed him terribly, although she rarely admitted it.
I wondered.
Instead, she saved ordinary things to tell him: a crooked carrot from our garden, a bird that stole a cracker, and the squeaking wheel on her scooter.
During one scheduled video call, Harry asked what she’d been doing.
“Mostly scooter racing, Dad.”
She saved ordinary things to tell him
“Who’s winning?”
“Sofia. But her scooter cheats.”
From beside Anna, Sofia protested.
“It does not!”
Harry laughed.
“I wish I could hear those races.”
“Who’s winning?”
Anna looked at me.
Then at the little digital recorder Harry had given her before leaving.
She didn’t say anything.
But that afternoon, she carried it outside.
She didn’t say anything.
By July, Sofia practically lived at our house.
She ate at our kitchen table with her sunglasses on, cleaned up without being asked, and once offered Anna three crayons when hers broke.
Then came the sleepover.
By July, Sofia practically lived at our house.
The girls built a blanket fort, ate popcorn, and watched two movies.
Sofia kept her sunglasses on through everything.
Even while brushing her teeth.
Even after changing into pajamas.
Sofia kept her sunglasses on through everything.
At midnight, I found Anna asleep and Sofia curled beside her, still wearing those glasses.
The next morning, after Sofia went home, I asked Anna about them.
“Have you ever seen Sofia without her sunglasses?”
“No, Mom.”
I asked Anna about them.
“Not once?”
Anna shook her head.
“Sometimes she takes them off, but I have to turn around.”
I stopped wiping the counter.
“Why?”
“Not once?”
“She says, ‘Don’t look yet.'”
“And you turn around?”
“Of course!” She looked genuinely puzzled. “She asked me to.”
Sofia could read, run, and beat Anna at every board game in our cupboard.
“She says, ‘Don’t look yet.'”
Whatever the glasses meant, her parents were handling it.
So I left it alone.
In September, both girls started first grade at the same private school.
Anna wore her navy skirt, white polo, and new black shoes.
Whatever the glasses meant, her parents were handling it.
Sofia wore the same uniform and sunglasses.
These were smaller, darker, and fitted closely to her face.
Her mother adjusted them before the bus arrived.
That told me enough.
Sofia wore the same uniform and sunglasses.
The school must have approved them.
For almost three weeks, everything seemed fine.
Anna talked about spelling tests, cafeteria pizza, and her classmates.
She also mentioned Tyler.
For almost three weeks, everything seemed fine.
