A Girl Like You by vinnie Kinsella (good books to read for 12 year olds .TXT) 📕

the shut-off valve clockwise and draining the toilet.

“Then pry up the flapper.”

“What’s the flapper?” I asked.

When they were done laughing at my lack of toilet parts knowledge, Wes drew a round rubber seal on the napkin to illustrate. “Flapper problems, that’s what’ll get ya.”

Paulie nodded in agreement.

“Chain’s probably too long,” Wes said thoughtfully. “Gotta shorten it so the flapper closes in time.”

“Ya know, you can waste a good 200 gallons of water a day letting your toilet run,” Sal said helpfully. “Haven’t you been keeping an eye on your own water bill? You’re a smart girl; surprised you never noticed till now.”

* * *

I followed their directions that night, draining the toilet, checking the flapper to find the chain really was actually too long. I got out the wire cutters I used to make Christmas wreaths and clipped it slightly shorter. Voilà. The sound of running water in the tank had stopped, and the guys hadn’t even had to make a house call to help me.

I thanked the guys with cinnamon raisin bagels the next day at work—substantially less costly than a plumber’s bill, with a hefty boost to my confidence as an added side benefit.

24

Besides Eddie and my small dog, my best friend was a precocious little girl named Lily, who was six and lived down the street. My house was at the end of the sidewalk, and Lily was allowed to ride her bike or push her baby doll stroller only on the sidewalk, so she always ended up at my front porch.

If I wasn’t outside, Lily rang the bell and asked if Penny could go out to play. Sometimes, Lily’s mother let her scooter up the sidewalk to my house after dusk to visit, just for a few minutes. I spent many weeknights outside with Penny, rocking in my wicker chair, watching cars go by.

“So, Bryan’s gone?” Lily asked one warm evening in June.

“Yeah, he’s…gone. Lives in the south, near the beach now.”

Lily considered this for a minute. “I’d rather stay here and live with you and Penny.”

“Thanks, kid,” I said, ruffling her curly hair.

“You’re welcome,” she said, smoothing her hair. “You sad about him going to live near the beach?”

I smiled. Leave it to a kid to cut to the chase.

“I was pretty sad, but I’m getting better.”

“Good for you,” Lily said, then proceeded to tell me about a yellow and pink butterfly she’d seen in her backyard that landed on her trampoline.

* * *

“I like your nail polish,” I told Lily one night, looking at her sparkly toenails.

“Thanks, my grandpa did them,” she said, flexing her flip-flopped feet. “Then he let me paint his big toe only. He said he had to take it off before my dad saw.”

“Your grandpa’s a smart man.”

“I know.”

* * *

One summer afternoon, Lily settled herself on my front steps and emptied out her backpack.

“Grace is hungry, and I didn’t have time to feed her before her walk,” she explained, pointing to the doll with the tousled blonde ponytails. “So, I have to make her food now.”

She set out a plate and pulled out a jar of bright blue Play-Doh, which she flattened between her palms, then cut into strips with a plastic knife.

“What are you making?”

“Fries.”

Then she sat the doll on a small pink play toilet that made a real flushing sound when she pressed the lever.

I waited to see how Lily would feed Play-Doh fries to little Grace—who I’d never noticed had an open mouth—and to learn why she sat on the potty when eating. Lily carefully spoon-fed the doll, then picked her up and thumped on her head, causing the Play-Doh to eject from the doll’s bottom, where there was also an opening, right into the toilet bowl.

“Your turn,” she said, handing over the baby spoon.

“Why are your fingers blue?” Ian asked later that night.

“I was helping Lily make French fries.”

“I’m not even going to ask.”

* * *

Along with being an excellent mama to her dolls, Lily was a born gymnast. Part monkey, she balanced her small feet sideways on a tiny ledge outside our kitchen window, which I left open that summer like a drive-through restaurant. She showed up a few times a week, poking her little head into our kitchen, which made Penny stand on her hind legs and try to reach her.

Lily told me she sometimes came to our kitchen window and was disappointed when she found no one home. I put green sidewalk chalk on the ledge and told her to leave me messages. When she tapped on the window and no one answered, she wrote her name in the large, painstakingly formed letters of a kindergartner. Every few days I changed chalk colors to see if she noticed.

She always did.

Another day Lily drew a welcome mat with yellow chalk in front of the porch steps.

“This is so people will come see you,” she told me.

“You’re the only company I need, kid,” I said, thinking how much she reminded me of Madison when she was little.

“Everyone gets lonely and wants visitors,” Lily said sagely. “Even you.”

She was right, of course. I’d reached the point of intense loneliness.

25

“So there’s this new dating site,” Eddie said, Penny on his lap, while I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner a month later.

“What?”

“It’s where you look at profiles and message anyone you might be interested in.”

“I know what a dating site is,” I said, scrubbing at the baked-on lasagna in the dish. “Why would you think I’d want to do that?”

“Honey, you’ve got to get out of the house sometime.”

I loaded silverware in the dishwasher. “I get out of the house. Every day I go to my fabulous new office clerk job. I file papers. I run mail through the meter. I type up meeting minutes. I listen to the Three Stooges debate which county has the best-tasting water.”

“Yes, I know, work a monkey could do; you’ve told me many times.”

“It’s worse than monkey work,” I said. “Someone called me today