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CSLimeWriter

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      "Yes?" I mumbled, wiping the sleep out of my green eyes and trying hard to wake myself up.

      "William Robert! Unlock this door. How many times have I told you not to lock any door but the bathroom and the front door?"

      My eyes close before I could roll them and I muttered," A perfect Saturday morning wasted on locking lectures." Louder I said, "Fine, mom, but I'm not dressed."

      "Nice try. Come downstairs in five minutes." I heard her footsteps fade as she descended the stairs and, putting my hands behind my head, I rolled back into bed.  What could she want to talk about at eight-thirty a.m. on a weekend? Sighing I put a pair of jeans over my boxers and then pulled a green t-shirt over my head. I didn't know if we'd be going anywhere or not but I wouldn't put socks or shoes on.

      Pushing my iPod and earphones into my pocket I slammed my door closed and slid down our stairwell banister and right into the kitchen where mom was washing last night's dishes and my older brother, Chris, was sitting at the table drinking coffee and working on his latest sketch.

      Glancing up for a moment he said, "Good morning."

      I corrected him. "Bad morning is more like it," and then fell into the kitchen chair closest to me. What the heck was I doing up this early? I couldn't function; couldn't eat; couldn't talk; couldn't --

      As if she could read my mind mom said, "I woke you up because we're going over to say hello to new neighbors."

      I could've rolled my eyes into the back of my head. Say hello? To new neighbors? Yeah, right; and I'd been having the perfect dream, too!

      "Mom, you've got to be kidding --" I turned around to face her but the look she threw me was one that said, If you argue with me you're grounded for the rest of your life. So I shut up.

      Ten minutes later I found myself counting the cracks in the sidewalk as I shuffled down the street beside mom. We reached a white house with dark blue shutters and a porch swing.

      Mom knocked on the door while I wished I was back in bed, drowning out the rest of the world with my music, flipping through my iPhoto magazine --

      The door opened. I glanced at the person standing in front of us and then did a double take. She was a few inches shorter than me, with red-brown hair going down to her shoulders. She wore dark blue jeans, a yellow American Eagle shirt, and a reddish velvet coat that was too big for her.

      As soon as mom introduced herself the girl called, "Mom, neighbors!" and she stepped back, inviting us in. We followed her into their living room; it felt homely. The walls were painted a dark orange with vivid colored paintings hung on them. A sofa and huge armchair sat in the middle of a room, both of them a burnt orange. The carpet was fuzzy; my first impulse was to slip out my sandals and feel it between my toes.

      Just then a lady who looked to be about thirty walked in the room. She had on a long skirt with lots of patterns and designs and a short-sleeved, deep purple shirt. Her hair matched her daughters but was up in a bun instead of down.

      She held out her hand, first to mom and then to me, and said, "Hello, I'm Alex Henderson and this is my daughter, Sofia."

      Sofia didn't shake our hands but waved and smiled shyly. She looks like an artist, a bookworm, and a writer all rolled in one. I shook my head and tired to stop my brain from processing any more stupid thoughts.

      "I'm Lilly Prat, and this is my sixteen-year-old, William."

      "Will," I muttered, thrusting my hands into my front pockets and turning my attention to the paintings. While mom and Alex talked I circled the room, examining each of the pictures and wondering who had done them all.

      Turning around suddenly I almost ran into Sofia. "Sorry," I mumbled. Looking everywhere but at here I asked, "Who did all these?"

      "Mom and I," was the short reply, but she continued, "Dad always loved art but no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't do it; then he met my mom." She paused and I glanced at her. She looked uncertain, as if she didn't know if she should tell me the rest.

      No matter, I wasn't really that interested. "Well, they're cool." We both stood there awkwardly until I changed the subject: "Why do you wear that big jacket?"

      Sofia blushed a moment before answering. Her voice now was calmer and quieter. "It was my dad's. He used to wear it when he wrote his books." She paused and that look came over her face again. But then she went on: "I was writing before you came here; wearing it makes me feel closer to him. And," she smiled sheepishly, "I fell like an aspiring writer when I wear it."

      So I'd been right. She was an artist, a writer, and obviously a reader because all writers have to read what they write and get ideas from other stories and writers.

      She didn't say anything else on the subject so I asked her where she'd moved from. "Montana," she replied. We started talking about some cool sights we'd seen there, some "inspiring places", and picture-perfect spots.

      All too soon mom said it was time to go, and we left with the promise from Alex that we could come come over again soon. As we walked home I didn't count the cracks in the sidewalk; instead I wondered if I had found a friend in Sofia.