It's 1992 and I'm ten years old. Let's say it's summer, mid afternoon and I'm walking down to the end of my street where my friend Dylan lives. The night before we drew up big plans to build an airplane in his backyard. The pavement is hot but I am not into wearing shoes. I have to sort of skip to keep the bottoms of my feet from burning off, and when that doesn't work, I hop back and forth from street to grass.
When I finally arrive it seems like there's a hundred kids in Dylan's yard, playing soccer. There's Dylan's older brother Jason, who's 11 and snobby, and Chris, who's two years old and loud and annoying. Michael and Dan are there from next door, plus Becky and Lindsey, although I don't know why because they hate soccer and I hate when one or both of them get stuck on my team. Dylan's mom Pam is outside, and she yells at me for not bringing shoes to the soccer game. "I didn't know there was gonna be a soccer game," I say. "I thought we were building an airplane."
Someone suggests boys against girls, and we lose. It's dark outside when I finally hobble home, my spirit broken, grass stained, and blisters on my feet.
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