A Friend Indeed
Serena Armstrong
As a child, I had a secret. I was friends with a boy who shouldn’t exist.
My house was on the banks of Lake Cowan, ringed by pine trees and weeping willows, and the boy used to live among the roots. I named him Friend, for he never spoke to tell his name, but I liked his company nonetheless. He was shorter than the other kids—thinner, too—and covered in waxy, black skin from head to toe. His eyes were beautiful: deep green, like a Persian cat’s.
We used to play in the shallows, digging our toes in the mud or floating leaves on the surface, pretending they were boats. When we got sick of watching them we’d shriek and throw cascades of pebbles, rocking them on the tiny waves.
I remember one day I tried to get Friend to play with the other kids. They were
