Becca had been nine years old the Saturday she rode with her mother into town to deliver the eggs they collected each week for a dozen or so regular customers. Mrs. Griffith was new on their list, and Becca’s mother said for her to wait in the car while she took the two cartons to the door.
The day was warm so Becca sat in the front seat with the window rolled down and her door open. A dozen yards away, a boy she’d never seen before tossed a baseball high in the air and caught it with a leather glove. He looked to be about her age. He had dark blonde hair and the kind of face that assured him a future of being chased by girls.
He walked over to the car, not saying anything, just staring. This was hardly a new response for Becca. She’d long ago gotten used to the questions from other children who wondered why her family wore funny clothes and didn’t have televisions in their homes.
“Do you always have to wear a dress?” he asked, tossing the ball up again and catching it in his glove.
“Do you always have to cut your hair so short?” she threw back, staring at his head.
He grinned and threw the ball up higher, catching it again with a solid whump. “Only in the summer when it’s hot. Why? You don’t like it?”
She lifted a shoulder, tipped her head, figuring he already had a big enough ego. “It’s okay.”
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