She's 11, going into sixth grade and small for her age. She has a short, musical name that I've been saying quietly when I'm the only one in the room.

This summer, I'd seen her biking up and down the street in her short-shorts. Kindly, she'd always motor past me in a standing pedal, showing off her perfect bottom. On lucky days I'd interact with her as I headed out for work, and I'd spend the commute daydreaming.





Last week, as I left my apartment to watch the sunset with my niece, my little neighbor spotted us and approached. I got an honest-to-goodness look at her for the first time since her toddler days. She is a tiny beauty: her skin is light tea colored, satin smooth. Her hair is wavy and shimmering chestnut, reaching just past her shoulders. Her eyes are light, sapphire blue. Her face is a diamond-shaped work of art - but a smile sends it into a big, unrestrained wince.

She is biracial, and I know that only because she told me. Despite being 11, she shows no signs of blooming (my niece, three years younger, is the taller of the two). I can't remember whether I have always been dreaming of a girl like her, or if she subconsciously influenced my image of a 'dream girl' while watching her grow from afar.





She accompanied me and my niece on a long walk on the bank of a nearby river. My niece is 8 and swaggered while being seen with the sharp-looking local sixth grader.

Since the walk was purportedly a girls hangout, I was missing the early signals that the 11-year-old was completely zeroed in on me. Being liked by a girl never occurred to me. She laughed almost drunkenly at my jokes, detailed every accomplishment of her fifth grade year (first chair clarinet!) and sought out new heavy objects for me to throw in the water so she could marvel at my strength. My niece seemed too young to pick up that she was the third wheel. The 11-year-old would give me a weary glance every time my niece would say something too kiddish for her taste. The duplicity made me feel rotten.

Taking a seat on the edge of the dock that marked the halfway point of our trip, my new friend positioned herself thigh-to-thigh on my left. She leaned into me and embraced me as if it was the most natural thing in the world. My niece followed suit, as if in competition.

I trailed the 11-year-old for the majority of the journey. She often walked on an incline ahead of me, bringing her butt inches from my face. From that vantage point, I was able to determine that her bottom was her best feature - it's perfectly round and a little outsized, the only thing on her that retains any trace of baby fat. Her purple tights rode up through the hike, but she didn't seem to mind. I started muttering at her backside and staring into it, almost bitterly. At one point, I recall saying, "Are you kidding me?"





Returning from the river, my niece requested a movie night at my place. The 11-year-old wanted in, natch. She sprinted down the block and returned to my apartment reporting that she had a renewed a two hour allowance from her grandmother.

We got everything set around the gaming rig in my bedroom and - despite the elder girls protests for something scarier - we settled on watching The Hobbit. I left the two girls my room to gather the snacks requested and came back to find my new friend rearranging the seating so that I was only sitting next to her (and on the far side from my niece).

The darkness of the movie-screening made her a tad more plucky. She stole glances often, giggling softly when caught. After long, she stopped bothering to look away. She seemed to touch me at every opportunity, carefully gauging my permissiveness. Eventually, she nestled her head into my shoulder and chest for the long haul, her hands playing idly on my leg.

My girlfriend dropped in several times to quell giggling fits (the girls found Bombur uproarious).





That's all I got.

I spoke to my girlfriend and reflected on the surprising tenderness of my new friend. She noted that both of her parents had long been out of her life and she was likely hungry for a father figure. Or, any adult interaction outside of her crusty grandmother.

The door is now open to spend more time with the 11-year-old, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I had never been close with a girl before and the experience is different than what I had pictured. It wasn't bad at all - but, she was very real. Flesh and blood and hot breath and chipped nail polish and questions, questions, questions.

It was definitely perspective-shifting.