Member-only story
Figure Eight Girl
The mysteries we never solve about our neighbors
1.
We don’t know her name, but we call her Figure Eight Girl. When we first move into our house, she’s there, in the middle of the street, riding in figure eights on her bicycle. She’s young, but we can’t tell how young. She wears faded denim shorts and a tank top; her straight hair wafts behind her. Her face is neutral, a little hangdog.
She circles and circles and circles, sometimes for hours. Endless figure eights, directly in front of her house — or what we assume is her house. There’s nothing else there, except a freestanding basketball hoop. The cars are parked close together, like gear-teeth, but we never see other neighbors.
At first we like it. How sweet — a middle school girl on her one-speed bike.
But there she is, summer day after summer day.
Alone, in endless helices.
2.
Once, riding my own bike, I pass Figure Eight Girl on the sidewalk. She’s walking around in flip-flops. She smiles.
I’ve never seen her smile before. For an instant, I think that smile looks bashful. Relieved. The smile of someone who doesn’t smile often.
