dog-eared

I doubt she remembers. Not the moment, not the day—maybe not even me. At least, not in the way I remember her.

It was sixth grade, early fall, and the school bus rattled like it always did, the scent of vinyl seats and damp backpacks thick in the air. I was sitting alone where the invisibility of adolescence began. She climbed on at her stop—blonde hair, metal-rimmed glasses, sneakers, and a backpack with a single faded pen doodle on the strap. She slid in next to me. Not because she liked me, but because we had assigned seats.

She wasn’t the most popular girl—not even close—but she ranked higher than I on the social ladder we all knew existed. She had friends who knew the latest songs, and she always smelled like shampoo and dryer sheets. A smell that indicated your parents had their shit together. She was in all the AP classes. She was much smarter than I. So much smarter than I that I rarely spoke.

She leaned toward me, her voice low, like she was sharing a secret.

“Have you read the Harry Potter books?” she asked.

My heart stuttered. Words scrambled, failing to sound cool. I said, “I read the first two but not the third yet.”

Her face lit up in this quiet, unexpected way, like she’d been hoping I would say that. “I have the third one,” she said. “You can borrow it if you want.”

I nodded—probably too eagerly. “Yes! That would be awesome.”

The next afternoon, with my mother’s blessing, I crossed the street—sidewalk to sidewalk—heading into a neighborhood I’d only glimpsed from the bus window. The houses looked the same: neat lawns, wind chimes, wreaths on doors. Still, it felt different to see the neighborhood as a pedestrian, walking with a purpose and destination, than just a passenger observing through glass. It was the first time I’d been invited into a classmate’s home.

“My room’s this way,” she said. “The book’s in there.”

I followed her up the stairs, feeling like I’d stepped into a world I only half understood. Her room had soft lighting and a poster I recognized from the book fair. It wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t spotless either—lived-in. Familiar, and not. She picked up the book from her bedside table—is that where she laid her glasses at night, like I did? Her shoes were cock-eyed by the door, laces untied—just like mine always were.

She sat on the edge of her bed, and I hovered until she patted the spot beside her. I sat, not too close. But not far, either. I could feel the warmth of where her arm ended.

“This is Prisoner of Azkaban,” she said, flipping through the pages. “You’ll like the Boggart chapter. It’s creepy. ‘Cat, Rat and Dog’ is cool too.”

“I like rats,” I blurted out.

Why did I say that? Of all possible responses—I picked rats.

She paused, looked at me, and smiled. “Me too.” Her smile was quiet, like rats were something just between us. I told myself I just wanted to be like her. But near her was better.

Then she turned the book over and pointed to the illustration on the back. “That’s Padfoot.”

I blinked. “What’s a Padfoot?”

Her mouth opened like she was about to explain, but then she hesitated. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “You’ll see.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

Not when she reread the book—just so we could talk about it.

Not when I ran home, breathless, and started chapter one that same night.

Not when I turned each page with care, holding the spine gently, avoiding creases or smudges like the book was sacred. Was this Harry Potter or was this the Bible?

I didn’t want to return it, and I wanted to return it as quickly as possible. Giving it back might mean the end of something fragile and precious. But I also hoped returning it quickly would show her I valued her time—and her trust. That I was worthy of it. I kept it pristine. Not just for her, but because maybe she’d see me that way too. Maybe I could be someone who mattered.

Not just the weird and quiet girl who shared her bus seat.

But someone who could one day lean in and whisper, “I know who Padfoot is,” and mean it like a shared secret. Like friendship. Like something more than chance.

She may not remember the book she lent me. Or the conversation. Or the way she smiled when I said I liked rats.

But I do.

And it wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

Everything—like how this memory stays dog-eared in me.