I looked up, and saw a girl much older than me standing with her mother. Dark hair reached all the way down her back, and covered her face. Her eyes were black, rimmed with heavy liner and deeply shadowed, and she refused to meet my gaze.

?“This is Rebecca. She’s the one who’s moving in with us,” my mom said, interrupting my playtime.

?“Hi,” I said in a quiet voice, but she only offered a nod in response. I stared at her, taking in her shy demeanor. She had a concave posture: shoulders hunched, head tilted downwards. Her arms, covered by a long black cardigan, were firmly crossed over her chest. Her fingernails were covered by deep black polish, and clenching her arms. From the few details my mom had shared with me, I gathered that Rebecca needed a break from her family, and we were providing that break.

?When she first moved in, she was always reading by herself or doing schoolwork in the privacy of her room. Sometimes, we would hear the sounds of her singing along quietly to her guitar. We barely spoke, she seemed to be a shadow in our lives, present in the background, but never fully part of the family atmosphere.
?This lasted for three months, until one day when a friend and I were playing with dolls. Rebecca sat near us with a book open on her lap, quietly observing our game. She wore (as always) dark clothing, and sat with her hair falling into her face. She wasn’t reading, but seemed to be unsure if she was welcome. I moved towards her, hesitated, then changed my mind and simply crossed the room.

?“Were you about to sit on my lap?” she inquired. I nodded, embarrassed by my impulsive tendencies.?  “It’s fine. You can!” she said with a smile. I grinned back, and hesitantly sat down. It was as if a wall had broken. My friend and I spent the rest of the day with her, taking silly pictures, dressing up, and interacting more than we ever had before. From that day on, I spent all of my time with Rebecca. It was a relief not to tiptoe around her, to include her into my life. Despite our age difference, (almost 7 years), we were inseparable. At first, we just listened to music together. Her voice was beautiful, rich and deep. Slowly, I began to sing along with her, discovering a passion I had never addressed before.

?When we weren’t singing, we would sit and talk. As we became more comfortable with each, she started to laugh more and more. She laughed at little things, like a plastic bat, or the way the dog’s head was tilted. It was infectious. Her smile transformed her face from a dark mask of shadows and eye-liner into a source of happiness, radiating enthusiasm with an intensity that could light up a room.

??“Wanna hear a song I wrote?” We were sitting in her room, much like any other day, while she idolly strummed a guitar. The room was dark, surrounded by heavy curtains. We were sitting on her bed, using a sleeping bag as a pillow. All around us, clothes were piled dangerously on every surface. CD’s were everywhere, as if to remind any visitors of the owner’s love of music.

?I eagerly agreed, as I had never heard any music that she had written. The song she played was unexpectedly sad. The lyrics spoke of loneliness and abandonment. When she finished she pulled a picture out of her guitar case and showed it to me. The image was barely discernible: a man and a woman, holding a baby.

?“This is my dad… It’s the only picture I have of him… I wrote that song for him before he… well anyways, it’s about him,” she told me. Her voice wavered, and she stammered over her words.

?“Why aren’t there any others?” All of the ignorance of my nine years showed through in that one sentence. Looking back, this question should have never escaped my lips. Sure enough, Rebecca looked petrified. She froze, and whatever she was planning on saying was forgotten. Her breath stopped, and the light died from her eyes. Again, I felt fear at the sight of her, but this time it was laced with guilt. Young as I was, I realized that my question had been off-limits, a betrayal of the bond we had formed together.

?“He… died… in a car crash.” Her last words seemed forced, almost as if they weren’t true. This didn’t make sense. Why would she feel a need to lie about this? I couldn’t think of an explanation, so I tried to push the thought out of my mind, and move on.?He hadn’t died in a car crash.??Neither of us mentioned the moment again, and I forgot about it until about a month later. We were sitting playing with my dog, Rebecca was laughing and pushing him around playfully. Her sleeve had been pulled up her arm, and I noticed some scratches. They were deep, traveling in criss-crosses to disappear under her sleeve.?“Where did those come from?” Looking back, this was another moment of extreme ignorance.

?“My dog was really over excited as a puppy… he bit me sometimes… but it’s okay, it’s fine,” she said with a little nervous laugh, in a mRebeccar similar to when she told me about her dad.  We resumed playing, but I thought with some confusion about all the times Rebecca had discussed her dog before. She had described him as a happy puppy, one who would never hurt a fly.

?It took me a while to realize that Rebecca might have had a good reason to lie.??Time passed, and Rebecca had changed greatly from the person that entered our home.  The shadows still remained in her mind, every once and a while breaking through her mask, letting us see the pain she felt inside.

?Over time, Rebecca had become more comfortable in our house. She would sit in the living room, playing guitar and singing to her heart’s content. She would throw her head back, belting out every song imaginable, urging me to sing along. Seeing Rebecca let herself go, surrendering to the emotions of the music… it felt as though she was letting me into her soul.

?I soon learned that her soul was not the place I had assumed it was. It was dark, crowded by shadowy thoughts that I was unable to comprehend. These shadows were the mystery of her past. When she shared her story, the purpose of her lies suddenly became crystal clear. Her father had killed himself, leaving Rebecca and her mother alone. She locked herself away, hiding from the world, blocking everyone out. Her “dog bites” had been the only way she could cope with her father’s death. She had moved to Brattleboro seeking an escape. Our family had provided this refuge, letting her learn to live with her grief.

?Despite her past, Rebecca possessed a spirit that had been beaten down, yet retained its inner beauty. She could still laugh, still feel joy, and still make beautiful music. That was how she fought the memories back, with the music and the laughter.

??Rebecca stayed with us for two years, as part of the family. However, the day for her to leave for college soon arrived. When the time of departure came, her hair was pushed back, revealing the tears streaking down her face. She wore a bright yellow dress, with a light brown cardigan over it. She waved, brightly colored fingernails flashing in the sun, and walked towards her car. She opened the door, then looked back. Her face broke out into a watery smile, and she raced back towards me. We hugged, crushing against each other, crying. I never wanted to let go.

?“I love you so much,” she murmured into my shoulder, squeezing me. She loosened her hold, got back into the car, and drove away, leaving me behind.

?An image of the girl who had first entered our lives flashed through my mind. The girl with her hair curtaining her face, closing herself away from the world, battling the shadowy corners of her mind. The girl who hid behind dog bites and car crashes. This girl had changed so much, and would remain in my heart forever.