Love, Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

was talk. He was gesturing with his hands, telling her a story. She was laughing and saying things back to him. In fact, they were having such a great old time that suddenly I felt a twinge of jealousy that Dootsie—my little Dootsie—was so instantly smitten with this new boy person.
    My impulse was to stride right over there and reclaim my territory, let her show him who her best pal was. But I hesitated. I had seen him so clearly three times—three times stealing (well, two—or can you steal from a Dumpster?)—that I felt I must be as memorable to him as he was to me. But when he looked up from the lemonade table and his eyes drifted in my direction, he didn’t seem to recognize me. He had black hair that flopped down to his eyes and over his ears. His skin looked as if it had been toasted in the Arizona desert. Even at a distance I could see his eyes were blue.
    He pulled a pair of sunglasses—shoplifted, no doubt—from his pocket and put them on. I saw Dootsie’s hands shoot out and heard her exclaim: “Me! Me!” He put them on her.
She let him,
I thought.
She wouldn’t let me put my earrings on her.
She stood up. She strutted down the sidewalk. She turned and looked straight into the sun. “Dootsie!” I called, but he was already there, turning her face aside, taking the glasses, scolding her for looking into the sun. I was outraged.
Hey,
I wanted to call out,
I’ll do the scolding around here.
    He held his hand out. They shook. He was saying goodbye.
Please don’t hug her,
I thought. His hand went to the top of her head and mussed her hair. She laughed. He walked up the street.
    I followed him.
             
    Even now I’m not sure why. I stayed a block or two behind, on the other side of the street.
    It was a long walk, back through downtown, past Margie’s Donuts and Pizza Dee-Lite and the Colonial Theatre and the Morning Lenape Building and the Blue Comet diner and the Columbia Hotel and over the canal bridge. When he came to Produce Junction he veered into the parking lot. Boxes of fruit and vegetables were on display outside the door. He snatched two lemons as he breezed by and headed on down Canal Street. He stuck one lemon in his pocket. He broke the other one and started sucking on a half. Just watching him, my spit dried up. I walked faster. He was breezing along in his shades, more swaggering than walking, sucking on his lemon, spitting seeds into the street like he owned the world. I felt my bile rising. I was still twenty feet behind when he turned toward a small gray cinder-blocky building on the canal. The side facing the canal was open like a garage. Above the opening a hand-painted sign said IKE’S BIKE & MOWER REPAIR . Ike was bending in the dirt outside, pulling the cord on a mower and cursing every time it didn’t start. The boy went around the side and up two steps to a back door.
    I called, “Hey!”
    He looked up, his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t speak, just waited. He didn’t remove his sunglasses. The longer he stood there, the more uncomfortable I became that he could see my eyes but I couldn’t see his.
    I came closer. “Why did you take those lemons?” I said. “Why do you steal things?”
    No answer. No expression. I felt if I could tear off his shades I would find two cold blue stones. He tossed the half lemon away and shoved the whole other half into his mouth. He worked it around and his lips puckered, and suddenly he spat a seed at me. It bounced off my chest. He stood there chewing with his mouth open. I thought I saw a tiny sneer on his lip just before he opened the door and went in.
             
    May 28
    I finally have a name for the boy, the lemon thief. Perry. He doesn’t look like a Perry to me, but that’s what he told Dootsie his name is. He also told her he sleeps on the roof on hot nights. And he fishes in the canal. And sometimes he swims in it even though no one is supposed to.
    Dootsie told me all this as we were having lunch at