“I’m bored,” I whined into the beaming heat as it captured my exposed skin. The neighborhood was oddly silent, doors closing and underwhelming footsteps were the only sounds to appear. I lifted my eyes up to Ashley, everybody’s favorite neighborhood friend. She had freckled skin and a prominent, vertical bone on her forehead. She was 5 feet and 3 inches on the left side of her body and 5 ’2 on the other. She’d tell me her dreams of affording surgery one day. This caused me to think back to the time we sold concerningly warm lemonade for several hours straight, that and selling fundraiser popcorn is the only way we knew how to make money. 

That’s when the perfect solution sprung. My eyes were as lit as a yellow burst of sun. I spent every day after school with my Mom, the head of a tiny soup kitchen always open to donations.  Ashley needs money, I thought to myself, The soup kitchen needs money… If I had the money to donate I would, so why wouldn’t other people too? Let’s get donations! My thoughts suddenly turned into words, I smiled wide, my mouth wrinkling to a crisp. Ashley bounced to her feet, shifting from a skip and a run. Her slightly oversized shoes wiggled with every lift. I followed behind with big eyes and a new adventure heading my way. 

Knock. Knock. Answer. Money. Knock. Knock. Answer. No Money. Knock. Knock. No Answer. It was a continuous loop, and we had a total of 28 dollars. Our knuckles became dark from the lovely rhythms we played on the porch steps of our neighbors. The sound of a lazy coin falling filled the neighborhood as our powerful footsteps ran from the green, soft ground onto the black, hard cement.

“Last house!” Ashley hollered. I heard the jiggle of thin plastic, soft and frantic, against a glass window. My mouth moved with the rehearsal of words playing in my head as I waited for the door to open, Hi! We’re here to collect donations… My Mom is the head of the Shepard’s Table… If you don’t know what that is, it’s a place where people are fed for free who really really need- my thought was interrupted.

“Hello,” a voice whispered. A man stood with his legs straight and thin. His cheeks dropped to his chin and his under eyes carried 82 years of life. I stared for a few awkward seconds before Ashley and I then began delivering our set of circumstances. His face flipped into a smile I had never witnessed before. He faded into the darkest area of his house visible, then appeared again.“Here you go,” said the man, handing me a dollar. I felt refreshed and fulfilled as I examined the money.

“A two-dollar bill!” I screamed.

Ashley leaned into my hand, “I have one at home,” she shrugged.

At this moment I forgot what the money was for, I was mesmerized, “Since you already have one and we’re splitting the money, I’ll keep it then!” 

We began to part ways. I sprung into my house with an abundance of joy. I plopped behind the brown chair in the living room. I took out my $13 dollars and realized none of this was for me, including the 2 dollar bill. My mouth pinched. I thought intensely about what I wanted, although in the beginning, what I wanted did not even matter. I told Ashley I was going to keep the bill, so therefore I was.

The door swung open then closed as my Mom escaped what was no longer a sunny day but bat-filled darkness now. She sat in her usual spot, the brown chair. She didn’t notice me, sitting wordless, so I continued to sit within the silence. I waited as long as all my bones lined up together till I couldn’t handle not speaking anymore. “I got a $2 dollar bill!” I screamed. The chair flew back, hitting the tip of my nose.

“From who?” my Mom asked, turning my way.

“The man down the street,” I bragged, “He gave it to me.”

My Mom’s face melted into a puddle of worry and she pushed me to explain more. She didn’t have to try very hard, I was happy to explain every detail. I recalled the last hours of events, and I could’ve sworn my eyes spun. The money beside me was now in the hand of my Mom. Her other hand suddenly walking me out the door.

“We’re getting in the car. You’re returning every little bit of this money,” My Mom said calm and demanding. I resisted as she stuffed me into the passenger side. I could taste the liquid salt drip from my eyes. I knew what I had done wrong. I formed into a ball against the smelly car mat, clinging on to it with all my might. I was a fly on flypaper. I did not want to own up to being untruthful, especially to my giving neighbors. My Mom pulled my feet out and down, sending me in a standing position. She shifted her hand into mine as I gave in to the burn, willingly going up the driveway. 

My face transitioned into a shade of red, the familiar door creaking open. My Mom gave me a sentimental look as she did all the talking. I reflected. We repeated the process at every house and I began to feel more mature for finally being able to say I’m sorry for what I had done.

Looking back, I know my intentions were good but I sought to benefit from the good deed even though I knew it was wrong. I didn’t want to own up to my mistakes but mistakes are what help you grow. I now approach my mistakes willingly and value a trustworthy and forgiving neighbor.