Angel Harrison was my best friend and she was the toughest, most independent girl I knew. We were four. During naptime, we'd edge our nap rugs closer and closer to the toys on the floor until we were playing, heads close together, whispering behind the wooden dollhouse. The nursery school teachers would shush us, and I'd pretend to sleep, but Angel would keep playing.
The next year, in kindergarten, we were in the big school--the elementary school--down in the round rooms at the far end of the building. Three rooms opened off of a round, central play area that held the big toys: climbing bars and mats and slides and balls. It was in there that Angel announced to me that she was leaving. "I'm leaving," she said. I protested because that was how I was. "You can't! It's school." As if that were explanation enough. Angel's fat, black braids swung and clicked their beads together as she shook her head. "Nope. I'm going, and I'm going right now." True to her word, she headed for the door and was down the hallway before Mrs. Panagopoulos raced to drag the five year old back. What I will never forget is Angel's small figure, standing tall in her floral, little girl dress and Mary Jane shoes, walking confidently out that door. "Wow," I thought. "I could never do that."
I found out later I could, but it wasn't for another three years, and by then, Angel was long gone.
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