The Voice of the Island.

Sadie was six when I was twenty three. She had caramel blotted freckles engraved by light beams and a different bathing suit for every day of the week. She lived on the island- a place, people like me- never lived. We both rode the same yellow bus, five days a week- she would say she was tired, so I'd place my staff sweater on my lap- as a pillow. She'd rest until we reached the rotted iron gate and entered the island.  

The other children sat in gray, leather booths, facing what they believed to be North, what they thought was facing God. Their faces were the color of the bus, inflicted copper colored blocks as a courtesy of the sun- a courtesy, the sun never inflicted upon me. Today, Sadie rolled her sticker like a joint.

Every summer- Sadie told me- she and her blond little sister, went to camp for half the summer. When they didn't attend camp Sadie and the blond traveled to Disney World and other hot places she couldn't remember. When they weren't living in their upper east side castle, she called a home. There were seven bathrooms. I had seven cable channels.

During the academic year, she attended the Brearley School, or the Buckley School- did it really matter? Sadie and her sister danced ballet at a place she only referred to as "The Academy" and took fencing and horse-back riding lessons with regularity. I worked fifty three hours a week that summer.

On the last day of camp Sadie cried, slow shrinking tears as I held her hand, escorting her off the bus. She hugged me and peeled away her sticky arms from mine, disappearing behind the door to her summer home. This is when I first wondered how many years it would take for me to hate Sadie. I imagined it would start when she was a wife or homemaker, after she graduated from a private college with a degree she only used as a means to prove her eligibility. She waved a solemn goodbye, from her second story bedroom window. I looked down at my floral vans; the only time my feet would ever step on the island.