Everyone knew Cassie. She was a friendly child, sure, but I think the neighborhood knew her because she knew us.She was the reason our block felt like a family.
“Girl’s got second sight,” Alletta Johnson would proclaim from her window perch.
I’ve never believed in such things, but I’ll admit Cassie had a gift. To her, Alletta Johnson was “Miss Grandma,” while the girl who drove the ice cream truck was “Miss Dog Doctor.” Our mailman was “Mister Painter.” She played hopscotch and jump-rope with kids she’d dubbed “Singer,” “Teacher,” and “Fireman.”
I asked her about all the nicknames once, and from what I could understand they came from how she saw people—as potential. She didn’t exactly see our futures, she just saw us at our ideal.
“Everybody glows, Mister Writer,” she told me. “Everybody’s good.”
I’d never told anyone I wanted to write. It was a secret dream, not one I’d let myself take seriously. Yet somehow, she saw it in me. That’s how she saw all of us.
One afternoon I was cooling off on my front stoop when she skipped down the sidewalk with a stranger at her side. She had obviously enchanted him, just like everyone else. We smiled and waved, and as they passed I asked, “Who’s your friend, Cassie?”
She paused, tilting her head in confusion before exclaiming, “Oh! You’re being writery, Mister Writer!”
I should’ve paid more attention as she laughed and twirled off down the street, followed by the stranger. I should’ve realized.
Cassie always saw the good in people.
Cassie could only see the good in people.
But not everybody is good.
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