Smack! Smack! Slapping gravel with my new ebony and black Nike's down Breckonwood Street,my eyes frantically dart from row upon row of houses.I feel like a baby exposed to the world with new eyes. Eyes of fear and curiosity.My stomach does somersaults as I search with my eyes for the number 63. Alexandra said that in front of her house lies a wagon wheel.I spot a rusty brown wagon wheel sleeping beside a bed of flowers.Birds are chirping their sweet summery song.The steps to her house are made of solid cobblestone.There is a small pink bicycle leaning against the brick porch walls, probably belonging to her younger sister. I warily look at the deep brown door and for a second I want to be a chameleon camouflaging into the sturdy wood.Shakingly, I bring my finger to poke the doorbell to life.Through the door, I hear the midst of family life, the thump-thump of running feet down the stairs, and a sihlouette of a slender woman approaching the door. I tap my feet as I await anxiously.
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