On my way down the stairs from the two-story apartment, I passed a classmate

from school. We were the only ones alike for miles around. Only, she had an easier time in the sun because her hair was the color of gold silk, which paled next to my black hair. There was not a trace of Detroit and all its secrets in her. I thought she was just one of them. Even her name, Billie, sounded like something different from what I expect. Billie and I got darker than everyone else last summer but Billie swore she was part-Italian, that Billie was a nickname and no one but me could see the real her.

I found out the truth when my mother called my school and asked that I go home with her. She was going to the doctor, my teacher said. They were going to give her a little pill to make her feel better. I was forced to go over to Billie’s place.

That’s when I found out that she lived in the same apartment building as me. I didn’t know her that well. I was ignored at school by everyone, including her. But I promised myself that I would wait for her. After school, I was standing, facing

my locker; I waited for the other kids to pass so I don’t have to look at them, and she walked up behind me. I think at first that she was a bully coming onto me from behind, trying to push my face into a locker, but instead, she said, “Come on, Abigail. Let’s go.”

I followed her for a few paces when she turned around and said, “Follow behind me.” I do as she said. I passed a dying pine tree marked like Jesus. There

used to be a time when trees were simply chopped to the ground and no one knew it until when a few years later, the men in hats plant another baby tree to replace the big one.

Billie lived on the first floor right down the hallway but the first floor was like going to the second level of Pac-Man. Her face was the spitting image of her mother’s and they lived a far superior life. Even though they had been there for two years, her mother always made it seem like each year would be their last year living in our apartment building. I asked Momma why she can’t be like Billie’s mother with the mink furs, the candy bars as big as my hand, and the pictures of them with a famous black singer. But Momma doesn’t answer me. I noticed in that picture of them with the famous black singer that the singer smiled at Billie like she was just some pretty face, and when Billie smiled back at her like she wasn’t some pretty face, Billie told me, they never saw that singer again. That was the day I received my first lesson on life across Eight Mile Road. Up until that day, I thought the Devil only lived in Detroit. I was wrong.