I like to water my lawn at day's end, when the sun is nearly set. Drops hang in the air, making rainbows that delight me as much as they did when I was a child. For a few moments, I forget the chores that didn't get done, the to-do lists that have more new entries than crossed-off ones, the frustrations and worries of the day.

And then she comes, and the spell is broken.

I can hear her before I see her, the basketball hitting the ground with rhythmic force. Ker-thump. Pause. Ker-thump. Pause. Ker-thump. When I do turn to meet her eyes and wave, she always pretends to be looking somewhere else. Usually I just shut off the water get inside as quickly as possible, pretending I don't feel guilty.

The first time I saw her, I was surprised that she even existed. We'd been living in our house for a year, and I'd never even noticed that there was a little girl living in the house down the block. But one day the then-four-year-old Sophia and I were out front and there she was, shouting hello from across the asphalt divide.

We walked over and introduced ourselves. Sophia was shy in the presence of a glamorous big girl of six-and-a-half. It seemed a bit odd that Mary was outside by herself, but I shrugged it off. She wanted to play, and I said, sure, the girls could play in front of our house while I watered, but she'd have to ask her mom if it was okay first. Mary looked puzzled, but ran off to check, returning almost too quickly. Within five minutes they were chattering away and drawing chalk butterflies all over the sidewalk.

After that, Mary would always be out front when we drove home. When I finally met her parents, I tried not to be taken aback at her mom's missing teeth and terrible grammar, at her dad's grinding jaw and habit of looking anywhere except into my eyes. Before long, it seemed Mary was over every day, sometimes staying through meal times, for hour upon hour, leaving only when I led her down the street to her own house.

One day as the girls were having a snack, I asked Mary what was new. "My Dad had to go to court again," she said. "One time he didn't go and we had to go live in Mexico for a long time."

"Oh. Where did you live after that?"

"We lived in Fresno for a while," she said. "But we got evicted from there. I had to change schools. That was after my Dad had to go to rehab. Then we lived with my other Grandpa for a while but him and Mom had a fight and he got a 'straining order against us. So we came here to live with this Grandma and Grandpa."

As we walked her home, she was still in a talkative mood. "I saw a super-cool movie last night," she confided. "It was called 'Hannibal.' I see R-rated movies all the time."

I glanced at Sophia, who was holding my other hand. "Every family has different rules," I said. "In our family, you have to be a teenager to see an R-rated movie."

I started to pay more attention when the girls played. When they paraded around in Sophia's finest dress-up garb, I heard Mary tell Sophia that most teenagers had babies, and that she was planning on having one too. When they played store, Mary slipped a handful of play money into her pocket and said that it was hers now. The Barbies had fights with the boy-dolls and stormed out saying that they'd come home when they were damned good and ready.

"Time to go," I said. "I'll walk you home." When she protested, I all but drug her across the street. "You know, Mary, Sophia's much younger than you. Maybe you should play with kids closer to your own age." She yanked her hand away and ran into the house, letting the door slam behind her.

Now, two years later, she still calls sometimes, but there's always some excuse why Sophia can't play just now. I see her walking to school in the mornings, and I feel a pang at the sight of this eight-year-old dressed like a teenager, in sparkly halter tops and tight-fitting Capri pants, usually alone, but always late, late enough to need to collect a note from the office.