Mrs. Helen Vasylenko is my friend. She lives next doorto Mami (my mother) and me in a little house with along yard in the front. I spend a lot of time in her houseafter school, talking with her and playing with Sammy,her parakeet. You wouldn’t believe Mrs. Vasylenko andI could be friends. I’m 11 years old, and she’s 75. I cameto Chicago from Guatemala with my mom six years ago.Helen came 50 years ago from Ukraine, a country nearRussia. Even though we are very different, we alwayshave a lot to talk about.It wasn’t always this way. The first time Mami andI met Mrs. Vasylenko, I didn’t like her very much. I wasafraid of her. Now that I know her, I know she was afraidof us, too.We met her the day we moved into our newapartment. It was a hot August evening, and Mami and Iwere in the alley unloading the last things from the trunkof the car. We were really tired! All we wanted was to goupstairs, take a cool shower, and find our beds. We hadjust picked up some bags when we heard an old woman’svoice behind us.
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