When you drive into Sunny Pines Trailer Park there is a sign that says:

NO TRESPASSING.

There’s also a sign that says:

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

And then the:

SALE! DOLLS AND COLLECTIBLES that Mrs. Sydney Gunnerson puts out just about every week because she is fancy and she collects fancy things like teacups and wigs and cookie jars and glass dolls that are hand painted.

“Do you paint them?” Berkeley asked one time, and Sydney, who used to be in the opera in New York but works at Walmart now and Sundays plays her music so loud you can barely hear the rap music from the Conways’ trailer, Sydney said, “My dear, these little ones are painted in Italy.” And then she showed us the bottom of a blond doll’s foot and it said: Hand Painted in Italy.

She doesn’t get much business because the dolls are over thirty dollars and the other things are expensive, too. But she sits out there every Saturday, all the same, an umbrella over her head, rain or shine.

Sometimes we sit by her and yell at cars to get their attention for her sale.

She says to only do it to nice cars like Cadillacs and Subarus. “Avoid the minivans,” she says.

There’s also a ONE WAY sign for the road.

A sign that said NO SOLICITORS.

A SLOW DOWN sign.

And then finally, one that said NO PEEPING TOMS.

This was because of another problem that came up at the Home Owners Association meeting that I wasn’t allowed to go to.

Was this kid looking in trailers a case of a Peeping Tom? I wasn’t completely sure what a Peeping Tom was now that I thought about it. I’d have to Google it.

In any case, he was not supposed to be doing what he was doing.

Berkeley said, “What is he looking for?”

And I said, “I don’t know but he’s breaking the law.”

And she said nothing.

Instead she yelled, “DO YOU KNOW YOU’RE BREAKING THE LAW?”

I gasped.

Berkeley was a five-year-old but she was always doing things I would never dare do: Talk to people. Yell things. Eat mushrooms.

He turned to look at us.

I lay down on the tramp on top of a bunch of papers and pretended like I was asleep.

The kid said, “What?” Like he didn’t hear, which was crazy because Berkeley was loud.

And then Berk just went ahead and did it again. “YOU ARE BREAKING THE LAW.”

I wanted to grab her. Tell her to stop. But I also didn’t want him to think I was awake if I could help it.

I heard him walk over.

I held still.

“I’m not breaking the law.”

“Yes you are,” Berkeley said.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are, huh Olivia?”

I didn’t move.

“Olivia?”

Still lay there. Tried to send energy. Act like I’m asleep. Act like I’m asleep. Tell him I’m asleep.

“Olivia?” she said again.

“Is she dead?” he asked.

“No.”

“She looks dead.”

“No,” Berkeley said, but I could hear she was getting nervous, which was so stupid.

“I’m not dead,” I said, my eyes still closed.

They were quiet.

Then he said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m resting.”

“You’re resting.”

“Yes. I’m resting.” I opened one eye. “Can’t a person rest?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, they can.”

Then he did this: He got on the tramp and lay down right next to me; he was practically on top of my pre-algebra book.

Just like that.

I said, “What are you doing?”

And he said, “I’m resting.”

And that’s how I met a boy.