Author's Note: This story got me into college...along with my grades, SAT scores, essays, and recommendations, of course. The "" was once my street address. Yeah, I realize you don't know my street name, but this makes me feel at bit safer, so just plop in your favorite 3-digit number.

I. I am the preacher's daughter, tall in my Sunday best with a tight braid against my scalp. After a few hours of singing and stomping my heeled feet, I emerge from the store-front church to play no-net basketball with the arrogant boys and my little sister, skinny legs with the white lace socks and pink shoes. I fiddle with my silver cross, but never realize why it is easy to believe in God for one day each week.

II. I am John with the rooftop deck. (No, it's not up to code.) I have a long, brown ponytail, two Chihuahuas, and shaggy-haired friends. We sit out all night with vegan burgers on the grill and we make music like stomping feet on the next floor up and heels clipping on the sidewalk, wishing now could be forty years ago, and it feels like we've made religion.

III. I am the limousine man. I am short and round with no shirt and a shiny, bald head. I have twelve pets—three German Shepherds and nine long, thin cars. On Sundays, close to midnight, when all the church kids shout commands and pass the orange ball down the middle of the street, my dogs wake me up with their barking. I sometimes think that I might prefer cats.

IV. I am the girl in the second floor window at number . I watch the street way past midnight because it all comes alive here on Sundays in the summer.