I lived across the street from PS 99.

The street was a dangerous one, with a double yellow line running down the middle. It was on a steep hill where the wind always blew.

Before the first day of first grade, my mom sat on the couch, leaned over the low octagonal coffee table and drew an imaginary map with her hands. “Let’s say your school is here, and our building is here, and you have to cross here,” she said, her red nails tapping the wooden table. So far, I was following. I had to cross at the corner where there were traffic lights. “When the light is green here, you can cross,” she said.

“Um, when the light is green where?” I said.

“Here.” She pointed at the imaginary map.

“But is it green for the cars or for me?” I said. She looked annoyed, so I pretended to get it.

At the busy corner on Kew Gardens Road and 83rd Avenue, instead of looking at the traffic lights, I looked for cars, and when I didn’t see any, I ran to the other side.

In general, I had trouble waking up on time for school. My sister, Debi, would pull the covers off me and shout “Get up!” close to my face. My mom would often come in furious that the commotion had interrupted her sleep. I didn’t like upsetting her.

But I had difficulty opening my eyes, and when I did, it was like a suction being released, and my eyelids popped open one at a time. Each morning I dried my thumb on my nightgown and gave my blankie one last intoxicating sniff. When I finally got out of bed, it felt like I was all alone. My mom had gone back to sleep. My sister had gone to her high school, my dad to work in Manhattan. Dorian, my older brother, was 20 then; he was most likely at work as well.

I put on tights and a dress and then buckled my shoes. I went to the kitchen in a fog, grabbing a box of cereal from the cupboard and milk from the fridge. I sat on a stool at the counter facing the wall. I centered the toaster in front of my bowl, then next to it the cereal box, and on the other side, the glass container of milk and the sugar bowl. I made a fort. I watched my reflection in the toaster while I was eating, adding sugar every few bites because it disappeared into the milk. I put everything away, and then I made Sanka for my mom with one sugar and a little milk.

I brought the cup and saucer to her bed. “Ma,” I said, “my hair.” She sat up, and I ran to get my brush and hair clips and barrettes from my room. She took a sip and cleared a space on the bed between her legs, and I sat with my back to her as she brushed my hair. It never hurt even though my head was a nest of knots. It was always pleasurable. I could have stayed there all day, my mouth open as she arranged the front in an elastic away from my face, my hair slightly staticky.

“Bye Ma,” I’d say as she slinked back under the covers.

“Remember what I said about crossing the street,” she’d say.

“I know,” I’d say and rush out of the apartment.

“And don’t be late,” she’d say as the door slammed shut.

I’d run up the hill, the wind whipping my hair, and worry that I was in fact late. I’d get to the corner and pause. The traffic light would turn red and green and then red again. I’d given up wondering if it was green for me. I’d wait for the moment when I didn’t see a car, and then dash across to the schoolyard, where my classmates were already lined up. I’d slip in between Judith and Elizabeth and be safely led by Mrs. Weingarten to my classroom.

I wouldn’t have to worry about the traffic light again until the end of the day.

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Leslie Lisbona has been published in various literary journals, most recently in Wrong Turn Lit, The Bluebird Word, and Dorothy Parker’s Ashes. She was featured in the New York Times Style Section 3/24. She is the child of immigrants from Beirut, Lebanon, and grew up in Queens, NY.