I first met her when we were seven years old, in the plastic rocket ship on the playground near my house. It was a glaring yellow with holes in the sides where I could peer out and see my mother's face. Her eyes were hoping that a kid as socially inept as me could make at least one friend out of all the billions of people on the Earth.

“Hello.” A deep mechanical voice came from the pink, chapped lips below the girl's freckled nose. “I am the robot 2355, captain of this ship.”

Before I even let my gaze travel up to her dark coal eyes, ready to be ignited at a moment's notice, I knew that I didn't want to be her friend. I pushed myself out of the rocket with my sticky, sweaty hands and ran across the wood chips to the swings.

Each time my swing reached its peak it froze for a moment and I could look down over a good deal of the park. The mounds of colorful plastic and the metal supports with the peeling paint were beautiful in an ironic way, sitting between the majestic, centuries-old oaks under the eternal blanket of blue.

“2355's not really my name, you know.” I hadn't even realized she was sitting in the swing next to mine. Even my best glare, the one that every new kid must perfect to ward off teasers and unwanted sympathizers, bounced right off of her. She continued. “That's what the letters in my name are on a phone keypad,” she explained. “My real name's Bell.” A giggle slipped out of from between her lips and flickered in her eyes for a second as she recalled that particular stroke of genius. “Shh. Don't tell anyone,” she added.

“Okay.” I finally let myself succumb to her impossible bossiness. Somehow, that one word sealed our friendship.

I spent an entire year hearing about Bell's future intergalactic journeys and trying to think of a way to break it to her gently. One day I just decided to go for it.

“Science Fiction's not what it's cracked up to be,” I told her, but my worrying had been all for naught. She just laughed and hugged me excitedly, then went on in her usual jabbering way.

“You don't believe in time travel either? I'm so glad! It's nonsense, really. I mean, how long would it take to travel back a hundred years? Three seconds?” She rolled her eyes. “That's time moving forward, not back!” she exclaimed. “It just keeps marching on.”

When I turned nine my dad asked me if I was ready to leave. “We can't stay in Missouri forever, you know,” he said. I told him I wasn't quite ready, but that I'd let him know when I was.

By the time Bell and I were fourteen I'd learned to tune out any monologues including the planet Zoolagoo of the galaxy Xona or any related topics. We spent the summer lying under the sun on the dock behind her house. I loved talking with her about life, but when her eyes burned with that certain fire I knew it was time to start focusing on the thumping of my heart and the feel of the warm boards on my back rather than her dreamy, melodic speech.

I didn't realize I loved Bell until we were sixteen. Then I knew why I couldn't listen to her love the things I most hated. Eventually she gave up on meeting an alien, but her heart never changed.

On my eighteenth birthday I stood in the big, cold airport with the slick navy floors while I waited for Bell to make up her mind on where she was going.

“What do you think about Paris?” she asked.

It struck me for the first time that Bell would love Paris, Rome, Egypt, Japan, anywhere. Heck, she would love Jupiter's moons and even Zoolagoo. She kissed me goodbye on the cheek, but she walked through the gate to her terminal without looking back.

I called my dad on my cell as I drove home from the airport. “I'm ready.”

My mother, my father, and I boarded our big, lonely starship that night. I didn't let myself look back either as I heard the grating sound that the steel door made as it slid closed behind me. Okay, maybe just one really quick glance. Or two. Then we shot up into the black sky for the first time in twelve wonderful years.

Time had kept marching on. I hoped I'd love again. But if I ever made it to Zoogaloo, I'd be sure to send Bell a postcard.