When I was eleven, my family moved from Queens to the Long Island town of Old Westbury. We settled into a newly built home on Applegreen Drive, where the block ended in a cul-de-sac bordered by a wheat field. Although it was considered a step up, the move was hard on my parents.

For the first time, my mother lived away from her parents and siblings, who had been nearby since emigrating from Sicily in 1922. My father, who ran his painting business in the city, now faced a long daily commute. Each morning, he rose before dawn, battled bumper-to-bumper traffic, and returned home hungry and ready for bed.

The night before my first day at my new school, my mother tried to help me look my best. She gave me a home perm and sat me on the closed lid of the toilet.

I heard her dial the phone, then her jovial voice. She must have been talking to her mother in Italian, followed by the flick of a lighter and the scent of cigarette smoke. With no clock in the room, I tapped my foot to “Teenager in Love.”

Suddenly, she shouted, “Oh, Madonna Mia.” The phone clattered down. She burst into the bathroom, cigarette dangling from her lips, ripped off the shower cap, and shoved my head under the faucet. But it was too late.

The next morning, I stepped onto the school bus wearing a hairdo that no one in 1959 would have chosen. While other girls ironed their hair, mine was a frizz ball. The whispers spread like wildfire. Fingers pointed, giggles rose, and then came the nickname that would cling to me all year: “Cootie bug. Look at the cootie bug.”

My cheeks burned. I wanted to crawl under the seat. From then on, the torment followed me everywhere. My olive complexion, striped blouse, and plaid skirt were not the polished look of the teen magazine girls. The humiliation was relentless. I hid in bathroom stalls to escape the cafeteria and sometimes classes. Kids banged on the doors, chanting “cootie bug” until I covered my ears.

My father’s absence and my mother’s loneliness filled the house like a fog. I shouldered the weight of school alone, sinking into self-blame, avoiding the mirror, barely speaking.

One morning, as I walked down our street toward the bus stop, I saw her. She stood apart from everything else in my new world, her golden hair catching the autumn light.

She wore a baby blue mohair sweater and carried herself as though she belonged to another time. I braced myself for the usual glance at my hair and the laughter that would follow. But instead, she smiled. Her voice was melodic. “Hello, my name is Alexa Ragsdale. It’s my first day here. When was yours?”

Looking down, I stammered, “Angel. My name is Angel.” I braced for mockery of my name. When I looked up again, her warm eyes met mine without hesitation. They were blue, clear, and unafraid. For the first time since arriving in Old Westbury, I felt safe. Her presence was almost transparent; I could pass my hand through her.

From that morning on, we sat together on the bus. When Alexa was beside me, the taunts seemed to quiet; no one dared tease me. One afternoon, she asked if I would like to come to her house after school. My mother’s sense of isolation never crossed my mind, and I said yes.

When the bus dropped us off, we turned down a street parallel to mine. It was unpaved, lined with woods alive with swirling leaves. The air carried damp earth and decomposition, a scent that has never left me. At last, we came to an iron gate between brick columns. Alexa pushed it open, and we walked down a driveway flanked by magenta rhododendrons.

The path curved into a circular drive, and there it was: a white stucco Art Deco mansion with symmetrical wings stretched wide. It gleamed, flawless as porcelain. Two round porthole windows flanked tall black lacquered double doors, like eyes fixed upon us.

The house exuded elegance and mystery, as though it had been waiting for me; I froze in recognition. Something stirred, as though I had seen her before, not in this life but another.

As Alexa opened the front door, I stepped inside and almost gasped. It was like stepping through a portal into heaven. White radiance poured from the mosaic dome above, a breath from another world; I rose until the marble beneath my feet reminded me I was still earthbound, sealing something deep below.

From where I stood, the first-floor layout formed a cross. A central spine stretched from the entrance to tall French doors at the back, where grass-covered steps vanished down the hill. On either side, two wings branched out, completing the shape.

When I was in Queens, our modest ranch felt like railroad cars; this foyer felt larger than the whole house. But it was more than size. It was a labyrinth of silence and wonder, pulsing around me.

Looking up, mouth agape, I felt as though I could hear the angels sing. My gaze was drawn to the rear floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing sprawling lawns and towering trees, hinting at tranquility and elegance.

Beyond the front door, time seemed to slow. Light pooled across marble floors, and the silence felt alive, holding its breath. What began as a simple visit was becoming an awakening that would linger long after the doors closed behind her.