Mrs F. Such a nice old uppity up. At least Ive always figured she was nice. Now Im thinking of all the folks on Yellow Street, or in the whole town, or in the whole world that screwed up but dont have a nice bitch to forgive them cuz theyre not pitiful enough like Robbie and no ones giving them a second and third and fourth and hundredth chance like Mrs F does. Maybe none of its got sharkweek to do with Robbie. Maybe Mrs F does it to make herself feel better about being a rich old white bitch.

* * *

I got lots of questions but then Mrs F does the worst thing she could ever do. She pokes her bony knuckles into Rabbit and Raccoon and they do like good girls and lift up their plastic pumpkins. Theyre shy, you know? But their shy ass smiles are the genuine article cuz kids are kids no matter what hood they come from, and kids crave candies even if they come from a laundry bag of a big scary dude on Yellow Street.

* * *

Robbie peeks in the bag. Its deep and dark inside and he cant see nothing but I know for a fact how it smells. Smells like beer bottle and bug spray and bleach and metal but also chocolate and cherry and sour apple and grape. Robbie holds the bag right under his fat chin and breathes it in real slow. Look, man. You can tell yourself whatever bull you want. You can pretend how later on youre gonna break inside Rabbit and Raccoons bedroom and pick out the bad candies so no grief comes to Mrs F or her kin. But thats fictional lies. Once you drop those candies into those plastic pumpkins, nobodys ever gonna know what candies came from where. Gonna get all mixed up inside those little girl bellies.

* * *

Dont even mean to but I start moving. I dont know what Im planning, but somethings got to happen and its got to happen now cuz in my mind I see a video of Midget seizuring in the tub that one day after supermilk and I cant put it on pause. I reach for the laundry bag but somebodys holding me by my jean jacket. Got to be Dag, right? Six fly legs make her hold six times stronger. Or maybe its Midget, you know? Maybe her flypaper outfit flypapered my jacket and I got stuck. Or maybe its not either of my bitches. Maybe I just come to my senses cuz dang. This isnt my story to end. This is Robbies story. End a the day, its his play to make, not mine.

* * *