Cecilia was nowhere in sight; considering how late I was, I guess that was predictable. I made haste, cut across the grass, nearly tripped over a low, draped chain, and had just gotten on the school bus when Barry Ramsey pushed me off.

“Go back in there right now, metal mouth, and put those basketballs right back where you found them.”

“I found them in my dress.”

“I don’t give a crap where you found them; it’s where you left them that concerns me. I’m responsible for the equipment.”

“Then take care of it and leave me alone.”

“I will as soon as you go back in there and pick them up off the floor. I’m not your fuckin’ maid!”

“Nor am I yours.”

“You better do what I say, railroad tracks.”

“Stainless steel sex appeal.”

The reply was Ursula’s; it didn’t sound like me; nor did it correspond to my looks.

“Don’t make me puke.”

“You had better let go of me this instant or I am going to tell.”

“Be my guest. You’re the one who’s gonna get in trouble.”

There was a small crowd forming around us. A boy I’d seen playing Frisbee in the morning instead of going to class looked at me. The stubble on his face was as long (or short) as his crew cut. I’d seen his name, Winston Bee, carved into the washroom walls. Without warning, he ducked into the tent-like space between my waist and hoop, before rushing out and fanning the air before his nose. He thought Cecilia and I wore the same dress all week and not a different version of the same dress every other day. The crowd encouraged him to more dramatic interpretations. He staggered before fainting and underwent an epileptic seizure.

The buses had started. I made a pathetic run for it, the two yard dash in seven seconds. Barry had caught me by my hair, his eyes squinting down to hateful slits. I felt something almost gratifying, I know this will sound absolutely preposterous, as if I were a fish about to be eaten.

“Your ass is going back in there now.”

His Adam’s apple went up, and down. The more he squinted, the more I found myself looking up at him with strange sleepy eyes. An apple core was stuck in his throat; a bite of knowledgeable fruit surrounded by weak flesh, like a sweet baked apple in the snout of a roasted pig.

My back struck the earth’s crust. At one point, I saw Cecilia kicking Barry in the head. Really, it wasn’t as bad as it sounds, for she was wearing my old, soft leather sandals which were only kiddy size thirty four; still I was moved; it’s the thought that counts.

Mr. Liverpool rushed towards us, led by our octogenarian bus driver, Mr. Ginger. Everyone turned around to watch him run. Mr. Ginger had been the talk of the town for the past two years. Some said he shouldn’t be allowed to drive a bus at his age, that he could have a stroke at any minute. Others said his medical exams showed he was as fit as any forty year old man. The letters to the editor that the Wachovi News Press was only too happy to print were getting more and more below the belt, until Mr. Ginger made the front page by swimming four miles across the bay, towing a row boat by his real teeth. After that, no one dared say a word any more. Personally, I would have given him a psychological exam.