For the summers of my eighteen and nineteenth years I worked at a window factory in Manchester, NH. My life was organized neatly by a series of alarms and whistles.

6 a.m. alarm: shower, brush teeth, dress, put on steel-toed boots

6:15: get in car, turn on The Howard Stern Show, drive

6:45: set alarm on cell phone for 6:55, sleep in parking lot

6:55 alarm: walk to the factory, punch in, 8-7-7-1

7:00 whistle: work begins

10:45 whistle: 15 minute stretch break

12 p.m. whistle: lunch, clock out, 8-7-7-1

12:28: clock in, back to work

1:45 whistle: 15 minute stretch break

3:00 whistle: clock out, 8-7-7-1

I all but lived out of my car during those summer months, splitting my time between my then-girlfriend’s mom’s condo and my parents’ house. I kept a blue duffel bag in the back seat of my ’98 Dodge Status. On hot days, my deodorant and chapstick would melt all over my clothes, so I learned to pack them in my lunch bag with an ice pack.

I really hated working at the factory, but it was good money—something like $13 an hour—so it was worth it. Besides, my uncle Paul, who worked in the front office, got me the job and my father told me in no uncertain terms that I’d be taking it. Paul pulled some strings and got me hired as a full-time employee, which meant I got paid more and couldn’t be fired on a whim like the temps. I was lucky, my father said.

In the grand scheme of jobs at the factory, I had one of the best. I worked in Bow/Bay, which was housed in a separate building, away from the chaos of the rest of the factory. We needed the extra space because we assembled huge picture windows. They were made with up to eight separate panels and sometimes measured ten feet tall. Some of the windows were so big they took three people to carry, though it was a point of pride to try and lug them yourself.

In the morning, I’d collect the windows that we’d be assembling that day from the warehouse and load them on yellow carts. Then, as needed, I’d drill holes in each corner of the window’s plastic frame and attach trim around the edges before passing it on down the line.

I finished my work most days before the first stretch break and, like the rest of the guys in Bow/Bay, I got good at filling time. I’d sweep the entire building every day, which took about two hours. It was a fruitless task. By the next morning, a new layer of dust had settled back on the cement.

Dust was everywhere. The building was old and it sort of became a part of the architecture. We kicked it up with our equipment. It got in our mouth and in our ears; it somehow got in our pockets too.

It never seemed to bother the guys I worked with though. Some of them had been there for decades, supporting their kids and girlfriends on $13 dollars an hour (some made even less) with no benefits. I guess the dust was the least of their problems.

The guys intimidated me. From the moment I arrived on my first day, I didn’t quite fit in. I think it was my glasses. I had black plastic frames that screamed rich boy. And that’s how they saw me. I was a delicate high school graduate who was going off to college. They were lucky if they had their GED. I wore boot cut jeans from the Gap, they sported those loose-fitting pants with one too many pockets. I mostly kept to myself. They talked about pussy and beer. They farted and made dick jokes and called each other faggots.

In a summer and a half of working at the factory, the most I said to the guys was “How was your weekend” or “I’m gonna need a couple guys to lift this thing.” It was fine with me and I think it was fine with them too. There was no animosity; it was more of a collective ambivalence.

I was carrying a double-hung window onto a cart on a particularly steamy day in mid-July when Matt, a stout dumpy guy with dirty fingernails, jumped out in front of me. Startled, I lurched forward and smashed my face onto the side of the window and, just like that, the arm of my glasses popped off.

I knelt down to pick it up, hoping it could be reattached, but it was hopeless. “That sucks,” Matt said, walking away. “Ya know what, fuck you,” I said. Matt turned, looked me in the eye , picked up my glasses and walked away.

For some reason, I didn’t stop him. I just let him go. I fumed quietly as I went about the rest of the day, feeling my way around the factory. I thought of what I wanted to say to him: “You’re a real piece of shit, you know that. I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here so I never see any of you again.”

I hurried out the door as soon as I heard the 3 p.m. whistle, got in my car and started to pull out of the parking lot when something on the hood caught my eye. It was my glasses; the arm had been super-glued on and there was a thin piece of wire wrapped around the outside.

I put them on and drove home. At work the next day I found Matt. “Thanks for trying to fix them,” I said. “No problem man,” he said quickly. Then he walked away, I went back to work, finished off my second summer, and never saw any of them again.

Frida sat in her car, the heat blasting, the window down, taking long deep drags of her American Spirit. She was late but she sat in her beat up Bug working up the nerve to go in, one last pull, she doused herself in perfume and shut the glove box. The air was biting, dry cold with no hint of snow, the parking lot was nearly full of wood paneled station wagons and battered Volvos. The secretary at the front desk asked her name and assignment, then pointed her with a wave of her bumble gum pink nail polished hand down the hallway to room 3A. Frida ducked into the bathroom, stared in the mirror and teased out her perm. These kids would be younger than the last class of high schoolers, they wouldn’t throw spit balls in her hair, or chairs across the room, or themselves out the window. The kid was stoned, she told herself staring in the mirror, it will be better here.

She walked out of that classroom last May and it had taken her this long to find a new job. Holed up in the attic, smoking and painting, sleeping in her poncho on top of the heating vents, possibilities seemed nonexistent. New York didn’t want her, none of her work sold, critics called her work too ethnic, too dark so she came home and locked herself in.

This time would be different. As the bell rang she walked out into the hallway, no one moved, the hall was barren, there was no changing classes here, the buzzing bell was arbitrary noise the janitor hadn’t figured out how to turn off yet. Through the window of the classroom door, children sat on tiny fire engine red plastic chairs drawing at clean white tables. Frida slid her scratchy wool poncho over her head and tucked her shirt in tightly to her high waisted navy blue jeans.

Inside the classroom bright fluorescent lights bounced off the bone white lacquered floor. The women sitting at the desk behind a romance novel with Brillo grey hair waved her over.
“You Frida?” Frida nodded.
“Like the artist?” Frida nodded again.
“Hmph, alright today you’ll work with John, he’s an old pro. That one over there,” she said pointing to a little boy with sandy brown hair in a sepia and white stripped shirt.
“You’ve done this before right?” the woman asked peering at her.
“Yes.”
“Good. If you have any questions feel free to ask.” Frida couldn’t imagine every asking this woman for a stick of gum let alone help.

She walked over to John and joined him at the table. Instead of attempting one of the small plastic chairs, she sat back on the heels of her bark brown boots.
“Hi John, my name is Frida.” John stared down at his sheet of paper, his sandy brown hair falling in his eyes, his lips pursed and white in concentration.
Frida sat silently next to him for awhile. He was pressing his crayon so hard there were holes in parts of his paper. A pile of curled shreds of forest green crayon wrapper was growing to his left. He had covered nearly the entire sheet in green and was clutching only a stub of color between his thumb and forefinger

It started innocently enough. His mom thought it was just an accident when he dumped the goldfish down the sink and turned on the disposal. She became a little more wary when the lady next door came over asking if anyone had seen her bunny rabbit that lived in the cage at the end of their property line. But it was only after she asked John why he was digging a hole in the backyard, and he answered “for the cat” that she decided to take him to the center.

Frida knew all of this because instead of talking to John she was reading the stack of papers slung in a folder on the back of his chair full of progress reports and notes like, “said five words today” and “broke all the crayons.”

“Done.” said John.

Frida rocked back onto her feet and stared at his paper. It was entirely green except for a long thin line he had left blank running down the center of the page. “Can you tell me about this line, John?” Frida asked casually. John looked at her blankly, his eyes a cold cobalt blue, “it’s a hole.”
“what’s the hole for?” she pressed, but John just shrugged.

For the next four days John drew every crayon with a hint of green into a stub. Every page was torn in places from his furious little fingers and every drawing had a long white line down the center. At the end of the week John’s mother came to pick him up, her eyes were tired but the wrinkles around her mouth cracked open easily into a smile. She kept a hand on his shoulder and asked Frida if he was still on green, Frida nodded.

“John, why don’t you go collect your backpack,” she said with a gentle nudge. Her smile wrinkles sealed and she pursed her lips, Frida noticed, just like John, “Is it true that children who kill animals are likely to become sociopaths?”
Frida stared down at the stack of mangled green paper.
“You’re doing the right thing, Mrs. Williams,” Frida recalled the sheet Barb with the Brillo pad hair handed her on her first day. The first line read, - Always encourage our parents – doing something is better than nothing – a child’s mind is still developing and we have the skills to help shape a happy and successful future. Frida went on, “John is young and art therapy is a proven technique for molding a happy and successful future.”

John’s mother smiled meekly, her hand absently resting on his returned shoulder. “Thank you,” she said, her sky blue eyes sad and worried.

Frida stayed late straightening the room, refiling the crayon boxes. She sat down in John’s chair, her knees bent sideways under the table. She spread his drawings out in front of her, transforming the table into a patchwork meadow. All side by side she noticed for the first time every day the line running down each of his drawings grew shorter and shorter. An unexplainable sense of dread washed over her. She quickly shuffled them back into a pile and filed them on the back of the chair. That night in the attic room Frida stared at the ceiling her left arm over her head listening to the quiet “tick-tick” of her wristwatch. She fell into a fitful sleep.

She was in the school, alone, all the doors were locked inside and out, she was stuck wandering the hallways, searching for an escape. The overhead lights start flickering, she begins to run but not fast enough, there is no escape, the walls turn blood red and start streaming into the hallway.

In the morning Frida drove her beat up crimson red Bug to the art supply store and bought ten boxes of crayons. She took all the greens and slightly greens out of each of them.

Monday morning she pulled into the parking lot early, the janitor was just raising the flag, it whipped against the post in the frigid air, the colors were brilliant against the gun metal gray clouds looming low, the grass was overgrown along the brick path. She set the boxes in a neat row at John’s usual seat. Barb came in half an hour later and the overhead lights buzzed to life.
“Why in the world are you sitting in the dark, Frida?”
“I was just thinking about John, I think I figured out a –”
“John, won’t be coming today.”
“What?”
Barb took a swig of her coffee, “His mom left a message at the front office, something about him burying the cat and running it over with the lawn mower. Sounds like she decided to take him upstate.”
Frida stacked up the crayon boxes and walked out to the parking lot. She chucked them in handfuls across the front lawn, oranges, yellows, blues, purples and reds.
He was digging this whole time, she thought to herself as she lit a cigarette, blasted the heat and rolled the window down.

Dear Sir,

I don’t think I’ll make it to your house until around 5 p.m., so I figured I’d give you a heads up.

Now, I know I said I’d be there between 7 and 11 in the morning, but I have quite a few deliveries lined up today.  I’ve got a cradle that needs to be dropped off in Takoma Park, an ottoman that’s going to Georgetown, and then there are three oblong gilded mirrors that have to arrive at the Kennedy Center by noon.

Shortly after that, I’m scheduled to pick up a bookcase in Capitol Heights. Then it needs to be moved into a condo in Rosslyn immediately so I have enough space for a king size mattress. And that’s just the half of it.

I have a doctor’s appointment at 3:15. I usually try to keep personal matters out of these things, but I took a nasty spill on a hike this past weekend in West Virginia. At first I thought it was nothing, but I woke up this morning and my knee cap was all swollen and there was a bruise on my thigh the size of my head. If it weren’t for Extra Strength Tylenol, I’d be in bed right now.

As if that’s not enough, my daughter is presenting her science fair project at Bruce-Monroe Elementary School at around 1. She did an experiment to see if a quarter and a feather would fall at the same speed. I’m hoping the presentation won’t take more than 15 minutes. Her speech took about 20 minutes in front of the mirror last night,  but she tends to talk fast when she gets nervous.

So, as you can see, there’s just no way I can be at your house by 11. Whenever possible, I like to let my customers know when I’ll be late. There’s nothing worse than rearranging your entire schedule for a delivery that never comes, right?

I hope you get this before you wait around all day for me.

George Procter

Speedy Deliveries

-By Andrew R.-

Shivering, he unbuttoned his jeans, focusing on the linoleum tile under his feet instead of her. He bent over slightly so as to finesse the denim over his ass before letting the jeans drop to the ground . Then he crossed his arms over his chest so as to hide his hard nipples. She preferred a cool working environment.

Something felt different today. She was almost certain he was wearing a different cologne. He smelled like pine trees and sweat. He didn’t even ask her about the kids. No small talk or anything, he just hopped right up on the table. And he must have forgotten all about her surgery. She knew she’d told him about it too because he said his mother had the same one She remembers saying that comparing her to his mother made her feel old. He told her she was beautiful without even having to think about it and she smiled. But all traces of that man were gone today.

As her mind spun, her hands went to work. By this time, he was laying on his stomach, completely naked except for a pair of light blue boxer briefs. He always listened to his iPod when she worked on him. Judging by the bass, she’d concluded a long time ago that he was partial to either hip-hop or techno.

He was completely silent during their sessions. Most of her other clients — a doctor, a couple of housewives, a mechanical engineer, a consultant or two — moaned when she hit a particularly sensitive spot or lurched their heads up when she applied too much pressure. But there was no way to read him. He laid there motionless while she rubbed him all over, dragging her fingers over his ribs and pressing out the knots in his shoulders. She was always careful to avoid the scar that ran along his spine and disappeared past the waist band of his boxer briefs. It was pretty well healed by now, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

The top half of his back was completely hairless, his sunburned skin exposed. But short black hairs covered his lower back, running the length of his boxer briefs and coming to a point a few inches up his spine. It was a peculiar combination, but she had always admired it.

He wasn’t nearly as hairy as her husband. She’d been trying to get him to wax for years now, but he couldn’t be distracted by such things. He was a difficult man to distract.

But there was always something special about her favorite client. She’d been rubbing him down once a week for nine months now. She felt like she really knew him too. He cracked his spine in a car accident near Murphy’s Tavern just off the interstate. The driver left him for dead, but somebody found him. He never said who. After four surgeries, a year of physical therapy and a divorce (he married too young, he’d say), he was as good as new. But his back ached all over and if it wasn’t for her, he’d be just as useless as the day he woke up paralyzed at St. Vincent’s.

Lost in her thoughts, she was jolted back to reality by the familiar swoosh of her shop door opening, the bells she’d hung on the blinds last Christmas clanging in the breeze. She’d leased space in a strip mall next to a crusty Chinese takeout place renowned locally for its crab rangoon and a karate studio. At $400 a month, she could put up with a leaky ceiling, sporadic electricity and a stubborn back door that burst open every time somebody entered through the main entrance.

After she forced the back door closed, she went to go greet her next client. Sandy was sitting on the patched leather couch that has been squeezed into the shop’s elevator-sized waiting room and she was already clucking her tongue and casting not-so-subtle glances at her knock-off rolex. When she returned to her massage room, he was already putting on his pants. After nine months of 3 p.m. sessions right before the shop’s most persnickety client, he knew not to keep Sandy waiting.

“Listen,” he said, as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. “My insurance isn’t going to cover this anymore. I think this is going to be my last session.”

“Well, we can work something out. I’ll call….”

“And as for the other stuff, I think that’s going to have to end too. I just, I don’t know.”

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” she said, lifting her chin to the ceiling slightly and closing her eyes to trap the tears she knew would come.

“I’m really sorry,” he said. Then he grabbed his duffel bag and moved toward the door, adjusting his belt as he walked out of her life.

She ripped the white paper off the table in preparation for Sandy, then began washing her hands in the deep-welled sink she’d had installed in the back room. It was nearly 4 p.m.

Her phone started vibrating. “Hi honey,” her husband said.

“You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” she said, before he could ask her what she’d be cooking for dinner. “I need you to wax your back and I need you to do it tonight.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not gonna get into all that stuff, I’ve told you that.”

Her voice was starting to crack.  “I’m dead serious about his, OK. I’ll help you when I get home. Just promise me you’ll do it.”

It was now apparent to her husband that his wife was crying. “Alright, I’ll do it. I don’t understand it, but I’ll do it. I didn’t know that meant so much to you.”

“Well, it does,” she said, hanging up the phone. Then she grabbed a paper towel, wiped off her face and told Sandy to lay down.

It turned out we’d been driving in the wrong direction for about 40 miles. It was a simple mistake, but neither one of us could let it go.

I’d told her right before we left the house that she should have used Yahoo Maps. “It’ll be fine, honey,” she said as she wrote down directions from Map Quest.

“Let’s go.”

“And you shouldn’t write them down either. Just print them out. You can never read your own writing,” I said.

“Just stop. It’ll be fine.”

I was right, I thought as I turned the car around. I took a certain pride in it. I wondered if she knew this wouldn’t have happened if she’d just listened to me. I should remind her of that, I concluded.

“It probably would have helped to have printed out the directions. And I do think Yahoo Maps is better.”

“You’re driving, not me. If you wanted it printed, you should have done it yourself,” she snapped. Then she started reading her book.

We drove in silence. I could feel the stress pooling up in my shoulders. I’d lost her and I’d have to work to get her back.

“I have to piss, will you drive for a bit,” I said.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Come on. I’ll just go in that cup.”

“That’s gross,” she said as I pulled the car to the side of Route 16 , a two-lane highway in the heart of New Hampshire.

I’d never pissed in a cup before. Apparently I piss about one and a half large iced coffees when I really have to go. I poured the first one out the window. It splattered all over the side of the car, but I came out clean. I wasn’t so lucky with the second batch. It got all over my hands. I wiped it on my jeans.

She looked at me like she was going to say something sassy, but her face gave up.

“You’re so stupid,” she said, smiling to herself and shaking her head. She put her hand on my knee as she passed a pickup truck to make up for lost time.

****

I’d been friends with Sarah since I was in fourth grade. That’s what I told people at least. I thought we were friends back then, but she says we weren’t. I’m pretty sure we were at least acquaintances.

We both agree though that it wasn’t until freshman year of high school that we really got to know each other. We fancied ourselves the smartest people in our honors courses. We didn’t really even have to try and we bonded over that, exchanging test scores and bragging about how little we studied.

I dated some “stupid bitches” over the next couple of years. All the while though, I spent most of my time with her. We did all the same extra curriculars and we’d spend hours after school organizing peer tutoring sessions, promoting our anti-alcohol campaign and soliciting donations from local businesses for various school events.

In the spring of my junior year I asked if I could sleep over her house so we could study for our AP tests. I really meant it too. Nobody in my school’s history had ever scored below a 3 on their AP Calculus exam and I wasn’t going to be the first.

To my complete shock, both of our parents gave us the green light on the sleepover. My mother was reluctant, but my dad convinced her. Sarah’s mother didn’t seem to mind at all. I don’t think she was threatened by me and she had let me hang out in Sarah’s bedroom for months now.

We didn’t get much studying done that night (I got a 3 on the exam by the way). Instead, we just talked about how over school we were. She had this way of making high school seem so trivial, even though we both knew we’d embraced its conventions. She seemed above it all and I loved that.

We made fun of our friends, dissecting every little detail of the past week. “What was she wearing” Sarah said, half serious, half making fun of the people who would actually say something like that. She knew how to make me laugh. I have this deep belly laugh that very few people have heard. Sarah brought that out from the beginning.

We kissed that night for the first time. I swear to God this is how it went: I asked if I could have a piece of gum. She said she only had the one that was in her mouth. “No problem, I’ll just get some water,” I said. “Here, have this.” Before I knew it we were making out, rolling around on her bed. It was great and she was all over me, touching my chest and kissing my neck. My glasses got caught in her hair, but it didn’t even matter. She just threw them aside and swung herself around so she was straddling me.

Then the lights came on. Her sister opened the door. “Come on guys,” she said, walking over to her side of the room. Unfazed and maybe a bit defiant, Sarah’s sister got into her bed, turned out the lights and went to sleep.

****

“Pop the trunk,” I said, opening the door and rushing around the back to grab my bags. There were too many bags for me to carry, but I wouldn’t have Sarah there to help when I landed, so I dragged them to the airport myself.

We walked into the terminal and I rushed to the counter to pick up my tickets. Self check was probably the quickest option. I grabbed my tickets from the machine and walked quickly up the escalator to security.

What had been a hectic day suddenly slowed down.

“Do you have everything,” she said.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “So, you should come down to visit before you get a job. You know, while you still have time.”

“I will,” she said, looking at anything but me.

“I love you.” As I hugged her my duffel bag slipped off my shoulder. I kissed her on the neck, then pulled back and gave her a firm, closed mouth kiss on the lips. I really had to pee again.

“I’ll see you soon. I love you” I said, walking to the bathroom instead of the security line.

She didn’t seem sure whether to leave or wait for me to get out. “You can go, I have to go to the bathroom first,” I said, knowing she’d wait for me to get out anyway.

I pissed. I took a look in the mirror as I was washing my hands. I should have shaved. I picked up my bags and walked out of the bathroom. I was ready to say what I should have said ever since I decided to move away: I need you to come with me. I can’t do it without you.

But Sarah was halfway down the escalator by then and she wasn’t looking back.

Marcellus anxiously sat in the high-ceilinged breakfast room of the Hotel Savoy. He was not reading the Financial Times folded underneath the tiny cup of espresso, which he had hesitatingly ordered from the wait staff. He wriggled his back uncomfortably against the stiff, damask-upholstered chair, sending the China and silverware on the white-clothed table a-quiver. His breakfast of beans and bacon lay untouched, the grease from the bacon coagulating underneath some slices of toast. It was already 9:30 a.m., and his three teenage children were still in bed, and his wife, Magdalena, dilly-dallying in the dressing room of their suite.

His family could have at least had the good humor to accompany him on the very first day of their vacation, but they didn’t. Instead, he was joined by his father, Reuben, who was always eager to reap the benefits of his son’s wealth. They were the only Filipinos – well, Asians – in the entire dining room, and Marcellus winced at Reuben’s appearance. He had coffee all over his Polo shirt, ink stains at the pockets of his Members Only jacket and Marcellus’ Titlelist golf cap that he took from his hat collection, resting ever so gently atop his balding brown head. Reuben was chipper this morning, completely oblivious to his son’ inner turmoil, talking very loudly about today’s itinerary. Marcellus was not listening, but in fact marveling how his father, in addition to the talking, could wink at the waitress, chew, and spill breadcrumbs all over himself simultaneously.

Marcellus clucked his mouth disapprovingly, and sighed. Reuben lifted his head up without looking away from his plate. “Oh, yeah, Magdalena told me to tell you she and the kids aren’t coming to breakfast,” Reuben said. “They said they’re not hungry.”

“Daddy!” Even at this age, Reuben still called his father “Daddy” but so did his other four middle-aged siblings. “That’s why I wasn’t eating my food, I was…”

Marcellus didn’t bother completing his sentence. His father would never understand. He had spent the past three months working overtime, taking on more patients in the geriatrics ward than any other doctor at the Cedars-Sinai Hospital just to pay for this little sliver of luxury, which was now being spent on 500-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets. He could have spent this time and money at a golf course in Cabo San Lucas by himself, but it wasn’t in his character to complain. So he didn’t.

And suddenly, 9:30 became 10:30; 10:30 became 11:30. Why did he think that a fancy trip abroad would change the way his family felt about him? He suddenly became embarrassed by the bravado of his grandiose plans for their day. He had wanted to start things off bright and early with an English breakfast here at the dining room (Marcellus was prepared to tell his youngest son, Carlo, the contents of black pudding: blood). Then, they were to take a taxi to Buckingham Palace – a taxi, because Reuben was too old to walk long distances, Buckingham Palace because his wife adored Princess Diana, and early, because he wanted to avoid the tourist crowds. Reuben would then go back to the hotel to rest, Magdalena would shop at Marks and Spencer’s and he and the kids would spend the rest of the afternoon at the Imperial War Museum.

But the reality of the situation was this: any minute now, his wife and children were going to trudge down the stairs and Marcellus would immediately slap a smile on his face. He would take everyone to McDonald’s for hash browns and pancakes. And then, he would spend the rest of the day with his family at Oxford Circus, buying them things that they could get in the States – videogames, Ralph Lauren sweaters, Quiksilver shorts – whatever their little hearts desired.

For Emily, Grace, and Xavier

by Becky Lettenberger

Once upon a time, Jack was bored. He was so bored in fact he decided to run away. So he wrote a note that read “Dear Mom and Dad, I have decided to go on an adventure. Love, Jack.” and stuck it under his pillow. He dumped his books, still in his bag from the last day of school, all over the floor and began to fill his bag with only the essentials: peanut butter, fishing pole, flashlight, pocket knife from Grandpa, and Teddy (tucked way down on the bottom, just in case.) Jack put on his favorite baseball cap from his little league team last season when they were the Phillies. He thought for sure he would hit a homerun wearing the cap of World Series Champs, but he’d have to try again next year. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and slipped out the back door, careful to shut the screen door lightly.

Jack crawled behind the neighbor’s hedges away from the sidewalk. Who knew there were all these worms back here? He picked a couple and tossed them in his bag for fishing later. Crouched behind Mrs.Miller’s oak tree he surveyed the corner. He would have to make a run for it to get across the street, he waited and waited, his breath getting louder and louder in his ears. He retied his sneakers and ran! He tumbled onto the grass on the far side of the street undetected until he heard, “Jack! Hey Jack! Where ya going?” “Oh nooooo” Jack groaned, “not again!”

Grace was skipping down the street, bright red hair bouncing with every step, “Ya going on a trip?” she asked with a clack of her gum. Jack stared at his shoes, “uh, well…” “YOU’RE RUNNING AWAY! I knew it! I knew it! Guess what?” not pausing for him to say “what”? – Me too!” “Really?” Jack asked in disbelief, “why?” “Oh you know,” said Grace, “I’m just SO bored!” Jack considered her answer carefully. It might not be bad to have Grace tag along, she was alright enough for a girl, and she always had gum, just to check Jack asked, “Hey, can I have a piece of gum?” “Oh sure! What flavor? I’ve got red, blue, and orange.”

“Blue, please.” Grace dug around in her back pocket and produced a blue stick of gum. The two of them chewed for a while standing behind the big oak tree at the end of their cul-de-sac.

Finally, Jack asked, “Why don’t you have any stuff with you?” “What do I need?” asked Grace with a shrug, “I’ve got some gum, a quarter, and my lucky pen.”

“Hmm,” Jack answered skeptically, “well maybe we should get going?” “Sure!” said Grace, and the turned towards the end of the sidewalk. When they got to the end of the cement they took a huge jump across the grass and landed just at the tip of fallen pine needles. “Here we go!” Grace said with a grin, and skipped off through the trees.

Jack walked slowly through the forest, studying the trees, the sounds of the birds, the crackle of tree branches, and the occasional CLACK! of Grace’s gum.

He caught up to Grace bent over a tiny, steady creek. “Shhh!” she hissed and pointed down into the water. There beneath the surface a group of tadpoles had begun to hatch. Jack and Grace knelt at the edge of the creek transfixed. “Where are they going?” Jack whispered. “I don’t know…” said Grace. Suddenly, there was a crash behind them and they turned around to find Carl toppled over in a pile of leaves. Carl was wearing his secret spy coat and was still clutching his binoculars. “What are you doing here Carl?” exclaimed Grace skipping over to help pull him out from under the pile of debris. “Well, I saw you and Jack take off into the woods and I thought you might be up to something…what are you two up to anyway?” Jack shrugged, Carl was always doing annoying things like spying on him and ruining his fun. Grace, on the other hand, never seemed to mind. “We are running away!” she exclaimed.

Jack was still bent over the tadpoles and Carl came over to see what he was looking at, “oh neat! They’re already leaving. Hey Jack,” he asked, “why are you running away?” Jack shrugged again and Grace called from further down the creek, “because we’re BOORREEEDDDD.” “I bet it’s not boring to be a tadpole,” grumbled Jack. “Oh, it’s probably not boring,” answered Carl,” but I bet it could be lonely. See now that they’re hatched they’re on their own, pretty soon they will start growing legs and then they’ll be big frogs and all the brothers and sisters will have gone off to become frogs, and I bet there mom doesn’t even remember them.” Carl stood up and kicked some pebbles, “I wouldn’t want to be a tadpole.”

Carl hopped from rock to rock down to Grace and Jack picked up his pack and followed after them. The early afternoon light was just beginning to cast shadows through the trees and they played tag with each others outlines for a while. Finally, they tackled each other into a heap and laid on the cool forest dirt staring up into the green leaves. “I’m hungry,” said Grace and the boys all agreed. Carl pulled an apple out of his pocket, “why in the world do you have an apple in your pocket?” asked Jack. “My mom never lets me leave home without one,” Carl explained, “in case I get hungry she wants me to have a wholesome snack.” Jack and Grace rolled their eyes and Carl went about polishing his apple with the bottom of his shirt. Jack dug around in his pack and pulled out the jar of peanut butter and they sat around taking bites of Carl’s apple and scoops of Jack’s peanut butter. “And for dessert!” Grace proclaimed, handing out three brightly colored sticks of gum.
The trio got back to their feet and began investigating crossing the creek. Jack suggested they jump from rock to rock, Carl thought they should build a bridge, and Grace wanted to walk along it long enough to find a spot to jump across. They debated their course of action, walking the length of the creek might take a very long time, and building a bridge seemed downright impossible, so they all decided to follow Jack from rock to rock. Jack went first and leaped easily from the first rock to the second, the third was extra slippery and he almost tumbled in before reaching the bank. Grace, ever so sprite, managed across with ease. Carl was quite scared and wouldn’t budge after landing on the second rock.

“Oh come on!” said Jack, “stop being such a scaredy cat!” But Carl wouldn’t move, so finally Jack said, “I’ll help you ok” and jumped back to the third rock, Grace grabbed a stick from the bank and held it out to Jack who held his hand out to Carl, “just jump! you’ll be fine!” Carl closed his eyes tight and jumped across with all his might, he jumped so hard in fact he knocked Jack right onto the bank of the creek. “Aw jeez, Carl! Now I’m all muddy!” Carl’s face was ash white, and Grace began to cry. Jack looked around confused until he put his hand down to help himself up. There, underneath his soggy shoes, was a smushed tadpole. Jack stared at the tadpole for a long time until the creek swept it away.

No one said anything, the late afternoon sun created a pool of light on the creek bank and the three of them stood in it’s warmth. “I want to go home,” Carl said, “yeah” agreed Grace, “me too,” said Jack softly. Without another word they started walking up the creek back to where the sidewalk meets the trees.