Look Both Ways: List 1

TJ spun the black lock dial confidently, like he could feel the difference in the grooves and would know when he landed on the right numbers.

Jasmine had a blood disease since birth—sickle cell anemia—which can affect almost every part of the body.

Jasmine had a blood disease since birth—sickle cell anemia—which can affect almost every part of the body.

An old neighborhood, she'd ramble whenever they drove through newer, seemingly nicer communities, where every house looked like the last house, like a choir of homes dressed in the same robes, turned the same way, singing the same melody in the same key, which makes for a boring, boring song.

But Marston Street was lined with a little bit of everything, from small brick to fancy vinyl. From bay windows to Colonial style.

TJ looked quick down at the ground, suddenly wondering what lived between the cracks in the concrete. Scratched his arms like maybe the water bears were crawling in the crevices of his dry skin and he didn't know because he couldn't see them.

She was dressed in her work uniform—navy pants, navy shirt with a name tag, offset by her fuzzy, dingy pink house slippers.

She was dressed in her work uniform—navy pants, navy shirt with a name tag, offset by her fuzzy, dingy pink house slippers.

She bent down and kissed both Jasmine and TJ on the tops of their heads, the remnants of her day now hovering around them like hard-work halos.

He wiped it with the back of his hand and they both chimed in unison, like a Sunday choir.
"Nothing."

They all cut their hair down to almost bald—a sign of solidarity—and started stealing.

And even though Bit was half the size of his friends, he was the biggest when it came to confidence. And when it came to temper.

Plus she was a daddy's girl, and he raised her up in martial arts.

The way they were—a braid of brilliance and bravado—concerned everyone.

They crossed and headed down the main road—Portal Avenue—cars and bikes zooming past. Buses, both public and school, grumbling and screeching, smoke billowing from the tailpipes.

"Bit, I'm serious," Trista was droning on.

"Don't be petty all your life." That was from John John.

Bit was at the end of the driveway, rocking back and forth, antsy.

They went back to the main road. Back to busy Portal Avenue with the cars and trucks and other kids—other walkers—lollygagging on their way home from school.

Bit put a pothole in the middle of memory lane.

Bit's mom had relapsed.

Stevie was a sweater, so he always took his blazer off in class to avoid becoming a washcloth—something to wring out.

Either way, Pia would've taken her house key from around her neck and clutched it with the teeth jutting between her fingers.

The orange sashes of safety patrols and the sound of a whistle blown by the crossing guard. A whistle Pia never listened to because skating meant freedom.

Fatima stubbed her toe, then went flying but only after a few stumbles and bumbles and stumble-bumbles, like her mind was trying to convince her body to stay grounded but her body wouldn't be held down, wanted to leap, wanted to catch air.

All Fatima remembered about that kid was his lisp, that the "th" he put on "lose" made it sound like looth, and the spit that flew from his mouth, big enough for Fatima to see it.

And then she heard a long drawling voice, the kind of voice that was deep for no reason. The voice was singing.

She was bopping up the street, pumping her arms as if banging on the biggest invisible drum set ever imagined. Offbeat.

That afternoon when Fatima's parents came home from work, they were ready to ask about her first walk home but noticed her hobbling.

Your crew will direct you to your door. Additional emergency exits are shown on the leaflet.