Look Both Ways: List 3

If Mrs. Stevens didn't give her these five minutes at the end, Cynthia would burst into some kind of sideways monologue about whatever Mrs. Stevens had been teaching that day.

Like how negative numbers deserve empathy because no one should ever feel lower than zero.

Cynthia would wail and flail overdramatic fists in the air, all leading up to the big finish, Cynthia planting her face flat on the desk.

Then she'd come back in as if it never happened, have a seat at her desk, straighten her posture, pick up her pencil with one hand, and play with the two plaits sprouting from either side of her head—a hairstyle she loved for its comedic effect—with the other.

And before the ruckus could even come, Mrs. Stevens shut it all down.

And when she came on Saturdays, she'd always catch Cynthia marching around outside the front of the store—prompted by her grandfather—and Miss Fran would stick stamps on Cynthia's chubby cheeks and forehead.

A stage. Not a big, elaborate stage, just a concrete platform about the size of the wooden crates Cinder used to stand on in the store, a bronze plaque bolted to it that read, CINDER'S BLOCK.

A stage. Not a big, elaborate stage, just a concrete platform about the size of the wooden crates Cinder used to stand on in the store, a bronze plaque bolted to it that read, CINDER'S BLOCK.

The cemetery had a regal iron gate wrapped around it and took up the entire block.

Cynthia traipsed around the cemetery, looking for giggles, finding none.

It wasn't that he was rotten, but just that he smelled like his body had mistaken its organs for garbage and that he was essentially a walking, talking trash can.

So in an act of service and sheer desperation, Remar Vaughn, Joey Santiago, and Candace Greene—Gregory's crew—decide to help him out.

He sprayed Gregory from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet. A spritz or two even got in his mouth, sending Gregory gagging and coughing.

Gregory's eyes widened, and his brows furrowed, leaving him with a look of astonishment.

"What the...? Where you get that?" he yawped, slowly relaxing his forehead.

'"That wouldn't happen,' he says," Remy scoffed.

Then she went to work, first on his right elbow. Circles with center other palm, then pincher-claw rubs with the tips of her fingers for optimal moisturizing.

Joey nodded sheepishly.

"No, no!" Gregory's voice jumped an octave. Maybe two. Almost whistle-high. "I wouldn't...It's just...um...my lips are burning."

Canton and Mr. Munch sauntered the halls of the school, pushing dust, and hair that looked like dust, and coins and candy wrappers and a random sock and drawstrings and loose braids and who knows what else, as all the other students bustled around, eventually tunneling through the double doors into the outside world.

"Oh." Canton squished up his befuddled face, decided to take Mr. Munch's word about the smile, but was still unsure about everything else. "So, you really think this gonna help me?"

"Don't forget tonight's homework. We're talking geography. Write about place. Write about people. Human environmental interaction!” Mr. Davanzo shouted over the end-of-day clamor.

And when Canton finally made it up to the crosswalk at Portal Avenue, there was his mother, Ms. Post, strapping on her vest and pulling the whistle attached to a black lanyard over her head like it was some kind of prestigious medal.

And when Canton finally made it up to the crosswalk at Portal Avenue, there was his mother, Ms. Post, strapping on her vest and pulling the whistle attached to a black lanyard over her head like it was some kind of prestigious medal.

Gregory Pitts liked Sandra White. Satchmo Jenkins feared he might be eaten by a dog on his way home. Cynthia Sower was putting on a show at 3:33 p.m. Some banter on boogers, and everyone wanted to know what secret things Fatima Moss was always writing.