doesnât stupid-appreciate how not stupid video games are. Am I right or am I right or what?â he argued.
âPreach it, brutha. Preach it,â I said, hoping that if I agreed with him heâd let the whole thing go.
âThank you,â he said, happy to see that there was at least one person who could really understand where he was coming from (even though I had no idea where he was coming from).
Logan wandered away. As he did so, one thought, one inescapable, unavoidable, never-to-be-disputed fact, filled my brain.
Heâs got a cute butt.
I blame genetic programming for random zone-outs like this.
After I managed to avoid Tuesdayâs booby-trapped cookies, Wednesday and Thursday were free of pranks, but when lunchtime came on Friday, it was Game On once again.
Qâs eyes darted from side to side, looking around to make sure no one was watching us. The outdoor courtyard, where we always ate lunch, bustled with activity. Boys punched other boys, then ran off. Girls played with their phones while gossiping or doing homework. A few kids flirted. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another Friday on campus. Once Q felt the coast was clear, she reached into her backpack.
âI got the goods right here,â she whispered.
I cranked my neck to see what sheâd brought.
âExploding pens. The kind that, when you press down to write, they willââ Wheeesh-whooosh. Wheeesh-whooosh ââblast a squirt of ink into the personâs face.â
âNiiiice!â I said.
âI got them at the magic store down on Harris Street,â Q continued. âBut how are we going to get them into the ThreePeesâ hands?â
âGood question,â I said as I gazed across the courtyard. Just as we were huddled around the table trying to come up with a way to really stick it to the ThreePees, it seemed they were also huddling to try and figure out a way to stick it to us.
âCan I just officially say that I donât like any of this?â Beanpole remarked. âI donât like it at all. I mean, every time I sit at a desk I check for tacks or âKick Me!â signs or glue. Itâs making me crazy.â
âHey, glue,â I said. âGood idea, Beanpole.â
âYeah,â said Q, her eyes glowing with possibilities. âMaybe we could glue the witches to a park bench, cover them in corn kernels, spread maple syrup over their faces, and import some Australian crows to eat out their eyeballs!â
âTheyâve wounded you, havenât they?â I asked.
âMore than you know,â Q replied.
âHow come I donât think you two are really listening to me?â Beanpole asked.
âWeâre totally listening, Beanpole,â I said, getting ready to ignore her again. âJust go play with your phone or something, while we figure this out.â
âIâm not getting it till this weekend,â she said. âBy the way, have you heard from your dad again?â
I pretended not to hear the question. âSo, the ink that will be squirted, is it blue?â I asked Q in regards to the magic pens.
âDeep purple,â she answered. âThink grape juice.â
âNiiice,â I said.
âYou know, Mo,â Beanpole said, knowing that Iâd quite clearly heard her question yet chosen to ignore it, âdenying reality doesnât change reality.â
âWell, if God didnât want me sweeping reality under the rug, then why did he make me so good with a broom? Now,â I said to Q, âwhat if we put the pensââ
Suddenly, Mrs. Chambliss, one of the vice principals, walked up to our lunch table. She was wearing a yellow sweater over a white blouse with a necklace made of topaz. While some teachers are slobs who look like they donât even own an iron, Mrs. Chambliss always dresses with class and style.
âAll right, girlsâ¦letâs go.â
âWhere?
Brenda Adcock
S. K. Rizzolo
Heidi Betts
Soman Chainani
Stephanie Julian
Terry Ravenscroft
James Morrow
Carole Nelson Douglas
Issa Rae
Irina Shapiro