Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love by Maryrose Wood Page B

hustles out of the math room so fast I can’t tell. I wonder briefly what would make the Randinator and his Fists of Fire beat such a hasty retreat. I am not alone in my wondering.
    “Whence the embarrassment?” asks Trip as soon as Randall’s gone. “You taking a survey about STDs?” Despite his former brain-frying exploits, Trip doesn’t seem to miss much.
    “Felicia and I are collecting data for our science fair project,” says Matthew, eyeing the Krispy Kreme box with the kind of longing he seems not to feel for humans—at least, not THIS human. I push the box toward him with my best come-hither smile, but then I remember I probably have chocolate on my teeth.
    Trip looks at me for the first time. “Working as a team, huh? Sweet.” I feel him wondering why on earth Matthew would be doing a science project with me. “What’s it about?”
    “Strictly confidential.” I smirk.
    “Unless, of course, you’d be willing to answer a few questions,” says Matthew through his donut. “Randall split,” he says, turning to me. “And data is data.”
    Spoken like a scientist! Trip leans back, balancing his chair on two legs. “A gentleman never discusses money, politics, or religion. So sayeth Junior.” (It takes me a mathematical minute to figure out that Junior must be Trip’s dad.) Trip laughs. “But I’m not much of a gentleman, so fire away! The old man keeps me on a pretty short leash these days, so answering questions is what I do best.”
    I can’t help thinking that Trip is not the spoiled thug I expected him to be. At least, not entirely.
    “What about you beauties?” Trips says, turning to Jess and Kat. “Are you being interrogated, too?”
    Kat peers at Trip through her hair. “Yes,” she says eloquently.
    “It’s Felicia and Matthew’s project. But of course we’ve agreed to be interviewed,” says Jess.
    “Excellent! We can bare our souls together. But I am so sick of being indoors,” Trip says, to me this time. “Why don’t you gather up your questionnaires and your number two pencils and your truth serum, and we’ll go pay a visit to Gram?”
    The donuts were gone, and Ms. Blank was now snoring ever so quietly on the floor. Clearly, there would be no more math today. A visit to Gram sounded perfect. More importantly, we could get three interviews done in one afternoon! As Matthew is fond of saying, data is our friend.
    And that is how, a short while later, Matthew, Trip, Jess, Kat, and I found ourselves breaking in to Gramercy Park.
    Gramercy Park is what they call a key park, meaning you need a key to get in, and it’s the only key park left in New York City. Perhaps this sounds snobbish, but private, padlocked,
Secret-Garden
esque Gramercy Park is the last of its breed, and I for one would hate to see the black iron gates torn down. Gram wouldn’t feel quite as magical inside if it weren’t somehow forbidden.
    To have a key to the park, you have to live in one of the buildings surrounding it. The Pound has a key, but its use is strictly monitored and involves filling out an application and having it signed by a faculty member. When I was struggling with the seasonal reference conundrum in my haiku phase, Mr. Frasconi approved me for Gram visits at least once a week, so I could “observe nature and respond in poetry, dreams, or personal reflection.” Mr. Frasconi’s coolness knows no bounds.
    Keyless—that is to say, rule-breaking—drop-ins to Gram are not unheard of, especially among the older Free Children, but I personally have never done it and am experiencing an emotional cocktail of one part rebelgrrl, twelve parts wussypants, and forty thousand parts don’t-act-like-a-dumb-wussypants-in-front-of-Matthew. Trip leads us to the corner farthest from the Pound, where Gramercy Park East meets East Twentieth Street. A large tree with a low, overhanging branch reaches through the fence in a way that can only be called inviting.
    Trip pulls himself up onto the branch.