Practice

It was a gift. Brenda St. Peterson dropped it off for me. It was in a mason jar and had a blue bow glued to the top. Mom said that she was "such a nice  girl", and that "I should consider thanking her by taking her to Mel's for a milk shake." She doesn't understand that Brenda St. Peterson was no one to get close to. She was bigger than most boys in my eighth grade class and was rumored to have practiced with the Johnson High varsity football team; as a left guard even. A left guard. She crouched with a three point stance, snarled and emitted steam from her flaring nostrils, stood straight up upon the snap of the football, and dropped anyone who tried to break the line and sack the QB. A milk shake! Ha! Its like a bear snacking on an ant. "Sorry mom, I'm busy this weekend!" I told her. "With what?" she asked. I told her that Dale and I were supposed to rig a new pully system to Sam's tree house. We had saved cans and scrounged up sofa change for this new lever and pully and we had planned to put it in this weekend. She gave me a look that