it wasn’t asthma or weak ankles or her being “delicate” that was stopping her.
It was her hair. She had mountains of it, twisted this way or that, clipped or beaded, braided or swirled.
Her ponytails rivaled the ones on carousel horses. And on the days she let it all hang down,
she’d sort of shimmy and cuddle inside it like it was a blanket, so that practically all you saw of her face was her nose.
Good luck playing four-square with a blanket over your head.
My solution to Shelly Stalls was to ignore her, which worked just dandy
until about halfway through the fifth grade when I saw her holding hands with Bryce.
My Bryce. The one who was still embarrassed over holding my hand two days before the second grade.
The one who was still too shy to say much more than hello to me. The one who was still walking around with my first kiss.
How could Shelly have wormed her hand into his? That pushy little princess had no business hanging on to him like that!
Bryce looked over his shoulder from time to time as they walked along, and he was looking at me.
My first thought was that he was telling me he was sorry. Then it dawned on me– he needed my help.
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