She was on to row four now, talking faster and faster. “When you’ve made your selections, simply turn your sheet over.”
She slapped the remainder down on the last desk. “Do not, I repeat, do not fold your ballot!”
Robbie Castinon raised his hand and blurted out, “Why do guys have to vote? It’s lame to have guys vote.”
“Robbie…,” Mrs. Simmons warned. “Seriously! What are we supposed to do? Vote for our friends or our enemies?”
A lot of people snickered, and Mrs. Simmons scowled, but he had a point.
Twenty of the school’s eighth-grade boys would be made to pack a picnic lunch for two and be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
“Being a basket boy is an honor—” Mrs. Simmons began, but she was interrupted by Robbie.
“It’s a joke!” he said. “It’s embarrassing! Who wants to be a basket boy?”
All the guys around him muttered, “Not me,” but Mrs. Simmons cleared her throat and said, “You should want to be one!
It’s a tradition that has helped support the school since it was founded.
There have been generation after generation of basket boys helping make this campus what it is today.
It’s why we have flower beds. It’s why we have shade trees and a grove of apple trees.
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