Enlighten me
Ancient sumerians invented the straw in 3000 bc. They were made of leaves Interesting A guy named marvin chesterstone invented the modern straw made of paper because he didn’t like leaves in his drink Makes sense
Then a guy named joseph friedman invented the bendy straw in the 1930s to help his daughter drink her milkshake Nice dad
I still want a slurpee
Would your mom let you go if I picked you up?
Yeah
I’ll be there in 10 minutes
And sometimes, we still went to the playground and sat on the monkey bars.
Generally, things were going pretty well for me. If you don’t count that I barely spoke to my dad and was in love with a girl who had me permanently in the friend zone. But I had good grades, good friends, and a surprisingly decent relationship with my brother (his near-death experience seemed to have mellowed him). Until Coach Tejada posted the rosters for next year’s team, and I was on JV for the third year in a row.
And all my friends made varsity.
“Man, that sucks,” Darien said after he finished celebrating his own position on the varsity roster long enough to notice I wasn’t on it. “What are we gonna do without you?”
“Maybe it’s a mistake,” Brian said. “You should ask Coach if he forgot you.”
“It’s no mistake.” I pointed to the JV roster. “He didn’t forget me, just remembered me on JV.”
We stood in awkward silence for a moment, then Darien said, “Tough blow, man.”
“Yeah, tough blow,” Brian agreed.
“Maybe next year,” Darien said.
“Yeah, maybe next year,” Brian agreed.
They kept repeating the same things until I wanted to punch one of them to see if the other would bleed. I needed to get out of there, so I said, “Yeah, I need to go. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.”
But I didn’t. And I did go talk to Coach Tejada, and he said exactly what I knew he’d say. “Sorry, Burke. You’re a great kid. You’ve got great heart, and I love having you on the team. But you’re just not big enough to play varsity. If you were only a few inches taller. Maybe next year, if you grow a little.”
I nodded. “Maybe.”
But I knew I wouldn’t.
I wanted to see Amanda. But I knew she probably had practice for something, homework for something, a game that night where she’d be the star and no time for her short, toady little friend who’d probably still need her to save his Spider-Man toy from a bully, if it came up. So I didn’t call her. I walked home.
On the way, I stopped by the park. It was spring, and the mother ducks were there with their babies. I sat by the canal and took my shoes off, then rolled up my pants legs. They were a little too long. Mom had gotten the wrong size, and now that she was working, she wasn’t as on top of returning things, or shortening them, so I’d just worn them like that, dragging slightly on the ground. I fished out the wadded-up peanut butter sandwich from my backpack and threw it, bit by bit, into the water. I was an ugly duckling, too small for sports, too insignificant to make a move on the girl I loved.
We ducklings needed to stick together. I noticed a crow nearby and threw it a crumb. It was ugly too.
“Hey there. Everything okay?”
I looked around, at first seeing nothing. Then I found her. Kendra.
“What? Yeah, everything’s fine.” I’m just short, and I suck.
“Oh, okay. You looked kind of . . .” She stopped, then peered into the water as if something had caught her eye. “Hold on.”
She stalked toward the canal near where the ducklings had congregated. They scattered, making little peeping noises. Kendra reached her arm below the surface. She pulled something out, brown and wriggling. A snake! It writhed around, but she held it firmly away. Then she flung it as far as she could. It flew through the air and landed on the opposite canal bank. She shook off her hand, then came back and sat beside me.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Water moccasin.” Her voice was totally calm.
“What? Aren’t they poisonous?”
“Uh-huh. It would have gotten those ducklings.”
“But . . . how did you . . . ?”
She shrugged. “Confident hand. Don’t try this at home.”
“I won’t.” I looked across the canal, trying to find the brown snake, but it was too bright. I couldn’t see.
“So do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”
I had this weird feeling she already knew, and it was a little embarrassing. But I said, “Nothing. First World problems. Didn’t make varsity, and all my friends did.”
She looked at me, really concentrating on my face like she was trying to place me.
“You’re Amanda’s friend, right?”
I nodded. That was apparently my whole identity.
She looked me up and down. “What would get you onto varsity?”
I laughed. “If I grew six inches.”
“Six would do it?” Her tone was light, but her voice was weirdly serious, like she was a doctor, questioning a patient.
“Eight would be better,” I joked.