Not Any More
Peanut-butter sandwich, check. Judy Blume book, check. Water bottle, ballet bag and any evidence that I might not have gone to class ... check, check and check.
I dropped my backpack and collapsed on a nearby grassy patch. Despite my reputation as the most athletic girl in seventh grade, the run had brought a red tinge to my cheeks and a dull ache to my side. The breeze blew up the hill from the playground, a chilly reminder that I didn’t have the luxury of carelessness. I pushed my bag behind an imposing tree, glancing over my shoulder down at the baseball fields. Parents filled the stands, watching their children play. Even from a distance, a few recognizable faces stood out, faces that would most likely break into a smile at seeing me. But not today.
I checked my watch: 10:30.
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