My turn

 

Before the bell even finished ringing, twenty ten-year-olds were already halfway across the football field. The record-breaking heat did nothing to stop their stubby little legs from propelling them over the beer bottles and cigarette butts left behind by the rebellious high school kids. Nothing could stand between them and the one playground installation they all fought over: the ratty old tire swing.

Ms. Autrive couldn’t understand what was so fascinating about this tired toy, but she knew that, like any other recess, she’d have to break up at least two fights between kids who believed it was their turn to go for a spin. So she stayed back behind the crowd of kids and pulled the joint she’d stuck into her bra that morning up to her mouth, sparked it up and took a nice, long drag. Ms. Aurtrive’s turn always came first.

 

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