Evie had been squirreling ones, fives, and the occasional twenty since 2014.
She tucked the shopping bag into the back of the closet, where it would hibernate behind her ratty wool coat for as long as seemed necessary. That way when—if–Hank noticed her wearing them, she could look bemused and say, “Of course not, dear. I got these ages ago.”
But from time to time, when he was otherwise occupied, she might wander off and worm a hand into the bag, the box, the crackling tissue, stroking the soft gray skin, imagining her foot cradled in such heaven.
Simone whacked Dexter with a broom until he dropped his cheeping treasure and slunk under the buffet. The cheeper was in rough shape–motionless for two hopeless minutes, then unable to do much beyond the occasional flutter. She searched for the means of its escape, in the end, grabbing a spatula and the real estate section of the Sunday paper.
One wing was askew, and one leg missing, leaving a small, black hole; still, she could not wring its neck. Instead,Simone placed it gently on the patio railingand turned away. She did not watch and wait, tail twitching.
Darlene took her time, reluctant to emerge and discover today’s torture.
Emily poked her head back through the locker room door. “Not bad, Dar. Just indoor soccer.”
Relief. She could run around, pretending to vie for the ball for 45 minutes. She walked across the gym floor and sat one over from her friend; Ms. Stevens always counted by twos when making teams.
Forty-three minutes in, Darlene looked up and froze. The ball veered toward her, struck her head forcefully, and accidentally flew toward the opposing team’s goal. Cheers. For her. And no one noticed her scrimmage vest was on sideways.
Marianne stumbled on a root protruding from the sweltering sidewalk, nearly losing a scoop of orange sherbet in the process. Relieved, she paused to lick creamy rivulets from the sides of her softening cone. It tasted like summer, like granny wasn’t sick, like no one would call her names on Monday.
She imagined Maxwell Detweiler looming and poking at her–as he had three days in a row–and how it would feel to shove her sticky treat into his stupid face. But no, that wasn’t right. She’d spent two dollars and seventy-nine cents, which was more than he deserved.
When their limbs brushed in the jostle near their lockers, neither made eye contact or apologized, though each craved another such jolt of raw electricity. Would it be possible to lean an inch closer without seeming to do so?
Meredith opened and closed every zippered pocket of her backpack, hardly glancing inside. I could ask Jeremy for a pencil, she thought.
Catching his eye, she struggled to move her lips. What had she been about to say?
“Hey, Merde,” she heard from across the hall. “How’s it going?”
Meredith turned to wave and–spell broken–Jeremy disappeared into the crowd.
This brief foray into fiction brought to you by a friendly dare from my long lost friend Sean. I write quite a bit of fiction, but never in 100 words. Anyone else up for the challenge?