He entered the gym in just his vest and pants. The PE teacher called the nursing home. The ex-pupil had forgotten more than just his PE kit.
He got detention for his awful poem. “Larry Lizard spat and swore, snuck up on koala and pooed on his paw.” His mother stifled a giggle.
The first day of junior year, she was back to a size 4. They thought she’d been dieting over the summer, but all she’d lost was 8 lbs, 6 oz.
“One, two, three, four,” the director yells loudly. We form lines, shapes, friendships. With music blaring, we glide into the semester.
The bell rings. All the little contributors run inside. The editor asks, “Who can tell us a story?” Five tiny contributors raise their hands.
Our 40th class reunion was over. Kisses exchanged like we were teenagers once more, promises to meet made. Promises we knew we’d never keep.