17
The Crunch Bar tasted good. It was warm and mushy beneath Mistie’s fingers and sweet on her tongue. There was quilt lint in the chocolate, but it didn’t matter because the chocolate was good on her hands and on her tongue. She liked being under the blanket because she liked to hide. It was fun to hide. She liked to hide at home in the metal shed behind the trailer or in the big potato bin in the kitchen when it was empty of potatoes.
The teacher talked a lot. She had a voice that went up and down like those flutes the fourth graders tried to play at the assembly last week.
There was a drink on the floor, a plastic bottle with a white top. The teacher said not to drink it yet. Mistie didn’t mind, she had chocolate to play with. She patted her tongue with the stick and sucked on it, then rubbed it on her palms. Warm, soft.
Then there was another voice up front. Mistie paused and listened. It was a girl. The girl got into the car, said the “fuck” word and then “Drive.”
The teacher did.