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Show me leave the classroom. After all, the bus was long gone, Grandma already headed for the high school and the older kids who started an hour after we did. It will be there later, she assured, handing3Jtpuq?le-4itto£S_gi^ with the smell of ink. Don't worry. Given that it was October and the crib in my room lay empty, I took little comfort in her offhand reassurance. That afternoon, I stood first in line to board the bus in order to have a clean sweep of the seats before the other kids could get my record. Nothing. I sat down on the bench seat in the back and cried while the bus filled with children whose names I didn't know. As soon as the bus started, a JPO stood up in front and yelled for our attention. Grandma pulled out of the parking lot and into the street, causing the boy to wobble between the seats. Grabbing the pole near the stair well, he spread his legs further and lifted Rudolph over his head. Is this anyone's, he called out. Mine, mine, mine, yelled all the other kids, waving their arms madly, grins as wide as their bell bottoms stretching across their faces. It's mine. It's mine, they cried, laughing and pushing. Panic seized me. The moment of joy I had experienced when I saw him wave my record was quickly replaced by panic. How would he know it was mine? I stretched my arm as high as I could, hoping to outdo all those in front of me, trying to catch the JPO's eyes, and certain I would never hold that record again. How could I have been so careless? How stupid to have placed it behind my back where I wouldn't remember it when I stood. What would I listen to at night while my parents remained at the dining room table and talked in low voices about a baby I had never 61 |