Last Laugh

Summers, we perched on the stoop, pointing mocking fingers as she minced down the sidewalk in heels one size too small because Goodwill had nothing bigger.

“Cheapskate.” Billy said.

“Skinny bones.” Jay.

“Tramp.” Frank dared, covering his mouth with both hands after.

Summer bled into fall. We tucked away our shorts, tucked ourselves into uniforms, neatly patched and pressed, tucked ourselves onto the train that whisked us to school.

We filed into English, folded ourselves into desks, gaped at the front of the room where she stood, still mincing in too-small shoes, a length of fresh chalk in her hand.

This was written for this week’s 100 Words on Saturday at The Write Tribe: She had the last laugh.









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