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Carlo Flunks the Seventh Grade Come a toad strangler that day, I remember. Kids wobble off the bus, umbrellas blooming. Three bullies, white American, thowed rocks at Splendi Pretti’s creamy little leg. I watch, too frayed to fight. Oh how she holler, lord, run and dance, holding her head! Three big girl, white American too, make them boy stop. Same day, Miss Snodgrass take Splendi’s sack lunch, homemade garlic bread and lonza, set it on the sill outside the window. Did the same to Antonio’s and Dominic’s, and let the white Americans hee-haw monstrous loud, “Tommy Salami and Tony Baloney! Tommy Salami and Tony Baloney!” She pass my desk and say, “Charlie, I need to put your lunch out, too. It has an odor.” I fire back, “Must be your lunch, Miss Snotgrass. Mine’s a poke sallet sandwich, ribbon cane, and hickory nuts.” She say, “Show it to me.” I grab my sack and say, “You want to see, I let you see all right.” I tump it out on my desk, grip the hickory nut hammer, say, “You know, Miss Snotgrass, this girl here goes home a-hungry nearbout every day ’cause a stray dog paw through her sack and gobble all her good food.” 59 I stand. Teacher snap, “Carlo! You sit your little bottom down this second!” But something ail me like I done gone deef and seeing through a hazy blur a smoke. My body burning cold, like snow-bit hands when you run hot water over them. “No need to fool with pushing up that window,” say I, and swing my hickory hammer through the glass. Crack like thin ice. I flunk the seventh grade over that stunt and mighty proud I did. 60 ...

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