Spencer Williams IV

The Wrong Twin



“Sherman!”

Although the seventh period bell would not ring for another three

minutes, Sherman and Dalton had made significant progress down the
hall and were about an average Jaramillo High School student’s height

from the door to the outside. Although it was custom for them to jet out

of Biology a little early, Ms. Hinder’s shrill cry from their prison, Room

A141, made Sherman slow his pace. The pale light from their classroom

faded as the heavy door squeaked to a close behind them. He knew his

hesitation placed him in danger if his teacher decided to be proactive and

drag his insubordinate ass back in to hear her customary farewell to her

students for the weekend. They were not going to stick around just to sing

her little Coolio-parody goodbye song: “One, two, three, four: Get your

booties out the door!” The whole intended mood of mirth would be ru-
ined, for one.

For two, by the time the screech tickled his eardrums in places he

could only scratch with a Q-tip, and where Johnson & Johnson warning
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labels would dissuade him from trying to reach, there was probably just a

minute or less left and apprehending two kids who always slipped out at

this time anyway would just be a waste of everyone’s time.

“Let’s move!” shouted Sherman. He grabbed his friend by the hu-

merus and yanked him out the front entrance as the electronic bell
sounded from flat intercoms throughout the building.

They were greeted by a sea of students who appeared to stand in

color coordinated groups. Immediately in front of him were loud obnox-

ious jocks wearing clothes so bright and clean they were glowing, adver-

tising the abbreviations and acronyms of popular brand insignia, the in-

finite customizations of which emblazoned the canvas of their garb. Their

pristine apparel looked as though it had only that morning been removed

from off-white shelves of perfect inset cubes that smelled of vanilla and

synthetic fabric. Their immaculate dress was like a testament of their in-

temerate character. This was America’s real life blood—Bull-headed bray-

ing testosterone repositories whose every head-first plunge into a locker

door and spontaneous rallying cry was encouraged by their flock of floo-

zies and their parents, who sacrificed much to re-experience young adult-

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hood’s bliss.

To his immediate right were the goths, or at least people who, like

Dalton, always dressed in black. Today, although it was 70 degrees out,

Dalton was wearing an all-black shiny pleather jumpsuit, with a solid col-

umn of small buckles going down the side of each leg. Sherman’s friend
sat down on the walkway along the school, set his back against the brick

wall, and kicked out his shiny Gestapo boots. His face was caked with

white powder. His lips and eyes were bleeding black goo. He looked like

a propped up dead man, staring straight ahead at shifting and dancing

rows of capris and cargo pants with his head slightly cocked to the side,

while his boots postmortally spasmed.

Sherman reached out his hand to wave it in front of Dalton’s face,

to see if he really was still alive. Just as he did so, his thumb hooked into

the belt loop of a girl who walked in between them at just that moment.

His hand was still moving forward to make a playful gesture with his

acquaintance while it was accidentally attached and he only realized his

mistake when his victim was suddenly jerked back by the brisk force with

which he extended his arm. By the time his outstretched arm acted as an

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effective fulcrum on the back of the now falling girl, he saw thin flutter-

ing strands of black hair fly up symmetrically beside her face that curled

and pointed like fingers. An array of necklaces also went flying, suspend-

ing marijuana leaf, peace sign, and Grateful Dead bear pendants in front

of him like constellations. Her right leg went up in the air to counterbal-

ance as she fell back over his arm which in this split second he attempted
to keep straight and rigid so as to somehow reverse her fall by allowing

her top weight to see-saw back up. On her leg he saw hippie flowers of

different colors and sizes sewn into bell-bottom jeans. Tiny transparent

beads outlined each leaf and sun-center. This was Katie.

Katie and Karen were sisters and Sherman had first met them in

middle school. They, nor anyone he knew (including himself), were not

the same now as they were back then. He knew Katie but only knew of

Karen from seeing the two of them walk together down hallways, usually

in very loud conversation. They looked almost exactly the same. Katie’s

wardrobe tended to consist of brighter tones. When he first asked Katie if

Karen was her sister, she answered affirmatively.

He and Katie talked all the time whenever they had classes together,

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but three years later he could not recall the subject of a single conversa-

tion, except their last one before they found each other again here, at Ja-

ramillo. Although the general subject still eluded him, he distinctly re-

called her saying the word “crap” and he being utterly repulsed by it. Did

she not know that Jesus said not to swear at all and that doing so put her

in hot water salvation-wise?

He was quite sure of this at the time, anyway. When he first ran into

Katie again after sophomore orientation, he could not say what his views

of salvation entailed. The day they re-met, he was inadvertently leading

a mob of students down the hallway in the opposite direction that Katie,

who was also inadvertently in front of a mass of students, was coming

towards him. Members of their mobs slowly trickled from behind to in

front to escape an accidental organization of movement. As their parties

approached, the two saw each other and Sherman knew exactly who she

was.

“Hey!” she exclaimed.

“Hey!” he responded.

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 The Wrong Twin

“Nice shirt…”

“Oh… thanks!”

They kept moving and it would be days before they’d find each other

again. Sherman glanced down at his shirt and saw a scorpion with huge

googly eyes and jagged lightning bolt red lips that appeared to be skewer-
ing a down-and-out rag doll of sorts. Classic The Wall artwork.

They next met in oddly similar circumstances. The classes of the

first week of the year were more lax kinds of getting-to-know-each-other

sessions than serious lectures, where they were essentially allowed to do

anything they wanted. The teachers gave them an overview of what to

expect when things really got started, but the last half hour of each class

usually descended into people just talking. Near the end, he would be-

gin leading the procession that emerged from their classroom by way of

carrying on a conversation with a friend while they got up and left, con-

sciously inspiring his classmates to follow suit. He was once again the first

in the hall on his side of the school and as he walked and talked, several
students finally left their classes and started coming out from behind him.

He was still in conversation when he again saw an opposite oncoming

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wall of students and Katie in front chatting with a small and thin girl with

black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Katie wore a dull and faded tie-dye

shirt under acid washed jean overalls with leg cuffs that were frayed to

shreds. She clanked as she walked with at least five necklaces, at least as

many bracelets on each arm (some of which were also necklaces), and an

ankle bracelet on each ankle. Rubber-soled straw sandals snapped and

flopped as they kicked low hanging strands of white husk.

As they passed, Sherman once again said hello. This time, Katie

shoved a folded piece of notebook paper into his hand. They continued

past each other.

Back at home, once he found a spare moment, he read the letter:

Sherman,

Hey there! What’s up? It’s been forever!!! What’s been going on with

you?

You know, I was having a really shitty day yesterday until you were so
kind as to say hello. I know it may not sound like very much. But for me, it

just made my day. It’s great to know you’re still so sweet.

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I’m not sure what my schedule’s gonna be yet, but we should hang out!

I’m always waiting outside the C wing for the bus. Wow, I thought this year

was gonna suck! I’m really happy to run into you again.

Peace,

Katie

Sherman reread the note several times, flipped it over and back

to make sure this was definitely what Katie handed him. There was her

name right at the end. This was obviously her note addressed to him.

He became very warm. When he stood up, he thought he could see the

steam that the swamp in his netherparts released, from which streams of

sweat rolled down his legs. Perhaps he was overacting, although he was

not sure what kind of reaction he was having. Was this some kind of invi-

tation? To what?

He would inquire with Katie’s other half to get a sense if his instincts

were right. He rarely talked to Karen and wasn’t sure what she thought of
him, but assumed there were positive feelings. Back at school, he found

Katie’s sister standing next to a wall of fudge-colored lockers with black

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combination dials, chatting audibly with an assortment of variously phy-

siqued women. She and Katie had the exact same kinds of inflections in

their speech. They had the exact same way of expressing exasperation, by

expelling air in a guttural push that almost sounded like they were growl-

ing, and they both did it a lot.

He approached her from behind and was about to tap her shoul-

der when the broad and tall girl Karen was facing noticed Sherman and

pointed to him. Karen immediately turned around. She looked almost

nothing like her sister. Her hair was dyed dark maroon and tied back in

a bun. Her face was completely white with powder (an odd trend among

people he knew at the time). They may have had the exact same counte-

nance, in that they seemed to always carry a facial expression of concern,

or impatience, or perhaps exasperation. Her ears looked painfully perfo-

rated and were half metal rings. She also donned a large amount of jew-

elry, all of which was skeletal and Wicca-themed and clinked when she

moved. Instead of cannabis insignia, a pentagram lied under her neck.

“You, come with me,” she said. She placed an open palm on his

shoulder to guide him to one of the small rooms that divided the outside

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from the inside, which worked remarkably well for private moments,

despite students frequently zipping through. Sherman reached into his

pocket for the note.

“Hey, so… I wanted to—”

“Yeah, so May wants to ask you out but she’s really nervous but she
doesn’t mind you knowing, so… yeah.” She shrugged. “Do whatever.”

Sherman took his hand out of his pants. He had only once caught

a glimpse of this May she was speaking of at the C-wing spot and at no

point picked up on any kind of romantic vibe. She had very dark red lip-

stick but no other makeup. He recalled her curly and wet hair and the

thin jacket wrapped around her shoulders that flapped like a sail in the

moderately strong wind of that day. He did not gather that either one

found the other particularly appealing.

Perhaps this answered his question about Katie, since he assumed

that she would have been the subject of their private conversation if there
was something to pursue there. It was safe to assume a purely platonic

message, then.

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Well, he would find out what this was all about. To his dismay, the

class schedules were starting to normalize, but he successfully disap-

peared from Language Arts to seek out his new interest. It was still the

second week and he remembered one time seeing the blonde-haired May

eating lunch alone in one of the anterooms to outside. Sure enough, he

found her in the same place.

She was sitting on a mud-striped doormat speckled with red pebbles

from the gravel paths with a neon blue lunch bag beside her, studiously

eating a cup of ramen when Sherman knocked on the glass part of the

door. He saw her suddenly sit up and throw her hands out as though

from an electric jolt, spilling the entire contents of her noodles and tiny

peas and carrots onto the floor. Sherman’s heart sank, and he slid down

the door while his fingers made a streaking sound against it.

“Sorry!” he shouted. No response.

He looked through one of the side panels and saw that the girl’s ex-

pression was definitely not of anger. It was really more of a smile than a
look of annoyance, although it had elements of both.

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Sherman stood up and carefully slipped into the small room. He

stood on his toes to avoid a slowly spreading puddle. He held his hand

over his mouth and had wide eyes while he moved like this. His pants

legs brushed against the red brick wall of the small room with regular

mechanical strokes. He knelt down before the now definitely smiling girl.

“I am… I can’t even…”

“Hey, that’s why you always pack a spare.” She then took out a mi-

crowaveable container of what looked to Sherman like stroganoff noodles

and continued eating.

“Wow… That’s… I mean, that’s impressive. Or maybe… I don’t

know. Maybe you were expecting me…?”

She shook her head. “No, certainly wasn’t expecting you.” She was

not looking at him and still eating.

“I see…” Sherman stood up again and then decided to sit back down

cross-legged. “I guess, I thought you may have because… Well, I was talk-
ing to Karen… And… you know…”

“Carter?” she tossed her head back and laughed. “Ha-ha. Ah, that

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girl…”

Sherman chuckled. “Yeah, that one… Yeah, she—”

There was a loud banging on the door behind him which made the

whole room rattle and he shrieked while he turned his head to see Karen

herself looking very displeased, or maybe content.

“You crazy bitch!” the girl on the ground yelled through the glass.

“Hey, sorry” the multiply-pierced girl said in a raised voice through

the glass, muffled. “I gotta speak with this dude.”

“No, you can’t have him!”

Karen opened the door and pulled Sherman up by the shirt collar,

forcing him to leap adeptly over the ramen pond. They started walking

back to the main hallway until Karen pushed Sherman up against the

wall.

“You idiot! That’s not May!”

Katie, the hippie, eschewed makeup. She rejected feminine norms

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that dictated how she appear and carry herself. She explained to him that

she consciously declined to move her hips when she walked, that you

would only see her dead carcass in an open coffin dressed up in stockings

or heels, that she had seen a good many former friends one by one lay

victim to infusing imposed views of “womanhood” into their own per-

sonalities, always by giving way to one practice, just some eye shadow to
accent the eyes, just some lipstick for a little fuller appearance, just some

shorter pants because it’s sweltering, and then another, and then another.

She did not believe she had any true friends, in the truest sense of

the word. The people he saw flanking her during calmer passing periods

were simply people who were always there, and they were maybe all go-

ing to the same destination or they had merely automatically coalesced

into that part of the school after a class or something.

There was no one she could say she actually trusted, with the excep-

tion of Helena, the diminutive girl with glasses he had seen with Katie on

numerous occasions in an almost sidekick kind of fashion. Helena was

the closest thing to a friend she had because she too had the grave mis-

fortune of growing up in a household where she more and more found

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 The Wrong Twin

herself at odds with her parents’ reasoning. Katie explained that she

well understood the rebellious streak that kids are going to have against

their parents growing up, but that Helena’s biological mentors would go

through elaborate lengths to prove some trivial point so as to embarrass

her and make life miserable.

For instance, Helena, for no really good reason, Katie admitted—

but for nothing that warranted abuse, despised onions and was known to

vomit when subjected to vivid oral descriptions of a meal that featured

them. At age 14, during the beginning of her freshman year, her parents

forbade her from purchasing school meals and insisted on packing her

lunch in an attempt to wean her off her hatred of what was clearly an

abundant source of vitamin C, potassium and calcium, and to dissuade

her, by force or deception if necessary, to end this childish phase, they

reasoned, Katie told him. And it didn’t matter to them that whenever

they snuck onions into her food, she would be purging in the bathroom

for the next few hours. But the experience that caused her distrust of her
parents to peak would occur a year later when she was presented with

what she was told was a white chocolate birthday cake with coconut shav-

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ings. One large and unguarded bite into a slice carefully carved out by

her mom, Helena would later recount, would result in a sea green stream

of liquid spurting from her mouth and shaving a section of icing off and

staining the white plaster under their kitchen stove forever, culminating

in a scene Helena described to Katie as “psychotic shrieking” by all par-

ties involved.

As a result, Katie told Sherman, she identified with Helena, who to

Sherman always looked very fragile.

Katie loved hippie music and classic rock and roll. She reiterated that

it must have been some kind of destiny to see that not only was Sherman

at this school with her, but that he was into Pink Floyd. He was hesitant

to tell her that he had purchased his The Wall shirt on a whim, as he no-

ticed one day that he was about to enter the second phase of high school

and had no apparel promoting music. He was not all that familiar with

any music group before the 90s. His ignorance of the classics was not lost

on Katie, who one day approached him with Led Zeppelin IV and asked
him to find time to listen to it from beginning to end.

Katie and Sherman talked a lot, but by the time teachers got serious

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and tried to start working through a curriculum, he found it more dif-

ficult to steal time to roam. But Karen and Sherman shared an Advanced

Algebra II class and sat at the same two person table and would often talk

on paper. The following conversation took place on college-ruled sheets

they slid back and forth in room B200 at 11:29AM, October 15, 2000:

¡Hóla! ¿Como estás? Hoy, soy escribiendo con mi bolígrafo favori-

to.

Bonjour. Eh bien, c’est beau ...

Um…

Er…

Hey, let’s start over: Hey there, lady!

Hey there, cowboy!

Don’t feel like a cowboy today. Just feel… I don’t know. I’m not sure

what to think. Tell me… what is love?

Baby don’t hurt me!

Don’t hurt me…

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No more!

Well, let me put it to you this way: So, I have this friend…

Ah, I see. We’ll just call him “Sherman Alexie”.

Hehe. Yeah. So, my buddy, the good Mr. Alexie (brilliant writer,

by the way), he tells me that it’s confusing how the whole… dynamic

works…

The dynamic, huh?

Yes, the very dynamism that defines the eponymously named Duo.

What are you talking about?

Or actually, I don’t think I’m talking about that kind of dynamism.

All I mean is I’m not sure what the best thing to do is…

Regarding what?

Well, I mean, haven’t you been able to tell there’s some kind of…

chemistry, I dare say. That she and I are… that we’re so remarkably… I

mean, maybe it’s silly for me to say any of this if it really is so obvious.

Dude, I have no idea what you are talking about. I think I under-

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stood your Spanish more.

Say, have you ever been infatuated with anyone?

Um, do you listen to like anything I’ve ever said? I talk about Ben

pretty much all the time. You won’t believe it, but this morning I saw

him walking to school and on the bridge where all those wildflowers
are growing out of the sidewalk, I saw him step on some by accident.

And what does he do? He goes back to straighten them out! Is that in-

credible or what?

Whoa. Are you sure this dude isn’t a girl?

And did you know he likes Iced Earth? And The Beatles? Where’d

this guy come from?

I don’t think that second one is so rare…. But hey… to some he’s

quite a catch, I’m sure. So, have you been, you know, coming on to him

and all that?

What? No! I can’t talk to him!

Yeah, that galoot…

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Oh my God, he’s like this huge teddy bear I just want to hug for-

ever! He’s simply everything that’s perfect…

Well then, you should just go melt into his arms, or whatever. A

pretty girl like you is sure to create a fissure or two in that iceberg-like

behemoth.

Argh. You’re so mean. He’d never talk to me.

Though I don’t share your reasoning, I share your sentiment. Some-

times the signs aren’t too clear. Although sometimes, they are all too

clear.

Yeah, I really don’t see much happening there.

Hmm… well, tell me. Might you see something happening… here?

Where?

Right here?

Ohh… I see… Sigh… You know… you’re a good bloke.

So my epitaph will read.

You know, sure. Why not?

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The year was concluding and every sophomore student crammed

into the dark auditorium. Bright lights shined from silver lamps hanging

off the edges of the black painted catwalk. Their light rays made strands

of solid dust clouds visible, and to Sherman it looked as though that was

the entire atmosphere, that they were only breathing in hair and dead

skin. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and saw everyone he had every

really known all in the same room. Not quite everyone he ever knew, but

the only people at this point that he could say he was really aware of and

personally knew.

He sat in the center seat of the second row in the middle section. To

his right was Serendipity (the broad tall girl who had pointed him out to

Karen), Mary “Full of ” Grace, Dædra, Karl Marx (so nicknamed solely

due to his usually scruffy appearance which was a symptom of his light-

ning fast hormone growth, the teasings of which left the good natured

Marx unscathed and his peers impressed), Joane Incognita, and Dalton.

To his left sat Katie Carter, Helena, Karen Carter, Tina “George (of the

Jungle)” Xi (a nickname Tina gave herself for no reason she could ever

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recall when asked), Amanda “There is Definitely No Logic to Human Be-

haviour” Bynes (whose actual name was Amanda Beinhart, having been

bestowed with a joke last name simply due to the prominence of a like-

named celebrity and a more elaborate common nickname, of disputed

commonality, as a parallel mark of her frequently advertised music inter-

ests), and April (who Sherman had mistakenly identified as May, marking
an epoch in his relation to Karen and Katie’s group, as it were, a period

which Sherman insisted on commemorating by hereinafter referring to

her as “June”, so that he might “eternalize the mistake”, a notion whose

farce April assured him she found amusing).

On the stage was a large white projector screen. Slowly, the whoop-

ing and yelling of his colleagues simmered down and the presentation be-

gan. It was a slideshow set to late 20th century California beach boy guitar

music (Jack Johnson and the like) and the crowd moaned as though on

cue. Very high quality still pictures of random students clinging to each

other and generally caught in surprise progressed and the first few slides
elicited light tittering, graduating to heartier chuckling.

One of the slides was Dalton staring out beyond the camera in his

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quintessential dead man gaze. The picture was outside and taken at an

angle with a glare that reduced the quality. His eye shadow was so heavy

he appeared to have empty eye sockets and he very much looked like

Hollywood’s take on a zombie, which inspired much chortling among

their classmates.

The pictures seemed to get more entertaining as the slideshow went

on. Not all of them were sophomores, but he recognized almost every-

one captured. One was of Serendipity standing very upright and cross-

armed in front of one of the side entrances. A young boy, whose face you

couldn’t see, angled his head up at her in a way that looked pleading, as

though she was silently admonishing him, or otherwise refusing passage.

This made the entire room laugh, but Sherman couldn’t help but to feel

some embarrassment and guilt, as the picture convincingly made it look

like she was an ogre figure exacting a toll or something like that. Few peo-

ple in his class were spared the embarrassment of candid moments on the

screen. The penultimate feature was a photo of the, in Sherman’s opinion,

hilariously photogenic Karl Marx with bushy whiskers, eyebrows and

mustache, dressed in a true flannel suit jacket fumbling with a hot dog

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on a bright white plate right on his crotch, although he was standing and

quickly attempting to balance it, it appeared, frozen in a quick desper-

ate combat stance, at some school function where his soul was suddenly

snatched so that it might be broadcast in front of roaring high-schoolers

where no matter how the professorial-looking Marx was to appear trying

to catch a hot dog falling out of the bun right over what would have to be
his gonad and with wide bent legs not unlike that of someone who had

recently stepped off a horse, it would bring great tears of joy and laugh-

ter to them without fail— that picture froze in view for five solid seconds

before the final feature.

The screen faded to a 50x magnification of a dark young man, none

other than Sherman, leaning over to deliver what was clearly meant to be

a kiss to a dark-auraed girl, indisputably Karen, who had brought up her

hand the instant the photo was taken to block his advance. This moment

of everyday cliché was here immortalized in the school memoriam and

blown up to beyond life-size proportions for the great delight of the audi-
ence who laughed the loudest at that sight. A few seconds later, the sec-

ond part of the photo scene appeared where Sherman was again leaning

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in to kiss the girl but this time she submits and they are clearly lip-locked

and in a state of passion, however brief, to the great consternation of the

auditorium which was promptly immersed in a deafening cacophony of

laughter and jeering.

Everyone gets up and most appear to be giving a standing ovation.

Sherman sinks down in his seat but receives an endless barrage of ruffles

of the hair, shoulder massages, and hard pats on the back. He sees some

people wringing their hands in the air in what looks to him like congrat-

ulatory gestures, and a few others wiping away fake tears. All quite silly,

yet flattering. Although he wasn’t sure what they’d think to learn that he

and Karen didn’t last too long, and that the Kodak moment before them

was rather fleeting in reality.

“God damn the paparazzi, eh babe?” Sherman said right before

looking to the left, anticipating having to shout his comment to a twin a

second time.

The sisters’ seats were empty and he saw Helena sitting with arms
and legs crossed, the knee pointing out and her foot shaking. She wasn’t

looking at him or the screen, nor any particular showboating teen.

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“Hey, where’s um…. where’s uh…”

Helena very slowly turned her head towards him. Her look was

blank, as best as Sherman could describe it. She looked the opposite of

pleased. There was nothing she had for him.

“Where are the girls?”

“You really are an ass.”

“We’ll… be talking later. Count on it. But I should mend this

whole… It really is not what it seems. This isn’t the best place… or you

may not be the best person—”

“She probably went to our spot.” Helena kept looking out between

and beyond people. “I’m not going to tell you what to say or what to do. I

really don’t know what all has been going on with you… three… but yes.

Go talk to Katie… or…” She rested her forehead in one hand and waved

him off with the other. “Just go!” she shouted, still waving him off.

Sherman got out of his seat to leave and was tackled by a student
whom he, in retrospect, did not believe he had ever actually met. Before

hitting the ground, he saw the young man’s backwards red cap that placed

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an MLB logo right above his forehead. He brought him to the floor and

planted a big sloppy wet one on his cheek.

“It was… good cheer.”

Katie said nothing.

“If you regard nothing else—“

“Which is just the kind of regard you show.”

Sherman put his fist to his mouth as he sharply inhaled then ex-

haled. He walked over to the large glass panels and the sun was setting

behind the mountains, making the grass, concrete, and the entire gray

and brown interior appear orange. He leaned against one of these large

clear glass sheets.

“Everyone was laughing because it was totally unexpected. And

downright hilarious. I mean, a guy kissing a girl, I mean a black guy kiss-

ing a white girl and initially rebuffed, only to break the barriers of stigma
so that true primal beauty could finally call you to answer that fire—”

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“She’s my sister!”

“And so all the more to assume you to be an advocate of such

groundbreaking… Or… now wait… First of all, Karen and I never re-

ally… We were like ‘Hey, let’s go out’, but nothing, you know, changed.

Nothing was actually different between us. And that damn kiss was sim-
ply a joke.”

“A joke kiss?”

“First, who’s to know it’s best to scan the immediate premises for

some school memento paparazzo before play acting an intimate mo-

tion in jest? Secondly, when we actually kissed it completely took me off

guard. But again, there was nothing that ever… I don’t know what she

may have told you, but nothing ever continued—”

“Just stop… please.”

Katie was leaning against the lockers in the farthest corner from

Sherman, who was still up against the glass. She leaned back against the
lockers and started bouncing herself off the wall with her hands behind

her. She continued this while talking.

28
 “Here’s the thing. Admit it. You’re really popular. I mean, did you

see how everyone got up and came over to you? The way people worship

you like that and fawn over you is just… it’s disgusting. And you top it all

off by hooking up with my sister and then I have to watch you… I do not

know where you’re coming from, brother.” Katie stopped bouncing. She

stood in silence for about a minute before springing off the wall of lock-
ers. “Peace, yo. Don’t expect me to talk to you.”

“When is a conversation ever expected?”

He heard her clanking around the corner and then saw her through

the glass walking down the gravel path. Her head bent down every so of-

ten as though she were shielding the wind of such a rapid stroll. She was

clearly trying to get somewhere very quickly but dealt with her natural

obstacles with a stoic patience.

While Sherman remained frozen in a kneeling jab punch position,

Katie regained her balance and continued west.

29 © 2014 Spencer Williams IV