Free Welcome to Braggsville by T. Geronimo Johnson

which was unavoidable when reaching for the tap. Mrs. Price, smells so nice, Mrs. Price, let me taste your spice, Mrs. Price, let me juggle your dice—always snake eyes, must have come to Daron’s mind because he stood between Candice and Charlie, and the hand Candice’s held—and that hand only—was clammy, that entire arm warm and tingling as if it had fallen asleep and been violently awoken.
    Like criminals, kids attract each other, and soon eight children sat in a row before them, clapping at the end of Candice’s every sentence. Fortunately, their parents appreciated the break and relaxed on nearby benches—close enough to watch their children, but not close enough to get a good look at our 4 Little Indians. One of the kids stared like Daron was somebody important, and he had to admit the kid was cute. From a passing first aid attendant—Whassup? From a short black kid pushing a broom—a nod. From a cute brunette driving the handicapped golf cart—a wave. From the fountain—Dribble dribble. Briefly, it all felt very natural. Then came Tweety Bird, whom Daron had never seen up close. Then came a Latina who stopped at the insistence of her two blond charges, twin boys about waist-years-old. The crowd had grown. The kids hummed along as best they could, harmonic as a holiday hymnody. Candice chanted:

    You are the sparrow’s song, the crow’s caw
    The rose’s fragrance, the spring thaw
    In our hearts you live forever,
    Children will celebrate your brave endeavors
    And we’ll take strength from your resolve
    Until we meet again in heaven above

    Charlie squeezed Daron’s hand, motioning at the nearby twin boys. One twin did cartwheels while the other coyly reached for a paper feather. Candice hissed him away. The Latina in charge of the twins made an apologetic face, more so, it seemed, for her powerlessness than for the twins’ behavior.
    But Tweety deserved the attention, now only yards to their left, her fluffy finger dragging through the air like that of a director shadowed in the stage wings, resigned to her cast’s tendency toward insurgency. But this Tweety, as Louis pointed out in an inching whisper, has a clitoris-colored tongue—a hot one—a clitoris-colored tongue with a soft groove as inviting as a warm hot dog bun. Behold the blessed velvety furrow! And this Tweety, much to Daron’s surprise, is too pink in the beak, too pink for him to be at the same time holding Candice’s hand, too pink for him to be at the same time having random memories of Mrs. Price, such as a vivid image of the scrumptious freckle centered in the cleft of her chin, peeking down the split in her bib, pink enough to threaten a hot and perhaps soon not-so-private bristling, and about this he feels that confusion, that particular confusion he felt after the first time he knew himself in the biblical sense and lay there for some long, huffing minutes, afraid to look down because he thought he’d peed in his hand. It was a particular confusion that provided the only reliable refuge against shame.
    Again, Candice hissed away the twins, but these two Willy Wonka rejects were professionals and used their similarity to great advantage. One would dance, try walking on his hands, mime—anything to distract, while the other wreaked havoc, stealing other kids’ toys, poking children, both of them acting all around like midget assholes. Louis tried motioning to the nanny, and Candice shushed him. But I didn’t say anything. Shushed again. One twin danced wild in a scuba mask while the other snuck behind them again and grabbed the paper tomahawk, upsetting Ishi.
    Was Daron the only one to notice that Tweety Bird’s eyelasheswere too, too long, fine strokes tapering gently up and across the forehead, framing blue eyes almost as big as Candice’s? And again, that particular confusion; he couldn’t bear to look down, the hot bristling now a