Yuna At The Beach (Pages 21-23)

Page 21:
Mitch and Bill are their names. I know because their matching blue shirts say so. With matching mustaches, they take turns, talking to the women on the motorcycles. Yes ma’am. You can count on us. This is our station. We own this place. Yes ma’am. Best in the business. You can count on us. Yes ma’am. They are in good hands. I look at Mitch and Bill’s hands. YUCK.

Page 22:
Umma and Abba sit in the front of the truck with Mr. Mitch, who likes to talk, smile, blink, and move his hands like a magician. I sit in the back in the hole of our tire, patched up and as good as new. I am no caged chicken. I am Yuna. I ride on the back of a blackbird, swooping over the ocean.

Page 23:
Abba pays Mr. Mitch, shakes his hand and says, Thank you very much for fixing. No problem, Mr. Mitch says and pats my head. He pulls a stick of gum out of his shirt pocket and gives it to me. For good luck, he says. Thanks, I say and climb into the backseat of our car. It’s hot. The seats burn. My crayons are soft. Another minute, and they would’ve melted into goop.

Published in: on May 15, 2012 at 11:58 am  Comments (4)  

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4 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. I am still trying to fathom the scent of cigarettes, puppies and grass.

    • Next time you’re lounging on the grass with a puppy on your chest and a cigarette between your lips, take a deep deep breath. You’ll smell it.

      • That’s the funniest thing you ever written.

  2. Hi Patti. I hope you see this. I’m an English teacher, and I’m teaching A Cab Called Reliable this fall in a course for juniors and seniors called Coming to America. I’d love to correspond with you about it. (Sorry to contact you this way — I couldn’t think of another way.)

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