My Cardboard Balcony

Coffee Basket by Belinda Roddie I prepared a little basket, and it's got a tiny bag of coffee for everyone in my apartment complex. There's dark roast for Bill upstairs, with the stereo blistering his ears, canceling out any corked or uncorked regrets he's had in his life. Hazelnut for Missus Ginger with the pear-shaped nose on the second floor, sorting out her jewelry collection one turquoise at a time. And espresso for the sharpest tongued, fifteen-year-old, sci-fi-obsessed girl I've ever met, whose name seems to change every week to me, with the UFO full blazon on her black shirt where the cartoon cosmos are ironed on just right on the fabric. Joe's not too strong for her, either, because when she invites me into her family's apartment, brews the stuff right in front of me, and drains it from the porcelain mug, her eyes light up into a thousand handfuls of stardust - the kind you can scoop up with a spoon and stir into a cup, hot a...

By the time George had strung all the beads together, the bell had rung and it was time for lunch. However, even as the other students scrambled for their neon backpacks and pulled out shiny plastic lunchboxes filled with chocolate chip cookies, bags of pretzels, and peanut butter sandwiches with white bread, George didn't leave his desk. He tied the necklace up in a neat know, walked up to his teacher's desk, and handed her the jewelry.