My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie As far as first dates went, it was all right, up until the point where she pulled out her gun and began robbing the restaurant patrons. While she made off with approximately twelve wallets, I was busy cramming the last of my gourmet pizza into my mouth, pulling on my jacket, and ripping my way through the shrieking mob out into the cold night air. She caught up with me quickly, out of breath and shoving the burlap sack of goods into my arms. Naturally, I dropped the swollen bag. "Um. Nope," I mumbled. My teeth were still clogged with chunks of pepperoni and green peppers. "Not me. I'm not the right person." "C'mon," she begged. "I'll split the amount." When we got back to her apartment, the amount of money was meager: A good sixty bucks or so, some of it in gold dollars, from a dozen wallets. "Don't people fucking carry cash anymore?" she grumbled as she sorted through the sad pile of green and

"I pledge allegiance to nobody," the seventh grader snarled. So of course, she was sent to the principal's office. I sat behind my desk as usual, trying to ignore the phone calls and remembering that this was my last year being the school secretary. Seeing this particular student waiting to be reprimanded by the administration alarmed. She was a good kid. Everyone called her "Rocket," because her ideas just shot off into space in all their glory. And now she was being punished for speaking her mind.