Michael Malone - Weebly

aised tan knees.
"Oh, excuse me, gosh, excuse me," blurted Polly.
They could come up with no reply before the bulb
flicked off—her finger had never left the switch.
Darkness handed the lovers back their privacy as
swiftly as light had snatched it away. And Polly's
sneakers snuck quickly down the steps into the main
reading room and out the varnished oak doors and into
a fat red sun that slid out of the sky behind Mr.
Barnum's store.
Now she had seen It. Sex. So that was It. It was
ridiculous. And the thing, Mr. Blossom's, a twitching
red knob sticking out of the wet, curly hair around it.
For a fraction of a second before he sank down on
Kate Ransom, she had definitely seen that too. It was
really big. Was Joy destined to let Lance Abernathy
push his into her?
Polly ran back onto the green. She had left her bike
there, leaning against the ancient copper beech known
as Dingley Tree, when she had gone to sit beneath the
Dingley statue to try to read Anna Karenina but had
then gone to the library to try to read another book