44 Blacktop by Alayna Drollinger In winter, we throw stones. From the gravel field, where the edge of the blacktop disintegrates into grey. Black stones with crumbling edges, taking two hands to hold. We cast them up, arms stretched down, shoot skyward, cold fingers casting blacktop shards like prayers into heaven. We watch to see them fall, plummet, uncaught, and dodge to prove our worth before the God of gravity. Dylan walks on forbidden ground, frost-sewn mulch sinking beneath his feet. He hangs on icy bars, arms stretched above his head, face twisted. At the edge Teacher calls, hands on hips. We watch from the door. Thank God we aren’t like him. We lick salt stones in winter. The brave ones tuck the black-grained salt in their cheeks and grin. I touch the stone against my lips and stick out my tongue, tasting tantalizing wickedness. We grin and glance to see we are unwatched. Dylan screams in the stairwell. He is good at getting what he wants. Come springtime, he will be expelled. We know this and feel righteous in our distance. We are not like him, God. In spring, the killdeer lays her eggs. They are grey, speckled white, little round stones in the gravel field. The mother screams at us when we draw near, legs braced on rock, feathers rising on her black-ringed neck. We laugh and keep our distance. Dylan stands outside the glass. Two doors, fogged. His silhouette a smear. He is sitting on the curb, refusing to come in. He will not come back. We are not jealous. Thank you, God, for not making us like Dylan. I look at the shards of the killdeer eggs, golden hearts spilled like cups in stone. We broke the eggs, one of us or all of us. We who throw stones and lick salt and pray, “Thank you, God, for not making us like Dylan.”
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