Chalk the Rabbit

** Chalk the Rabbit **

Cynthia brings her hands to her face like a boxer–fists clenched, elbows tight to her sides–and plunges headlong into the thick hedgerow bordering Mr. Truman’s front yard. She stumbles to the ground on the other side, bright green smudges blossoming on the knees of her white-stockings.

On the sidewalk, the boys streak by, sneakers flat-slapping the concrete, a driving back-beat to their chorus of excited shouts. She catches glimpses of them strobing through the hedgerow; a streak of blue denim, a blur of red shirt, a smear of white sock. Then they are gone and the cacophony of color and sound and motion dissipates behind them like a wake.

Cynthia stands and brushes herself off, the fat piece of pink chalk still clenched in her right fist. She imagines her mother scolding her about her stockings then freezes when she hears Mr. Truman’s Doberman growling beside her.

Chalk the Rabbit

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