In fifth grade, the dancer was the playground princess. Boys gathered in the grass to watch her swing, while girls scowled from lunch tables. The higher she pumped, the more she wondered if she could swing over the bar. The boys said no one could do it. The dancer decided it best not to try, besides, she knew what they were waiting for.
She released her grip of the chains and stretched her hands to heaven. Her favorite moment was right before the fall; suspended in space like an angel. But like always, gravity gripped her ankles and hauled her down for the finale. The boy’s eyes swelled as her ivory dress billowed up; but she quickly pushed it down, giving them only a peak of cotton-white panties.
Like a falling star she tumbled to earth and screamed as something snapped in her knee. The boys thought it was part of the show. They whistled and cheered as she cradled her limp leg, her face buried in the grass.
Honest Buzzard 