The star-shaped papier-mâché sucker would not break. Everyone twats the bride image at the center. "Limbs, go for the limbs," I mutter in best back-of-the-class style.
"Amanda! Get up here," someone calls.
"No. Um. I'm not a joiner. I'm a skulker, a snarker..."
"It won't break."
What am I? Friggin' Barry Bonds? These may be consignment-store heels, but heck, ladies they are my only good pair. I do not plan to snap their spindly stems.
"We're gonna be here all afternoon!"
Enough already. Fine. Gimme the wood.
I haven't held a bat in 15 years. But the outcome's clear before the carry-through. The swing is sweet. Candy sprays over the coffee shop courtyard.
And we can all go home.