You could use a little direction, said Junie to Sam.

They were sitting cross-legged in the wood chips on the playground. Junie was wearing a polka-dotted skirt, and she spread it over her knees, aware that her Hanes-covered little bottom was unprotected from the dirt.

It was something she heard once, from mother.

Sam said nothing. He was dumping wood chips into his lap with his fists, wanting it all. Making a pond and filling it up.

Sure, said Sam, through his spitty little teeth. He pointed to the South.

Don't you see?

He jumped, I jumped. She sto