Jeff Strand

“But I wanted to thank you anyway,” I said. “I owe you a Twinkie or something.”

“Fine. I’d love a Twinkie. Hand it over.”

“I don’t have one with me. But we’ve got a box of them at home. I thought maybe you might want to come over.”

“I can’t ride your bus without a permission slip.”

“We could walk.”

“How far?’

“It’s too far to walk. I don’t know why I said that.”

Todd stared at me like I was a complete idiot. He was right to do so

We talked about girls a lot, and Todd went on an actual date that led to a brief timeframe where he wasn’t sure if he had an actual girlfriend or not. (When he finally asked, she informed him that, no, he did not.)

The car screeched to a halt.

I knew the driver.

Not his name, but I’d seen him outside a couple of times, doing yard work. He lived in Todd’s subdivision, maybe seven or eight blocks away from him. He was pretty old, somewhere between my dad and my grandfather’s age, and he had a thick head of gray hair. He had a hard, unfriendly appearance, making me feel like I was trespassing when I walked past his house even though I was on the sidewalk.

The man quickly looked away, probably forever traumatized by the sight of the terrifying mouse mask.

The car sped off