““What’s the damage come to?” Isabelle asked him. “Plenty,” the man said. “You responsible for this here?” and he jerked his thumb upward. Isabelle pretended she hadn’t heard and charged noisily up the stairs. “USE YOUR IMAGINATION,” she wrote on her blackboard. That’s what Mrs. Esposito was always telling the class. “Your imagination’s like a muscle,” Mrs. Esposito had said. “The more it’s used, the better it works. Use it every day. Keep it well oiled, like your bicycle or your lawn mower.” Is...abelle rather liked that. She imagined herself pushing her imagination around the yard or down the street. Or up the steepest hill. Mary Eliza’s hand shot up. “Yes, Mary Eliza. What is it?” Mary Eliza hoisted her rear end up from her seat and said, as if it were a whole new idea and totally hers, “Your imagination’s like a muscle in your head.” “Yeah, and just as hard,” said Chauncey from behind his grimy hand. Chauncey was definitely feeling his oats these days, Isabelle thought as the class tittered.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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