Brad-ley. Even his name was foxy. It rolled off the tongue like a bong hit of Thai Stick, curling with sweet resin that fills your mouth as you exhale. And ever since the party, it rocked, rolled, spun and trundled off my tongue. When no one was around, I whispered his name again and again. And when I was in social studies, I wrote Joy Chapel + Bradley Knox = love, instead of the notes Mr. Gonzales told us to copy.
Brad-leyJoy Chapel + Bradley Knox = loveThe way Mr. Gonzalez fretted about communism, you’d think he was McCarthy in the 1950s. With a waggle of his fat finger, he’d warn us how the commies were winning the Cold War. “Boys and girls, we better do something soon. Those commie pinkos are trying to take over the world! They have a huge arsenal, with enough nuclear bombs to blow us
