Moleskin 5.7: River Of Twelve

It was a fresh start, and at the end of my thirteenth year of life, the year stubbornly called “twelve,” it had all the makings of a clean slate. Our neighborhood was more than a suburb now: it was incorporated, a city unto itself; the Tribs and Sun Times I delivered were joined by local Heralds and Advocates, and my old job up and down apartment hallways was now a real route along several streets —I could use my bike now! And every weekday morning, after the papers were delivered, I went to Lincoln Junior High, a big kid school with tall ceilings and separate classrooms for each subject and teachers with personalities —Mr. Bolman, who posted daily trivia quizzes and doled out lemondrop prizes, and Mr. Sigg, who had a wall full of brain teaser puzzles to solve. There was an upstairs woodshop and a basement archery field...