By mar50, Updated
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Chale! She can't help you, ese.
As Frankie pushed me on the ground, I thought about running away, but I knew I wouldn't make it. Frankie liked to bully and everyone was scared of him. He scared most of the school. He always treated us like he wanted. If we did something he would beat us, so I knew to stay on the ground. Finally, he let me up.
As Frankie and I talked, he told me about his fantasy thanksgiving. I knew he wouldn't have yams nor turkey or pies. I knew he would have tortillas and beans, a round steak, maybe, and oranges from his backyard. He went on describing his Thanksgiving. I told him that it sounded swell, even though I knew he was making it all up.
Even though we knew Frankie was mean, we felt bad when a teacher manhandled him. We knew the home he lived in: The empty refrigerator, the father gone, the mother in a sad bathrobe, the beatings, the yearnings for something to love. When a teacher manhandled him, we all wanted to run away, but instead we stared and felt shamed. We know it's not fair.
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