Flour sack, huh? My school used eggs. I carried my egg around in a fez, to which I’d attached a strap. I think a flour sack would have been more realistic, but the entire school would have ended up powdery white. It was a rowdy place.
The flour sacks are on the front desk when the class sits down.
The assignment is announced, and everyone groans, even though they knew it was coming. The packets are handed out—instructions, information on the paper they’ll have to write, “birth certificates” to fill out, time-tracker forms they can photocopy—and they sigh.
And the pairs are announced.
Kate leans over to murmur in Cassie’s ear, “So is Ms. Jones seriously playing matchmaker here or what?”
The “babies” are handed out, and the first thing everyone hears once they’ve split into their pairs is David Alleyne groaning and saying, “No, we’re not naming him Thomas Junior.”