Huey ran with scissors in his mouth. He was not chosen for dodge ball. There was paste on his breath, urine on his sneaker, dirt inside his ears — he grew potatoes in there. He was that boy. He always came out wrong. On the Monday morning in question he held his head but left his stomach open. They did not kick his stomach. A kick in the ass is funny. Funnier yet: a kick in the balls. Huey was a green boy. They called him a yellow boy. He lay on the ground. His books were the audience. Huey was an orange boy. He ran with scissors in his mouth and paste in his mouth and raspberry scented non-toxic markers in his mouth. Huey smelled like dried sweat. He was orchid, purplish. Monday morning they kicked him through the final spectrum. They were going for the laugh. Huey was a red boy curled on the sidewalk. A dead brown leaf in the October sun.