Fifty-fifty, fifty from him and fifty from me—that’s how love is supposed to be. Fifty apiece, like each of us putting two quarters in a piggy bank and keeping two in our pockets, Washington’s raised faces rubbing, his silver cheeks kissing. But Andre’s love is greedy, trying to take three of my quarters, leaving me with only twenty-five cents. No way. I need my fifty, my magic number: the number of steps I take from my room to the mailbox, where I look for application packets from my dream schools, the number of breaths I count in bed after I talk to God before my nightly walk through my
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