Any way, the teacher let the kids take home some tissue paper and people cut outs so that could continue their crafts at home. They were supposed to use the tissue paper to make grass skirts and glue them on the people cut outs.
Instead, this morning, Owen comes proudly into my room, carrying two sticks with some red tissue paper taped to one end.
"Wook!" he says, brandishing a stick, "torches!"
"Oh, great!" I say. "Very cool, Owen."
"I used my two favorite sticks," he says, nodding meaningfully at me.
"You have . . . favorite sticks?" I am aware that Owen enjoys sticks, but I was not aware that he had, like, permanent sticks. Like, sticks that he has relationships with.
"He keeps them in a secret place," Sam says, not even looking up from his book.
I'm conflicted. Do I want to know where the secret stick stash is? How many sticks are there? Is it a land of sticks, with stick rules and stick hierarchies, all bowing to the benevolent Lord Owen? Where sticks vie in contests of skill and bravery to be his favorite?
"I wike dem because they wook wike shooting rifles."