FOUR CHILDREN are huddling in the far corner of the playground. I'm one of them. Today is Wednesday. Like every Wednesday, the upper-graders have Spanish class during recess. Otherwise, they'd be here.

This corner's where they trade Pokémon, where the ivy grows on the rusty dugout and blocks you from the teacher's line of sight. Where the neighbor’s dog is chained nearby, barking and growling. It’s here where Betty Rowwy slipped and bit her lip and Billy Grier was bullied into eating peanut butter. This is the bad corner of the playground, and now's our time.

Brim, Cici, Ainsley, and Jaret. Those are our names. Jaret and Brim are my best friends. You can tell because we share each other’s socks. My pants are ripped. I'm holding my hands behind my back because it is not my turn. The other children are looking at Cici’s Barbie dolls she is holding in her hands.

This is art, she explains even though I'm telling her flat-out she's supposed to bring something cool if you wants to be in Ekridaat. (That's the name of our club, made from our last names). But this is art, Cici insists. I shake my head, and Jaret tells her she's stupid.

Screw Cici. I didn't invite her; wouldn't of—. Brim did—in love with her, he says. Gimme a break. I'll tell you the kinda girl she is. She's exactly the kind who wears only pink and throws tantrums in McDonald's. The kind that thinks she's smarter than me. The kind whose mom my mom thinks has a big butt. She screams and giggles in the same breath, and sometimes brings cupcakes to class. Last year, when I was her Secret Santa, I made her a bug board, a really cool bug board. And you know what she did? Scream. She’s that kinda girl.

This is stupid, Cici says pouting, arms crossed.

Jaret already went. He brought a Swiss Army knife. Said he'd climbed the clothes bars in his parents' closet to get it. The stuff he brings is usually pretty cool. Last week, he brought a pool torpedo. The week before, a raccoon hat. Once, he dressed up like a girl the whole day just to show us he could.

Brim tells us to shut it because it's his turn. He pulls from his backbag a black, rubber, bowl-shaped thing.

What is it? Jaret asks.

Life art, Brim answers. My mom collects it. You have to go into the woods and find things that other humans leave behind. She collects rusty bits of metal and big shards of color glass and other stuff. And then she piles it in the back yard. I found this by a log in a meadow when I was playing Explorer yesterday.

Brim's standing broad-shouldered and proud, but I start laughing because I realize what the thing he's holding is.

That's some old toilet plunger without its handle, I tell him. Jaret's laughing now too, and Cici's pouting even more than before.

It is not, Brim insists, but I can see it on his face he knows I'm right. He's embarrassed.

Cici snaps at me that I would know what it is because my dad's a plumber.

I tell her, shut up you snarky bitch. I'm happy my dad's a plumber.

Brim and Jaret are impressed and shocked that I said 'bitch.' Cici's wide-eyed and jaw-dropped—like it’s the first time she’s ever heard a swear before. (Not surprised). Brim whispers something into her ear to calm her down. Jaret asks me what 'snarky' means, and I tell him I'm not sure exactly. Cici brushes her red hair off her shoulder because she's on her last nerve.

My turn.

I'm showing them the jar I've been holding behind my back. Pinholes are pricked into the lid to let the frog inside breathe.

There's this frog pond at the end of my neighborhood, I explain. Every spring, I go with my parents and scoop up tadpoles for the pond in our garden. Good for the dirt, Dad says. In the summer, at night, they ribbet, and I can hear them from my room. I snook out last night and caught one because I wanted to show you guys something. Look at her. She's huge. See those gross, green lumps on her back? That's why I named her Spot.

Cool, Brim says. And even Cici’s uncrossed her arms, paying attention.

Watch, I instruct.

I'm smashing the jar on the ground as hard as I can. Spot hops, but I'm too fast. I stomp her. I am stomping on her. CRUNCH.

Dead, I exclaim.

Dude, Brim says.

Cici is making awful gasping sounds and spins away because she can’t look, her flower dress snags on the fence. Rip. Now you can see her butt, and Brim is asking me why I'm always doing stupid things even though his eyes are wide, blushing and staring.

Cici’s crying now. Brim puts his arm around his shoulder

Stop being a baby, I sneer.

God, Ainsley, she’s just a girl, Brim says.

I am too, I wanna tell him. It’s no excuse, I wanna say, but I don’t say anything at all, instead just looking at the ground, kicking my shoe in the dirt. They start walking towards the teacher on duty, Mrs. Brompins.

Brim turns back to yell that I'm gonna get in trouble.

I know that, I say, but he isn't listening. Sorry, I say louder. He hears me this time and gives me a wave to let me know he'll forgive me. But I don't even really mean my apology. Not really.

The bell ending recess is ringing, and I feel sad. These are our last few moments of Wednesday, and at some level I probably understand that things won't be the same next week.

Jaret’s been quiet, just staring at the pile of mushy frog in the dirt in the bad corner of the playground.

What do you think happens after we die, he whispers.

It's a secret, I whisper back.