June dancing as she dresses, shaking her butt, rolling her shoulder. The homeroom teacher says it’s ok, girls should be happy when they look in the mirror.
Jenka arrives. Recently they have cut her hours in half. “Goot Morning,” she says as always, but last night her mother was struck crossing the street. Unlicensed driver, one-year-old in back. When Jenka came a decade ago her husband was promptly shot dead. “People don’t care about people,” she tells them.
June displaying a string of boxes, flags, beach balls. Pretty, drawn to her workbook’s specs. “Sticker worthy?” she asks. “Totally,” McCormick says.
McCormick 100 