From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
I scrubbed the grit of the mill from my stiff wool trousers, feeling the rough fibers chafe my palms as I dug out a nickel. Ma expects me to bring home a loaf for that **$0.05**, but I’m itching to skip the bakery and sneak into the nickelodeon for a glimpse of *The Great Train Robbery*. The waxy smell of these new Crayola sticks in my pocket is simply bully, and I’ve been humming *Ida, Sweet as Apple Cider* all the way down the cobblestones. It’s a capital afternoon to be alive, even if the old folks at the paper stand are fussing about the fate of the Empire.