One day, after school, Curtis sat on the curb near the corner of John Willcox High, removed from the other children who gathered near the entrance and did whatever sixth graders do. He read over vocabulary words for tomorrow’s quiz and looked up whenever he heard car tires rolling past, growing somewhat madder each time he didn’t see his mother’s blue Chevrolet station wagon.

Obdurate: 1 a: stubbornly persistent in wrongdoing b: hardened in feelings
2: resistant to persuasion or softening influences

He read the definition three times and then went on to the next word, colloquial.

At four-thirty, the other children were gone, and the crossing guard had finished collecting the orange cones put in place during the school hours to slow the drivers, when Curtis finally saw the car.
Long and hulking, almost like an African crocodile, she drove quickly around the driveway. The car lurched forward as she slammed on the breaks, not two feet from Curtis’ outstretched legs. He didn’t recoil, or close his book bag. He didn’t move. He stared at the fresh black top, and an ant crawling across a very steep crevasse (to the ant), Curtis thought. From the car, a female country singer blasted on the radio.

She honked the horn. And waited. She slammed the horn, holding it full blast as if warning oncoming boats in a fog. And waited. Then, she did the unspeakable: she drove away. Curtis watched the tail-lights glowing a malicious grin, as she turned the corner and drove the kilometer drive back to their house.