As soon as I hear the familiar music, I run through the house looking for spare change. Once my findings total eighty-five cents, I run barefoot onto the hot blacktop to the white truck. There is a line of children in front of me. This year's Mr. Ding-A-Ling looks like a hippie. I scan the pictures of ice cream on the side of the truck, but take only a second to order a Firecracker. It is cold, and the cold is welcome on such a hot day. I sit on the curb to enjoy my purchase and watch the kids return to their game of ball. I remember when I was that young. My neighbor and I would take out the Willy Waterbug and run through it in our clothes.

There is an ant pile next to me and I flatten it, but then I feel bad, so I clear away a hole for the ants to escape. The kids are still laughing and playing and I wonder how it must feel not to worry about grades and popularity and looks. The popsicle is not that good and the red juice runs down my leg and leaves a trail that looks like blood. I don't really know why I bought it, I hate Firecrackers. The ball rolls over to me and I throw it back and realize why I buy the ice cream. It is to become that kid again, even if it is just until the popsicle runs out. I can buy another tomorrow and return, but now it is time to go back. I take the last bite of my Firecracker, throw the stick in the sewer and go.c