"Whaddya do that for?" Trading punches. 

     "It's hard to describe," the woman stared at the blank piece of paper.

     "Not today," the man said about (i)turning this around(i). 

     (i)Like a frog(i), one said on "the downlow" (until we couldn't say that word anymore because somebody explained what it meant).  "Launched."  

     All of us were tangled hair and muddy, scratched and bruising, licking wounds without talking to each other when (i)a real mama(i) who'd volunteered "to help" through "the church" arrived.  She tried to get back in the truck depositing her when she realized (i)teenage girls(i).  But curly blonde had spit on one hand and smacked it into her other hand and rubbed her hands together and cussed and told her man, "I gotta new best friend." He looked at her like he was pregnant and standing on the scaffolding of a high rise and jammed his foot on the gas.  The wheels spun and spun for a full half a minute and the gravel and sand and dirt flew.  Covered the mama who was going to go back to town.  

     She stood there after the truck bounced on down the road and curly blonde was still yelling whatever she could think of.  "I ain't a fiddle," she said low and hard at the mama.  Then stomped back to a tent.

     The mama didn't really march right into situation.  She brushed herself off.  Patted her old jean jacket which seemed to have a cloud of settled dust on it.  Dug out a piece of gum from the front pocket, mumbled, that's where I left that, and picked up the grocery bag like it was an old-timey suitcase.  She looked both ways, realized she was kind of in the middle of the road, and hurried to get out of it.  

     The man and woman at the picnic table were a mix of laughter and stifling.  A fish caught before anybody our age was up was rolled out of a newspaper and they ripped off wet pages to get to dry ones.  They put the clump of soaked wet binder pages into the newspaper.  

     The mama looked around at the bottim of the camp stairs.  She daintily put the grocery bag on the picnic table.  "What's in there?" The man had a gravely voice.  The woman offered her the pen.  "What just happened here?"  

     "I need to know who's fightin' who?" 

     "So you can screw us?" 

     "So I can duck when it gets going again." 

     "I'm supposed to be writing what it was like to be their age and at war," the woman let the pen stay in the air.  The mama crossed her arms.