We were eight. "Jawdroppers," a

  three year older boy called us.  "Anything amazes them."  But even the grownups were in awe of having survived the year, and, of the shirt. 

  An old denim shirt.  Found at a tag sale.  It had had a history.  People would talk about it whenever somebody wore it.  "Uncle Joe used to wear that on the tractor." To, "You know, I was wearing that shirt the night your father proposed." Since there was a lot of misery going around, the shirt kind of took on a reputation for being (i)lucky(i).  Though it wasn't a shield. 

  "Bad things can happen to anybody in any shirt," one of the older girlfriends told a slightly younger girl convinced the shirt (i)did it(i).  "And anyway, missy, it wasn't the shirt that got you preggers." 

  "Just use this one!" A boy who'd invested several months of allowance into a floundering tee-shirt shop whipped the shirt out of the closet and hucked it at a woman who worked there. 

  "For what?" Asked a little sister of the woman. 

  "We are (i)considering(i) the purchase of an embroidery machine." 

  That shirt disappeared for quite some time.