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You pinned the big ring. You dropped the small gear inside. You stuck a pen through a numbered hole and rolled. The pen drew, and you took credit for it.

You drew a horse. You showed your mom. You slid the bar down. The horse went away in one chalky pull, except for the small piece that wouldn't, the piece that was now part of the screen forever.

A piece of bistable spring steel with two dollars of fabric glued to it. We slapped each other with them in the hallway and never thought about it once.

You drew a unicorn the size of a sheet of paper. You put it in the oven. Two minutes later you had a unicorn the size of a quarter, and somehow it was thicker than it had any right to be.

A 25-watt bulb. Eight colors of plastic. A piece of black paper with X's printed on it telling you which color went where. That was the toy.

The shirt was a mood ring with armpits. It told the whole school where you'd been touched and how nervous you were about it.