Tradesies

But such tricks are inconsequential alongside the boundless and varied delights of the lunch hour. These range from the simple fun of “doing tradesies” (you give me your brown paper bag lunch, I’ll give you mine, we’ll both be surprised), to the more grownup game of business lunch dates with men which, Mrs. Brown crows, are “sex at high noon!”

Then quickly, not giving him a chance to answer, she leavened it, using the language of long-past childhood games. “You mean for keeps. No backsies. No tradesies. No do-overs.”

At first, I tried to trade for someone more normal, but Mr. Martins said, “No tradesies! In real life, you’ve got to work with who you’re stuck with. So suck it up and get to work!”

“Tradesies?” Macy smiled and held up her small bottle of strawberry milk, pointing it at EJ’s juice box. “Yeah, totally!” EJ smiled, and the girls swapped drinks.

I held up my basket to Freddie. “I’ll trade you this for your ax?” “No tradesies,” he said.

“Will you please rub my shoulders? My neck is killing me from carrying around that stupid bag. I'll rub yours, too, if you want.” Emerson smiled. “Of course. And yes, tradesies.”

“So, like I said, you’re Oak Camp, Cabin Group A. No tradesies, no takesy-backsies, no transfers. Learn it, love it, get used to it!”

I was going to beg them to stay where they were, ’cause we didn't have time for tradesies, but in one fluid routine, Risk tossed the paddle in the air and rolled to the center of the raft, while Reign took a long stride and caught the paddle before it could land in the lake. The whole exchange happened in a heartbeat.