What are little girls in wrinkly uniforms, dusty mary jane shoes, and overflowing backpacks good at? Teasing boys, perhaps. Or finding meaning in a cup of homemade ice cream. I don’t really know. When I was still a grade schooler, I had no use for the company of boys and I avoided refreshments sold by vendors outside our school because my parents thought that they were a threat to national security. I was busy playing Jack’s Stones.

Jack’s Stones is a game that involves a rubber ball (called Jack) and six “stone” pieces. We used to play this on the uneven concrete floors of our classrooms. At the end of each game, we’d have caked dust on our palms and our skirts would be wrinkly beyond belief.

A few weeks ago, I bought two packs of Jack’s Stones from Metro Ayala. I don’t know why I need two packs but the delicious colors were calling out to me.

Fifteen years have passed since the last time I played this game. The rubber balls have become smaller; I have forgotten the names and order of the feats involved.

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