On the other side of me was a line of pale Puerto Rican boys wearing identical white T-shirts, dark workman trousers, and black hair greased into ducktails. They were small and compact and gave the impression of stillness, and as I stared at their uniformity my heart quickened to realize they were girls. Eyes on the floor, shoulders hunched, they filed past, except for one, who pushed her hands into her pockets and gave me a look I had no way of categorizing, other than to know it made me jumpy and breathless.

From The Queens of Montague Street by Nancy Rommelmann.

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