One by one, young articles of clothing grabbed hold of the Clothesline strung across the playground. “Hang on,” the Line said, and after the last of the children secured themselves to it, the Line whipped itself up and down, flinging them one and all to the ground in a giggling pile of soiled garments. Springing up, they cried: “Again, again!” and the Line did again take all that could fit and jettisoned them to their intoxicating and dusty end.

Little Briefs watched the children play from the side of the playlot. He asked Mr. Flannel if he could go inside to be alone, but Mr. Flannel said no, so Little Briefs found a stick and began digging a hole in the ground. In his excavating, he uncovered a rock, and with his stick scraped away the rubble and tiny stones and compacted dirt concealing the whole of its form.

“What are you digging up?”

Little Briefs looked up. T-Shirt looked down, his forest green hue a darkened silhouette shadowing out the high white sun behind him.

“Nothing,” said Little Briefs. “It’s just a rock.”

“Looks like a Gneiss one,” said T-Shirt. “Gneiss is a kind of rock. It’s spelled G-N-E—”

“How do you know that?”

“I have a rock collection. So does my mom. Actually, she collects crystals. She says they’re good for aligning and cleansing our fibers. I think it’s because she’s a tie-dye shirt now. She used to be beige.”

Little Briefs looked up at him. He asked: “What’s all that white stuff on you?”

“Oh, this?” T-Shirt brushed the white flecks off his frontside. “It’s from my mom’s homemade detergent. It leaves these little white specks on you, but she says it’s kinder to your threads. I think she uses the crystals to get it off, but it doesn’t usually work. Can I help you dig?”

Little Briefs nodded and T-Shirt crouched beside him and took a stick from the ground. He helped brush away the dirt from the rock, which, in this light, did look Gneiss.

“Home come you always have those lines across you?” Little Briefs looked at the crease mark across T-Shirt’s belly. “Don’t you know the other kids at this school roll themselves for bed?”

T-Shirt looked down at and smoothed his crease. “At my old school the other clothes rolled themselves too, but I like to fold myself. It helps my drawer feel calmer. Like I can fall asleep when I close my eyes and I’ll like my dreams.” Little Briefs examined the crease again. It seemed less pronounced than he remembered from class.

“My brother Boxer Shorts doesn’t roll himself either,” said Little Briefs. He pretty much sleeps stuck in a pair of pants inside out every night. But he’s in 7T.”

The boys looked at each other and Little Briefs poked at the rock. But before they could dig again, a menacing voice interrupted them.

“Look who it is,” said Polo Shirt, “Foldy and his best friend Tighty Whities. What are you two Tweeds up to?”

After recognizing Polo Shirt and his henchman, Khakis, Little Briefs kept his eyes glued to the ground. He glanced over at T-Shirt, who, to his surprise, appeared unfazed and looked up at the two 9Ts.

“Not much to say, huh? Well, nice crease marks,” said Polo Shirt. “What’s it like to be such a fold?” Khakis snickered and giggled behind his leader. “Yeah… heh-heh-heh... Foldy.”

T-Shirt stood his ground. “I like to fold myself because it feels good,” he said. “Maybe if you felt good you wouldn’t be such a jerk.”

Astonished, Little Briefs and Khakis looked to Polo Shirt. “What did you say?” he said.

Polo Shirt edged toward T-Shirt. Little Briefs froze on the ground. From behind his back, Polo Shirt pulled out a handful of wooden clothespins. “Maybe if you try hanging yourself,” he said, “you wouldn’t look like such a paper airplane, Foldy.” He pinched one of the clothespins to T-Shirt’s shoulder.

“Ouch!”

Little Briefs flinched at T-Shirt’s cry of pain. Polo Shirt laughed. He stuck another clothespin to T-Shirt, this one at the edge of his sleeve.

“So what if T-Shirt likes to fold himself?” said Little Briefs. The sound of his own voice surprised him. “What’s the big deal?” 

Polo Shirt kept his eyes on T-Shirt, advancing toward him like a shark drifting toward its prey as he spoke.

“What’s the big deal?” Polo Shirt said. “Didn’t your Mama ever tell you if you hold a crease too long you’ll look like that forever? I’m just trying to help.” He stuck another clothespin to T-Shirt. T-shirt began crying.

“Stop it!” said Little Briefs.

Some of their classmates gathered around after hearing Little Briefs’ yell. The attention made Khakis nervous. “Hey, yeah, let’s just leave him alone, Polo Shirt,” he said.

“Zip it, pants,” retorted Polo Shirt. He kept his eyes on T-Shirt, the clothespins hanging from his arms and chest. More children gathered around. Jock-strap, Cowgirl Boot, even Cargo Shorts stopped stuffing his pockets and huddled near the others.

Another clothespin to T-Shirt. His eyes pleading for it to stop. And then another, its pinching jaws reaching for the crease across his belly.

Little Briefs watched in horror. No backpack straps to pull in tight, no best friend to help him through the days, no orange paint as the second hand tocked and another clothespin snapped and T-Shirt crying as everyone stood around and watched.

“Stop it!” said Little Briefs. He shoved Polo Shirt into the dirt and jumped on him. Thrashing his arms and striking down on Polo Shirt, he cried. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

The outburst caught the attention of Mr. Flannel.

“Little Briefs! Polo Shirt!”

Khakis ran to hide on the playground, T-Shirt pulled a trembling clothespin from his arm, and the children stared as Little Briefs was forced to apologize with tears streaming down his face.

---