The official notice arrived laminated, zip-tied to a tree:  
**“Sticky Hands Now Prohibited Under the Non-Contact Engagement Mandate”**  
**“Breach of this rule constitutes simulated striking behavior under Clause 4, Subsection (Flail).”**

It flapped gently in the wind, like it was trying to slap someone back.

Sticky hands had always been a chaotic favorite — those stretchy, gummy flaps you fling at walls, windows, siblings. They came in a rainbow of colors and a thin plastic wrapper that smelled like defeat. You’d launch one at a surface, and it would make contact with a damp, gelatinous *fwop*. Sometimes it stuck. Sometimes it rebounded directly into someone’s eye.

Temu sold them in packs of 36. Ours arrived with a note that said *“Do Not Launch Toward Sky Ceiling.”*

Judy handed them out during indoor recess.  
She called it **Slap Club**.

Carol, of course, discovered it within a day.  
Not from seeing the toys — but from hearing them.  
Specifically, from hearing **one of them slap the back of Blaine’s head during a walking tour of the gymnasium air duct project.**

That single slap ignited the next wave of panic.

Carol called a meeting of the **SPAL Community Contact Task Force**.  
She brought charts, complaints, a vial of suspicious wall residue, and a list of alternative behaviors (“gesture-based joy,” “eye twinkles,” “intentional posture mirroring”).

She explained that sticky hands “promote reflex aggression” and could “reignite the culture of poppers, flickers, and bounce enthusiasts.”  
Then she dropped the laminated bomb:

**The Non-Contact Engagement Mandate.**  
No more slapping.  
No more flinging.  
No more goo-based high-fives.

Blaine handed out flyers:  
**“Let’s Keep Our Hands Where Our Hearts Are — Sticker-Based Encouragement Starts Now.”**

The flyer included a sheet of **SPAL-Approved Ground First decals** shaped like polite thumbs.

That evening, Judy went quiet.  
She took the remaining sticky hands and lined them up like sleeping worms.  
Then she whispered, “They made a splat gallery.”

I asked what she meant.  
She just smiled and said, “You’ll see.”

At school, the slap ban hit hard.  
Every backpack was searched.  
Every sound that resembled a *fwip* was investigated.  
Carol installed a “Compliance Listening Cone” in the hallway — a repurposed dog cone with a stethoscope glued to the side.

But Judy and her friends didn’t stop.  
They went underground.  
Literally.

Behind the library, beneath a loose floor tile in the lost-and-found corner, they created **The Underdesk Gallery** — a sprawling slap-art installation.

Each sticky hand was dipped in colored chalk dust.  
Then flung onto construction paper mounted on foam trays.

The result:  
A chaotic, bright, ghostly smear — an explosion of flop-expressionism.  
They called it **Slapstract Realism.**

Judy signed her pieces *“J.”*  
Felix used *“Flaplex.”*

And next to the entrance, hidden under a coat, was a visitor’s log.  
I saw it later.  
Page one said:  
**“Joy, unauthorized.”**

I only learned about it because of the token.

That night, at home, Judy pulled something from her coat pocket.  
It was a sticky hand. Purple. Slightly dried.  
But this one felt heavy.

She turned it over.  
Lodged inside the palm was something shiny.

A **token.**  
The fifth.

But this one was different.  
It was *reflective.*

She held it up.  
It showed her face.  
Then **my face.**  
Then **its own face.**

Except tokens don’t have faces.

This one did.  
Briefly.  
It was **mine.**

Then it went blank again.  
Judy placed it on the counter.  
Captain Whiskers hissed.  
Marbles leapt onto the sink and didn’t blink for ten minutes.

Later, I heard a sound from the drawer.  
Not a chirp.  
Not a ping.

A *slap.*  
Soft.  
Purposeful.

I opened the drawer.  
The token was gone.

In its place:  
A folded piece of paper.  
Inside: a print — perfectly formed — of a sticky hand.

And on it, written in rainbow gel pen:  
**"COPY COMPLETE."**

The next morning, Carol gave an interview in front of the Appropriatorium™ scaffolding.  
The press (mostly Blaine and a confused Girl Guide) asked about the sticker campaign.

“We’re not anti-play,” she said. “We’re pro-control.”

Then she smiled and said, “Also, the Premier called.”

That same day, Doug Ford held a press conference.

“We’ve seen growing interest in community regulation,” he announced. “So we’re piloting a new position: the **Commissioner of Public Appropriateness.**”

There’d be a **special election.**  
Anyone with a demonstrated record of civic tidiness and consumer foresight could run.

Carol’s teeth gleamed.  
Blaine began designing campaign materials.  
SPAL laminated the announcement.

And Judy, sitting under the school stairs with Felix and Flaplex, wrote a new sign:

**“This gallery slaps.”**

0305 Stick to the Rules