1. Chapter 1 by Writing Dot Com Compilations
2. Chapter 2 by Writing Dot Com Compilations
3. Chapter 3 by Writing Dot Com Compilations
4. Chapter 4 by Writing Dot Com Compilations
5. Chapter 5 by Writing Dot Com Compilations
The Shrunken Student 2
By
Various Authors
You are Mark, an average 16 year old boy now. You were born at a height of 2 inches. Before you were welcomed into the world, your father died in a plane crash. You now live with your mother, Marie, and your 15 year old sister, Julie, in a beautiful 2 story house. You wake up one morning in a dollhouse that your mom gave you on your 10th birthday. You step out on the hard floor to hear a loud thundering noise. It's your mom coming to wake you up. She can see you and hear you, but to be safe, you better find higher ground.
You run out into the hall and immediately collide into a shiny black medium heel pump. It belongs to your mother, Marie. She looks down and smiles at you. Her voice booms at you, "Good morning, Sweetie." You shout back at her, "Hi mom!! Today is my first day of High School!!" Your mom hears you and places her hand near you. You climb onto it and snuggle in her right hand. She kisses you, covering you with lipstick, then carries you into your room, where she immediately dresses you for school. "Mom I can do it myself," you tell her, but she just smiles and lifts you up to her face again. She then brings you into the kitchen and makes breakfast, while you wait on the kitchen table.
Julie comes into the kitchen wearing a light blue blouse, a medium gray skirt, and black high heel sandles. Your mother tells her to change immediately, but Julie says the homecoming queen tryouts, especially pictures, are today. Your mom just shakes her head and places two plates on the table. Julie has to share her breakfast with you. "Hey little brother, I am going to keep an eye on you as best as I can," says your sister. You replie by nodding your head and finish eating. You, your mom, and Julie get in the car, and head for school. On the way, Julie sees you walking toward her left sandle. She smiles and unbuckles the ankle strap and slides it around you like a seatbelt. You are trapped on your sister's shoe, and your mom doesn't even see you on the floor.
You try to stay comfortable inside your sister's shoe. For a moment it actually works...but then your mom turns on the radio. It's Julie's favorite song, "Drive" from Incubus! She begins to drum the beat on the floor, oblivious to your inaudible screams. You're thrown around everywhere, side to side! The only thing that's keeping you onto Julie's foot is the strap. You don't know if you should be thankful or furious at that strap, because by the time you reach the school you're covered in dirt all over, and you're panting as if you were in military school for two hours.
How am I going to make friends like THIS? you think miserably to yourself.
You scream and struggle to get out of your sister's shoe, but all she does is keep on walking. Then she sees a girl standing in front of her, with black hair with scarlet red highlights, and steely blue eyes.
"Hi," says the girl carelessly. "My name's Christina, though you can just call me Chrissy."
She giggles shrilly. You raise an eyebrow. Prissy Chrissy, you think wryly to yourself.
"Hi," says your sister. "I'm Julie, though you can just call me Julie."
The girl giggles more shrilly than before. "Oh, that's funny! What's your first period?"
"World Geography I," she replies. You thrash wildly at Julie's foot. She kicks out her foot, as though a mosquito was on her, and then begins to drum the beat to "Drive" again. You scream...
"JUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"EWWW!You have a roach on your sandal! . . .Those are nice shoes!" Julie looked down at me,"Oh no that's my brother." Chrissy bent down to look at me and stood back up and whispered," He's kinda cute. Why is he so small?"
"Born that way." Julie bent down and unstrapped me, she got a few whistles. I thought of biting Julie but I wasn't sure wether or not to do it. She might drop me
I bit Julie lightly. It was half an angry bite and half a love bite. Although I didn't like it when Julie had me under her strap I forgave her. Julie took me to my first class. It was Ms.Greenburgs advisment and I also had her next peiord for science. She was a kind woman with shoulder length auburn hair and mischevious green eyes. She was deeply tanned to perfection. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and soon I had great respect for her. I knew I couldn't date her because she was my teacher and because she was too old for me, besides, I thought the girl who was my lab partner was cute.
Ms.Greenburg seemed to favor me either because of my height or because of my personality. I couldn't figure out which but I didn't really care either way.
After class Ms.Greenburg told me to meet her after school because she wanted to run over some things with me about my predicuments.
Your next class is History, but it's on the second floor. You look around for a student heading there and spot Tina, the smart girl. You run to her sneaker and hop on as she picks up her bookbag and exits the class. On her way to History class, she is talking to her friend, Mary, about the upcoming Quiz Bowl at the Grand Arena in Los Angeles, California. You don't want to hear this, but you have no choice. Finally Tina enters the classroom.
You hop off of Tina's sneaker and decides to scope out the classroom when suddenly you bump into a giant column. It is a high heel shoe and it belongs to..
"Oh!" you hear from the person above you. You
look up and see peering down at you, with hands on
her hips, a twenty-something blonde woman. "Well,
who have we here?" she asks, bending down for a
better look. "Now, don't tell me, I bet it's ...
Mark! Did I guess right?" You nod sheepishly.
"Well, it wasn't too hard," she says, "considering
I only know of only one student coming into my
class who fits your description, and his name is
supposed to be Mark." You feel you face begin to
flush. "Oh honey, am I embarrassing you? I'm
sorry. I'm off to a bad start before I've even
introduced myself." She reaches down to shake
your hand with her thumb and forefinger. "Hello
Mark. I'm Mrs. Andrews, your history teacher."
She shakes your hand gently. "First, a practical
question for you. Where would you like to sit?
The school has provided this desk for you." She
picks up from behind her desk a desk just your
size. "But where would you like it? On my desk?
I'm afraid then you'd be the center of attention.
Or on the floor in front of me? Then I'll have
trouble seeing you, and you'll have trouble seeing
me -- unless you'd like to stare at my feet for
fifty minutes. But that's your choice. Where
would you like to sit
Where would you like to sit?"
You glance around, and notice an empty desk in the
front of the room. She notices you pondering it.
"Put your desk on top of that one?" she asks.
"Ooh, honey, I'm afraid of that. Just look at the
incline on that desk top. What if your desk were
to slide off, with you in it?" I’m sorry, but I’d
feel safer if you choose between the top of my
desk and the floor in front of my desk."
You've become pretty tired of being the center of
attention, so you opt for the floor. Mrs. Andrews
sets down your desk in front of hers, and you sit
down. She hands out to everyone a survey. "Don't
be afraid of it," she tells the class. "I'm just
trying to ascertain how much you may already know
about America in the 19th century." She hands you
a copy of the survey reduced to your size. You
begin to take the survey, and are doing quite well
at it (hooray for home schooling!), when something
in front of you catches your attention. You look
up, and see directly before you, underneath Mrs
Andrews' desk, her feet, caught in the act of
freeing themselves from those high heeled shoes.
A moment later you are staring at her feet now
unshod, as they stretch back and forth, up and
down, in evident relief.
At your size you so often only see people from the
ankle down, that you tend to judge them by their
feet. And these, with their streamlined heels,
curvaceous insteps and long toes, are among the
most alluring pair you have ever experienced, a
perfect match for the face and personality of the
woman who owns them. Your eyes widen as they take
turns rubbing and soothing each other, and your
adolescent mind longs to slip in between them and
become the object of such attention. Yet in spite
of the continual distraction, you do now and them
manage to return to your survey, and even to
finish it (the questions were that easy for you),
and have probably done at least as well as any of
your peers.
Mrs. Andrews calls on the class to pass in their
surveys. After her feet return to her shoes and
your head returns to reality, she walks around her
desk and reaches down for your paper. “Hmm,” she
says as she looks at your miniscule scrawl, “I’m
going to end up with glasses by the time my year
with you is over.” As she says this, the bell
rings, and the class gets up to leave. To avoid
being trampled upon you only begin to walk out
after the others are gone. “Oh, Mark,” Mrs
Andrews calls out, sitting again at her desk “I’d
like to see you for a minute.” You step up to her
apprehensively. “I’ve thought about it, and your
desire to sit among the rest of the class is only
fair. We just have to set your desk on a secure
and level table of the right size and shape.
We’ll have it here for you next time.” Your face
must betray your immense disappointment, for she
registers surprise. “But honey, isn’t that what
you wanted? What’s the matter?” You try then
desperately to save the situation, to pretend that
nothing is the matter, that in fact her suggestion
is exactly what you would like. But she catches
on to you. “Oh - ho! ... I bet I was putting on a
little floor show for you. Is that it?” The heat
of your whole body rushes to your face. You can
only imagine how red you look. “Mm-hmm. Well,
that’s all the more reason why we must set you on
a raised platform. After all, we mustn’t subject
you to such distractions -- at least not during
class time.” As she says this she slips off one
of her shoes, and holds her foot out so close to
you, that you have to look way up to see her toes
wiggling above you. “Besides, this pretty little
Tootsie may be fetching, but don’t you think she’s
a little big for you? She’s three or four times
your size.” She slips her foot back into her
shoe, which exposes to her your wide eyed, open
mouthed expression. She smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry
for being such a tease. You can’t help it if
you’re entering into ... that age.”
She looks up at the clock. “Oh, dear,” she says.
“Do you have another class now?” You manage to
shake off your stupor enough to nod. “Well then,
we must get you to your next class. I’m free to
take you there if you would like Or would you
feel more comfortable if a student took you?"
You try to speak, but can only manage a gulp.
"Oh you are so transparent! Okay, up we go." She
bends down to you, gently wraps the long fingers
of one of her hands around you, until only your
head sticks out. She lifts you to her face. "So
where do we go from here?" You have no idea how
to process that question. In an attempt to speak,
you begin moving your mouth open and shut, open
and shut. But nothing comes out. "Oh honey, you
look like a little goldfish! Come on now, we'll
try it again. Who is your next teacher?" You
shake your head. "You don't know? Maybe you have
the name written down someplace?" You nod. "Then
let’s have you look at it." She puts you down on
her desk. You begin to fumble through your
pockets, finally pulling out a sheet of paper.
You hold it out to her. “No, you look at the
paper,” she says, “Look at the paper.” You stare
at it, unable to decipher it. "Okay,” she coaxes
you, “Fourth period. Look under fourth period."
You look under fourth period. “Do you see a name
there?” You nod. “What does it say?” You try to
say it: "Gombo ... Gomba ... Gom ..."
"Gompers?" she asks you. "Dr Gompers?" You nod
spastically. "All right, then. Off to Dr.
Gompers we go." Her fingers wrap around you
again. She presses you to her bosom with both
hands. Her hands are soft and warm. You sense
her stand up and begin to walk, but can only see
her shirt (and a little more, in between the
shirt's buttons). The sounds of the school
corridor are all but drowned out by the pattern of
her gentle breathing. But it is the smell of her
perfume that melts you.
She finally arrives at Dr. Gompers' chemistry
class, where another tiny desk awaits you on a lab
table. She carefully places you into it, bends
down to you and smiles, as she gently brushes
straight your hair with her finger. Then she
rises up and leaves the room. Propped up in your
seat, you sit there limp, dazed. Before you know
it, the bell rings (fifty minutes have passed!),
and the class rises up to leave. Two girls vie
with one another to carry you out. The curvier of
the two has her way, and lifts you out of the
desk. “Hello, Mark,” she says, “I’m Elissa. You
want to come along with me to lunch?”
Ordinarily, the attention of so attractive a girl
would have affected you more. But you are still
languishing under the spell of Mrs. Andrews. You
do attempt to answer Elissa's question, but can
manage no more than a squeak. She puts you up to
her ear. "Try again," she says. This time, you
force out enough sound to give her a high pitched
"okay."
For some reason, Elissa finds the lackluster state
you are in irresistable. "Oooh, you're so cute, I
just can't stand it," she squeals, as she cuddles
you, burying you deep in the center of her soft
and ample chest. And there she holds you, as she
carries you into the cafeteria. By the time she
lifts you out of her chest and into the light of
day again, you are in an even dizzier condition
than before.
Your sister Julia enters the cafeteria, and some
of her friends run up and tell her that Elissa has
you. She walks over to Elissa, who holds you out
for Julia to see. Julia screws up her face and
looks at you, as you stare back at her blankly.
"What's the matter with you?" she grunts.
One of Julia's friends comes over and tells her to
come and eat. Julia holds out her hand to Elissa.
"Better give him to me," she says. "We share the
same plate." Elissa looks disappointed. "Well,
okay, but... gee, Julia...couldn't he share mine?"
"Sure, go ahead," Julie says, "I'd rather eat what
I want, anyway." Elated, Elissa cuddles you once
more, as Julie goes off with her friends. Elissa
walks you over to the food counter and sets you on
a tray. "What would you like, Markie?" she asks.
You shrug. "Hmmm," she says. "then how's about a
little of ... this, and a little of ... this, and
..." You acquiesce to her every suggestion, until
the tray is full. She carries you and the food on
the tray over to a table of her friends, and sets
the tray down. She begins skimming her food with
a fork and scraping it in front of you on the rim
of the plate, as she says: "How's about a little
of ... this, and a little of ... this, and ..."
Her friends all lean forward toward you and giggle
with delight as they watch you obediently eat what
she sets before you.
"Hey, so what's the joke?" The girls sit back and
look up. There they see Craig Bradley and two of
his pals standing at the table. Craig now notices
you. "Hey, you guys, look: she's got the shrimp!"
He bends down for a closer look. "Man, he's even
a shrimpier than I thought. Hey there, shrimp!"
Elissa scoops you up and presses you close to her
bosom. "Man," Craig cries, "What is your problem?
Ever since last night you've been acting like an
ass!"
"Last night, you were the one acting like an ass,"
she snaps back.
"Hey, you know, I don't treat just any girl like
that. That's the way I treat my girl."
"Oh, that really makes me feel sooo much better!"
she sneers. "So from now on, maybe you can just
cut out the 'my girl' stuff, okay?"
"What -- like you got someone else?"
"Yeah, I do." She pauses for a moment. Her eyes
then light up, and suddenly you feel this rush of
wind, as Elissa whisks you away from herself and
into Craig's face. "Him."
"Him? Quit actin' like an ass!"
"Well it's true." She holds you up to her face.
"Didn't you tell me that you're my boyfriend now?"
Then she whispers for only you to hear: "Nod your
head yes." You do so. "See?" she says, "He just
said yes."
"Yeah?" Craig growls, "Well then the shrimp's dead
meat. You hear that shrimp?" He screams at you,
"You're dead meat!" The whole cafeteria turns and
looks, as Craig and his buddies storm out.
Elissa holds you close to her again. You can feel
her trembling. Then you hear a familiar voice;
Julie's voice. "Give him to me," she says. "Give
me my brother." Elissa passes you over to Julie.
Julie presses you close. "It's my fault," your
sister says. "It's all my fault. I should never
have let you eat with him." And, with all eyes in
the room staring at the two of you, she carries
you out the
She carries you out the door.
Julie hurries you to a quiet spot behind a set of
lockers. She holds you up to her face. "Listen
to me," she says, "Stay away from that Craig guy.
Do you hear me? Stay away from him!" You are
still too dazed to respond. "What is the matter
with you?" she cries, shaking you in her fist.
“Snap out of it!” She flicks her finger against
your cheek, which for you is the equivalent of a
hard slap in the face.
"Oww!" you cry, writhing in her fist. "You jerk!"
Leave it to your sister to knock sense back into
you.
"You're the jerk," she replies. "You're so dumb
you don't even know when you're in trouble. So
listen! You remember how scared you were of Mrs.
Plunkett's cat at Hadley Beach? Well, this guy is
ten times worse than that cat. Twenty times. So
do what I tell you. What’s your next class?”
“How should I know?”
“God, but you’re helpless!” she says, as she pulls
out of her pocket a copy of your class schedule.
"Let's see ... your next class is Miss Beasley's
English, and after that you've got Mr. Lorenzo.
Okay. I'll take you now over to Beasley's, then
you get a student to take you to Lorenzo's. But
once Lorenzo’s class is over, don’t move. You
wait for me there. Get me? Wait for me there,
and I'll pick you up when Mom comes. Get me?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I get you!”
“I hope so.” she says, as she drops you into her
shirt pocket and walks you to your next class.
There she finds another desk your size waiting for
you on the teacher's desk. She pulls you out of
her pocket and holds you up to her face again.
“Remember, after Lorenzo’s class you wait for me
there. You wait for me there.”
“Okay, okay!” you cry, “I'm not an idiot."
"Then stop acting like one," she says. She looks
at you pensively for a moment, kisses you lightly
on the head, and puts you in your desk. “See you
later,” she says, and as she walks out the door,
adds, “and quit the goofy stuff!"
Oh, at times like this, how you wish you could be
seven feet tall instead of two inches tall. How
you wish you could tower over your sister. Then
maybe she wouldn’t be so bossy. Then again, you
think to yourself, maybe she still would.
You don't mind sitting atop Miss Beasley's desk,
since there is enough clutter on it to keep you
from being the center of attention. Besides, as
soon as the plump and aging Miss Beasley appears,
you realize that looking for fifty minutes at her
bloated feet would not be the most thrilling of
experiences.
That thought triggers in you a return in thought
to Mrs. Andrews. Soon the drone of Miss Beasley's
voice fades into the background, as you fall deep
into a daydream. Mrs. Andrews is at your summer
place in Hadley Beach, wearing a two piece bathing
suit, sunglasses, and straw hat. She walks across
the sand, spreads out her beach towel close to the
water, and sets herself on it. After she applies
an ample amount of lotion on her skin, she lies on
her stomach and falls asleep. You creep up to her
feet, and meditate on her exposed soles. You dare
to climb up one of them and roll down, which must
tickle her, for her other foot comes over to brush
you off. That was a little dangerous, you figure.
So you content yourself to nestle onto the curled
underside of her toes, where you fall asleep. And
there you lie, for the remainder of Miss Beasley's
class. The spell of Mrs. Andrews has again taken
hold of you.
At the sound of the bell, an overweight boy with a
pimply chin offers to take you to your next class,
and grabs you in his sweaty hand. Another desk is
waiting for you when you arrive at Mr. Lorenzo's.
You sit in the desk, and try hard to pay attention
to algebra, but just cannot shake off your mental
picture of Mrs. Andrews. When the class finally
ends, and the other students rush out, Mr. Lorenzo
offers to take you to your next destination. You
only ask that he set you down onto the floor; he
does so, and returns to his desk.
You remember what Julie said: stay in Mr Lorenzo's
classroom until she comes for you.
But maybe she won't be arriving for a few minutes.
And maybe in those few minutes you could sneak
down the hall to catch a quick look into Mrs.
Andrew's room. Hmmm....
Julie wouldn't be angry with your decision, if she
only realized how little in control you are at the
moment. Some force beyond your will is compelling
you to walk down this corridor, is drawing you in
the direction of Mrs. Andrews' room, despite your
better judgment. The way you feel right now, the
way you feel about Mrs. Andrews, is a feeling you
have never felt before in all your life.
You turn the corner and enter into the wing where
Mrs. Andrews' room is. It's a wing furthest from
the main activity of the school, and her room is
furthest down on the left side. The entire place
quite frankly looks abandoned. Still, she could
be there at her desk, doing papers or something,
just the same.
You walk along the wall, regularly passing by the
threshhold of one empty room after another. You
think maybe you see a light in Mrs. Andrews' room,
but can't be sure; the sun is on that side of the
building. You think maybe you hear a sound in her
room, but it could simply be the wind rustling the
blinds. You get closer, until now you are only a
couple of rooms away.
Then you hear someone speaking.
"Hey Bud, how do you turn a Mark on the floor into
a permanent mark on the floor?"
"I dunno -- how?"
"Like this!"
You turn around and look up to see a giant sneaker
bearing down on you. You leap out of the way just
in time, and just enough, as you see the sneaker
stomp down on the ground next to you.
"Ah Craig, you missed!"
Oh no! Craig Bradley and his buddies!
"That's okay. Maybe we shouldn't make a permanent
mark on the floor. Maybe we just oughta wipe him
out -- like this."
The sneaker in front of you hauls back and kicks
you high in the air. You crash onto a section of
broken tile. Before you have time even to breath,
it kicks you again, skidding you across the broken
tile and grout. You look up and see a second shoe
kick you back. The two kick you back and forth,
until you hear, "Hey, let me in on this!" and now
three shoes are taking turns kicking you up and
down the hall.
Then the kicking stops. You lay there unable to
move. You feel blood oozing under your clothes.
Then you hear Craig's voice: "You know, this is
wrong. We shouldn't be torturing him like this.
I really ought to do what I tried doing in the
beginning, and just put him out-of-his-misery."
His sneaker slowly bears down on you, only this
time you're unable to get away. The sneaker now
presses down on you harder, harder, harder. As
you gasp more and more for breath, and feel your
every bone close to the breaking point, you hear
his buddies egging Craig on, chanting like some
chorus of jungle apes: "Ooo! -- Ooo! -- Ooo! --
Ooo! -- Ooo! -- Ooo! -- Ooo! -- Ooo! -- Ooo!..."
Then, just you feel yourself beginning to pass
out, you hear ...
"What in the world is going on out here?"
It's a woman's voice, but whose? You turn your
head just enough to see down the hall a shapely
set of ankles, with feet shod in a pair of black
high heeled shoes. Mrs. Andrews!
"Uh ... nothing ... nothing." Craig replies, as he
lifts his foot off of you and backs away, exposing
you to her view. Bad move, Craig.
"What ... is ... this ...?" says Mrs. Andrews, as
you see her feet move up closer, then hear a gasp.
You see one of her knees hit the floor in front of
you, and realize that she has dropped to that knee
to attend to you. "Nothing? Dear God! You call
this nothing? What were you doing to him?"
"Nothing ... I mean ... just playing."
"No. No, this isn't playing. This is more like,
... it's like ... you were trying to kill him.
You wanted to to kill him!"
"No, Mrs. Andrews, no!" Craig cries, as he steps
toward her.
"Stay away!" she yells. "Stay away from him!"
He backs up, but still tries pleading with her.
"But ... Mrs. Andrews ..."
"Just go!" she cries, "Go!"
Craig's voice sounds desparate. "But I..."
"Leave!" she screams. Craig's two buddies pull
him away, and forcibly lead him down the hall,
until all three of them are out of sight.
"They're gone," she whispers to you, as she sets a
hand down near you. "They can't do anything more
to harm you. Are you badly hurt?" You look up to
her and shake your head no. Her reassuring voice,
her finger gently resting against your shoulder,
and especially the tears you notice welling up in
her eyes, overwhelm you. Your chest heaves, your
chin trembles, your own eyes well to the brim, and
you release a barrage of tears and sobs. You roll
to your side and throw your arm around her finger,
pulling yourself up to it and hugging it tightly.
Her other hand comes down and a finger begins to
stroke your back. "You're sure you're not badly
hurt?" she asks again. Uncertain whether to reply
no you're not, or yes you're sure, you respond by
clutching her finger even more tightly, nuzzling
your cheek against it. She understands. "Can you
climb into my hand, then?" To that you shake your
head yes, as you slowly release your hold on her
finger. With the finger of her other hand behind
you to support you, you painfully crawl into her
palm. She carefully enfolds her fingers around
you, and with both hands together holds you close
to her cheek. You are still sobbing. She tries
to quiet you down with a soft "hushh." A solitary
tear rolls down her cheek and bedews your head.
After a few moments, she releases her free hand,
and soon you feel her rise to a standing position.
Holding you now at her chest, she carries you ...
She carries you around a corner and into a nearby
teacher's lounge. She takes you into a washroom
there, and opens her hand to have another look at
you. "You've lost a shoe," she observes. "And the
sock with it. Can you remember where? No? Well,
we'll have to search for them later." She lifts
up your bare foot in her thumb and forefinger, and
squints to study it closely. "I see blood here,"
she says. "Are you bleeding anywhere else?" She
looks you over, and notices spots of blood on your
clothes. She takes off your other shoe and sock,
then strips you of both shirt and trousers. You
now lie there in her hand dressed in nothing but a
pair of red underpants. She tugs at their waist-
band. "Are you bleeding in here, too?" she asks.
Vehemently you shake your head no, and clutch onto
the waistband with both hands. She bites her lip
to suppress a smile. "Okay, then. Let's scrub up
the rest of you."
She dabs a dot of liquid soap on her index finger,
and starts to rub it all over you, first scrubbing
your face, then turning you over to get both back
and chest, and finally rubbing it up and down one
leg at a time. She next adjusts the faucet to a
trickle of lukewarm water, and holds you under it,
careful to shield your underwear firmly with thumb
and forefinger. She shuts off the water and wraps
you up in a face towel. After she has patted you
dry, she returns you into her palm and watches you
closely for any more signs of blood. "It's still
coming," she says, as she opens the medicine chest
over the sink. She moistens the tip of her finger
and touches it to a styptic pencil. "This will be
a bit painful," she says. She begins applying the
alum to your wounds; you shiver in pain. "There,"
she says finally, "That ought to do it."
She walks you out of the bathroom, and sits down.
Your tears have stopped, but you continue to heave
sobs that shake your whole body. She rocks you in
her soft palm as she continues whispering words of
comfort, while her finger lightly glides back and
forth over your body.
You have almost fallen asleep when you and she are
startled by a rattling of the doorknob. The door
swings open, and you hear ...
"Oh! Mrs. Andrews!"
You turn toward the door and see a flustered Mr.
Ripley, principal of the school.
"Mr. Ripley!" Mrs. Andrews exclaims. "Come in. I
need to speak with you."
"Not now, Mrs. Andrews, not now. We're searching
for the Littler boy."
"You mean Letellier? Mark Letellier? He's here
with me."
"Lete ... You ... He's ... oh!" He calls down the
corridor. "Oh, Mrs Littler! Mrs. Littler! I've
found him!" He steps into the room and looks down
at you. "Why, the boy is practically naked!"
"He's been hurt," Mrs. Andrews explains. "But he's
conscious. I've attended to his wounds, but we'd
still better get him to a doctor, just in case."
Just then Mr. Lorenzo and a few people you do not
recognize crowd up to the door and peek in. They
step aside to let your mother through, followed by
Julie.
"No need to panic, Mrs. Littler," says Mr. Ripley.
"Your boy here was in a little accident."
Your mother rushes up to you. Mrs. Andrews offers
you to her.
"No," Mrs. Andrews says, "It was no accident. It
was an attack."
Your mother lifts you up and sets you in her hand.
Much as you try to hold back, her attention to you
triggers from within a fresh outpouring of tears.
"Your son has been very brave." Mrs. Andrews tells
her.
Your mother caresses you, and whispers mournfully,
"I should never have let you come here. Why did I
ever let you come here?"
"Names!" cries Mr. Ripley. "I want names!"
"I don't think he's ready to talk right now," Mrs.
Andrews says. "Give him time." Then she says to
your mother, "You'd better get him to a doctor as
soon as you can." Your mother thanks Mrs. Andrews
tearfully. Then she turns about, as she and Julie
walk through the crowd of spectators out the door.
The two hurry you out to the car. Julie gets into
the front seat on the passenger side. Your mother
hands you over to her, runs around and hops in the
driver's seat, and speeds off. Julie holds you up
close to her face and whispers, "Why didn't you do
what I told you?"
"Julie!," your mother scolds, "Leave him alone!"
Chagrined at getting caught, Julie lowers you into
her lap and sulks the rest of the ride.
Dr. Avery sees you right away. After checking you
under a magnifying glass, a microscope, and x-rays
enlarged thirty times, he sums up your injuries as
innumerable cuts, scrapes and contusions, a minor
concussion, and two broken ribs. Your complaints
of pain in the kidney area concern him. Yet still
he sends you home, instructing your mother to be
on the look-out for any irregularities.
Back home, your mother bathes you, dresses you in
your pajamas, and puts you to bed. She makes you
lie in bed all the next day, despite your protests
that you want to go to school. You wait anxiously
for school to get out, hoping for some of your new
friends to visit you. You at least expect Elissa
to come by; after all, she did ask you to declare
yourself her boyfriend, and it almost killed you!
But at 3:30 that afternoon, the only one to show
up from school is Julie, who sneaks up into your
room and asks you again why you went against her
orders to stay put, and how you ended up in that
corridor. But you pretend that you're asleep.
Just then the doorbell rings. A moment later your
mother is speaking to someone downstairs, then two
sets of footsteps ascend the stairs and come up to
your door. Your mother appears in the doorway.
"Oh Mark," she announces, "You have a visitor."
You hear a familiar “Hello, Mark,” as your mother
steps into your room and over to the side. Into
her place in the doorway there appears the statu-
esque figure of ... Mrs. Andrews!
You sit erect in bed, tingling all over.
“Wasn’t it nice of Mrs. Andrews to come so far out
of the way just to see you?” says your mother.
“Well, it was actually on the way,” admits Mrs.
Andrews. “I had to pick something up at Mindys”
“Mindys?” you ask yourself, “Isn’t Mindys a store
over in Cashman’s Square, the woman’s shoe store?”
As “woman’s shoes” comes into your mind, your eyes
automatically drop down to Mrs. Andrews’ two feet,
which you see are now harnessed in a set of thinly
strapped sandals. She flexes her toes, evidently
for your benefit. Your eyes quickly scale upward
to her face; you notice her smiling coyly at you.
Before you can prevent it, a tremor of excitement
shakes your whole body; thank goodness your mother
doesn’t pick up on it.
“Well, Mark,” your mother says, “aren’t you going
to invite Mrs. Andrews to come in?”
You nod spastically.
“Well...?”
You open your mouth, and after a few gulps, squeak
out, “Come in.”
Mrs. Andrews enters and sits on the bed next to
your doll house, leaning over to look in at you.
“How are you feeling today?,” she asks.
When your attempts at responding to her fails,
your mother replies for you. “He’s doing quite
well, really, quite well.” Then after a pause,
she adds, “Thank you, Mrs. Andrews ...”
“Teresa.”
“... thank you, Teresa, for saving my boy’s life.”
“But Mrs. Letellier -- or should I call you...?”
“Oh, Sheila, please.”
“... Sheila, if only you knew how courageous Mark
himself was yesterday.”
“But if you weren’t there ...”
“Oh, I know, I know. Thank God for that.”
“He hasn’t yet told us what happened.” your mother
says. “Mr. Ripley has called us three times today
asking for names, but Mark refuses to tell him —
or me — anything.”
Julie snaps, “I can tell you who did it!”
“Julie has her suspicions,” explains your mother.
Mrs. Andrews nods her head thoughtfully. Then she
says to you, “We’re so proud of you, Mark. All of
us at the school are proud of you, and so are your
mother and father, Julie ...”
“Yes,” interjects your mother, “I’ve told Mark how
proud his father must be right now.” Mrs. Andrews
regards your mother quizzically. Your mother ex-
plains, “I lost my husband shortly after Mark was
born.”
“Oh ... oh that’s awful,” Mrs. Andrews says, “I’m
so sorry, I ... “ She drops her head, shuts her
eyes and bites her lip.
After a moment your mother walks up to her.
“Teresa?”
Mrs. Andrews looks up at your mother and, holding
back the tears, says, “I know the feeling.”
Your mother drops down next to her on the bed and
guides Mrs. Andrews’ head to her shoulder. “How
long ago?,” asks your mother.
“Oh, a year and ... a half now. Almost.” says
Mrs. Andrews softly.
Your mother begins to stroke her hair, then stops
abruptly. “Andrews.” She ponders aloud upon that
name. “Andrews ... Neil Andrews? ... Officer Neil
Andrews? Was your husband ...?”
“Yes, the hero,” Mrs. Andrews replies mournfully.
“The one who saved everybody’s life but his own.”
She sighs deeply. Then she lifts her head off of
your mother’s shoulders, brushes away the moisture
from her eyes, puts an arm around your mother, and
smiles for her. “Thank you,” she whispers. Then
she turns forward to face you, who have this whole
time watched with mounting awe the bonding between
your mother and teacher.
“Mark,” Mrs. Andrews says, “If you hadn't known of
that part of my life before, I’m glad you know it
now, because I came here to give you something.”
She reaches into her dress pocket and takes out of
it a velvet pouch. She opens the pouch, and pulls
from it a policeman’s badge. “This is yours,” she
says, “It had been my ... husband’s, the badge he
was wearing when ...” She clears her throat, and
begins again. “It was his. And now I want it to
be yours.”
“Oh, Teresa,” your mother cries, “We simply can’t
let you ...”
“No, no I want to do this. I have so much at home
to remember Neil by. I want Mark to have this.”
She leans toward you, as her hand enters your doll
house bedroom. She moves to one side some pieces
of furniture and rests the badge against the wall
opposite your bed. Her hand now glides up to you.
She rests the tip of her finger on your cheek, and
holds it there for a moment. Not knowing how you
should respond, you begin patting her finger with
your hand. She smiles down at you. Then her hand
gently withdraws. “Well,” she sighs, “I’d better
be going. I’ll overstay my welcome.”
Your mother replies, “You’re always welcome here.
In fact -- can’t you stay for supper?”
“Oh. I’d love to, but ...”
“Some other time then?”
Mrs. Andrews’ face lights up, “I would love to do
that. Really I would. I can’t tell you how much
this visit has done for me.”
“Oh, Teresa,” your mother replies, “Imagine what
it has done for us. You’ve made our day.”
Impulsively, Mrs. Andrews embraces your mother for
a long moment, then begins to leave the room. At
the door she turns around again. “Oh by the way,
Mark," she says. "You did extremely well on that
survey in yesterday's class. Unbelievably well --
considering how distracted you were.”
“Distracted?,” your mother asks.
Mrs. Andrews smiles, and leaves the room
There is no one whom you would rather have visited
you than Mrs. Andrews. Still you are disappointed
that she was the only person from school who did.
But tomorrow is another day.
Since you are sick to your stomach early the next
morning, your mother forbids you to go to school
again. That afternoon, even though you feel much
better, your mother insists you stay in bed. She
does, however, carry your bed -- with you in it --
downstairs, and sets it on the kitchen table.
At 3:30, while your mother is preparing supper,
the front door bursts open and slams shut. You
don’t even have to look to know it’s Julie. But
you wonder why she doesn’t come into the kitchen.
You look over to see her standing at the door; she
appears upset. Your mother turns to look; Julie
motions her over. By the time Julie has finished
her whisperings, your mother also appears upset.
She returns to chopping vegetables, as if nothing
were wrong. You hear only the chop-chop-chop-chop
of her knife for several minutes. Then, “I don’t
want you going to that school anymore.”
Oh no! Family conflict!
"But ma ...!"
"No, Mark, that's it. I don't want you there."
"But you said ..."
"Never mind what I said. A public school is too
dangerous a place for a two inch tall boy."
"But ... you can't teach me anymore. You even
said ..."
"Just because I don't feel qualified to teach the
higher grades doesn't mean you have to go to that
school. We can hire tutors."
"But ... I want friends!"
Your mother puts down her knife and walks up to
you. "Mark, you don't need to go to that school
to find friends. We can look elsewhere."
"But what's wrong with finding them there?"
"Mark, please, I ... I just don't want you going
to that school!" (You can tell that she's hiding
something from you; but what?)
"Why not?"
"I don't want an argument, Mark. That's it!" She
turns back to her work. You sit there in silence
for a minute or two. Then you hit her with: "You
told me I could go if I wanted to go. You told me
you wouldn't interfere. You PROMISED." Your Mom
has this crusade that everybody (you and Julie in
particular) ought to keep their promises.
Even with her back to you, you can see her wince
in reaction. She turns around to you; she looks
defeated. "Oh Mark, I ..." Her look now becomes
one of resignation. "Alright Mark. But you have
to promise me something. You have to promise me
that the moment it gets too hard for you at that
school, the moment it gets too ... unpleasant; as
soon as you want out, you'll tell me. Promise?"
You promise. But gee, you wonder, what's this all
about. Why does she speak as if all this negative
stuff is going to happen? What did Julie tell her?
It's Friday; you have an entire weekend of waiting
and wondering. Every chance you get you ask Julie
what happened at school while you were away; every
time she evades your question.
No one visits you on Friday. Then on Saturday at
noon, the doorbell rings. Julie runs up to tell
you that Mrs. Andrews is here. You hurriedly get
yourself ready. But she doesn't come up for five,
ten minutes. You hear her and your mother talking
downstairs in low voices the whole time. But what
about? You climb down to the floor and creep over
to the top step to listen. Your mother's keen eye
notices you there and stops the conversation. She
walks up the steps and carries you into the living
room.
In the course of a few hours, your mother and Mrs.
Andrews return now and then to speaking about the
struggles of widowhood. In one extremely poignant
moment, Mrs. Andrews speaks about miscarrying her
and her husband's child -- their only child -- at
eleven weeks, three weeks after Neil's death. As
she speaks, a change comes over you. You begin to
feel in her presence not merely aroused, but warm;
she is becoming not just an object of your desire,
but also someone you care about. As she tearfully
tells of her miscarriage, you wish you were closer
to your mother's size, so you also could hold Mrs.
Andrew's hand, rest her head on your shoulder and
stroke her hair, embrace her. Later that day, you
look up on the computer everything you can about a
fetus at eleven weeks. You discover that a child
at that stage is about two inches long.
Monday morning dawns; reluctantly your mother gets
you ready for school. As her car is pulling up in
the school parking lot, Julie grabs you and stuffs
you deep into her backpack. You hear the corridor
full of voices, but you can't see anyone -- and no
one can see you. Julie hand delivers you to your
first class. As the class ends, Julie arrives for
you. Again she stuffs you into her backpack, too
deep for anyone to see you, and hand delivers you
to your next class. You figure that she's trying
to hide you from people, which really annoys you.
So near the end of the class, seconds before Julie
arrives, you get the teacher's permission to leave
early. Now you have the chance to walk along the
corridor and see people.
People are acting strange toward you. Before they
seemed fascinated by you. Now they seem to look
down at you with contempt. You see Elissa and her
two friends walking toward you. She seems to have
noticed your waving at her, yet she walks right by
you. One of her friends even appears to sneer at
you. As she walks by, her sandal suddenly swings
out to the side, knocking you up against the wall.
You decide to stay close to the wall the remainder
of the way. It is then that you notice all of the
graffiti written on the walls, low enough for only
you to see. They are obviously referring to you.
"Punt the Runt" is one of the few you would dare
to repeat, the rest are so vile.
You are practically in tears, when from behind you
a hand grabs you and scoops you up; thank goodness
it's Julie. She scoots into an empty classroom.
At first she acts miffed at you for avoiding her,
until she sees how upset you are. "Well I suppose
you had to find out some time," she sighs. Craig
Bradley and his two buddies were expelled Friday,
all on account of you. They were all star players
on the school football team, especially Craig; he
has already received offers from the top football
universities in the nation. The school team had
been expected to win the state championship this
year, but not now -- they'll be lucky now if they
win a single game. And everyone's blaming you.
But, you argue, you didn't say anything to anyone.
"They don't know that, and they don't care," she
replies. You accuse Julie of saying something;
she denies it. Then you accuse Elissa. "Elissa!
She hates you now more than anyone," Julie says.
Who then? Who could have ratted on Craig? None
of the students would have dared. So who is left?
Mrs. Andrews.
Julie looks at the clock. “I’ve got to get you to
your next class! Whose is it?” You know whose it
is. But you don’t feel like saying. Julie takes
your schedule out of her pocket. “Oh. It’s Mrs.
Andrews,” she smiles, “Your friend.” Your sister
then stuffs you in her backpack and heads for Mrs.
Andrews’ room.
On the way to class, you begin thinking that maybe
your mother was right. Maybe going to high school
is too much for you. And if it is, you’ll have to
keep your promise to her and finish your schooling
at home. And the way you feel right now, you’re
figuring maybe that’s not such a bad idea. You
only wish that Mrs. Andrews would disappear from
your life with the rest of the school.
Julie gets you to Mrs. Andrews’ class just as it’s
about to begin. She places you on the table where
your desk is set and, before she leaves, asks Mrs.
Andrews if she could get you to class next period.
All during class you keep your nose to your notes,
purposely avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Andrews.
As class ends and the other students file out, you
slide down the rope provided for you and start to
leave the room. Mrs. Andrews, who has been check-
ing over a few papers, looks up to find you now no
longer in front of her. She turns and notices you
walking out the door. “Hold on there, Mark. I’ll
carry you to class.” You pretend you didn’t hear
her and keep walking. “I said, hold on.” You
keep walking. “Mark -- stop! Now!” The force of
her voice stops you. “Turn around,” she says, in
a gentler tone. “Mark -- please do as I say.”
Again, you do so in spite of yourself. “Come over
here.” It’s become pointless to disobey. She
bends down to pick you up. “Why, you’re as stiff
as a board,” she says. She sets you on her desk,
and holds your shoulders with her thumb and fore-
finger. You keep your eyes cast down. She bends
her head down in an attempt to look you in the
eye. “My, but we’re sullen today. What’s the
problem? Is it the new seating arrangements? Need
another floor show?” You turn your head away from
her. “My,” she says. “but this is serious. I’d
better keep my shoes on.” You wrest yourself free
of her and turn your back to her. “Alright,” she
says in an abrupt change of tone, “Let's cut the
kidding. What’s wrong? You haven’t looked at me
all day. What’s the problem? Have I embarrassed
you somehow? All this teasing, maybe? Or, my
visits to your home? Or ... my bathing you in the
sink?” You keep your back to her, unresponsive.
Just then, Mr. Ripley, passing by the room, pops
his head in to say, “Oh, Mrs. Andrews; I’ll still
need a sworn statement from you. A technicality,
of course, but .. well, I’ll meet with you later.”
He slips away. Mrs. Andrews, from looking at him,
looks back down at you. She discovers you facing
where Mr. Ripley just stood, clenching your fists,
gritting your teeth, breathing heavily. “So that’s
it.” she says, “I’m a squealer. I ratted on your
friends.” Again you turn your back on her. “Mark,
look at me. Mark ... don’t be this way. I don’t
want to use force. Come on now.” You don’t budge.
She heaves a sigh, and the next thing you know her
hand is descending on you. With her thumb and
forefinger she picks you up and twists you around.
She holds you firmly, while her thumb under your
chin jerks your head up. You’re now her captive,
forced to look her in the face. In spite of
everything, it’s still a beautiful face.
“Mark,” she explains, “I had to do what I did. If
you weren’t going to tell, I had to. Maybe it’s
okay for you to play the hero. But for me to keep
quiet about what Craig did to you would not be
heroic. It would be irresponsible, cowardly --
practically an act of collusion. What sort of a
teacher would I be -- what sort of a friend -- if
I let Craig get away with what he did to you?
Mark,” she adds softly, “I’m your friend. Right
now, you’re blaming me for turning the school
against you. I can understand that. But believe
me, all that will pass. Still, no matter what
anybody else thinks of you, I’m your friend. I’ll
always be your friend. Always.” You manage to
force your head from her thumb, and turn your face
away again.
At that, she lets go of her grip. “Alright, then.
I’m sorry I said anything. I’m sorry I got poor
Craig Bradley expelled. If it weren’t for me, he’d
still be roaming the school halls. And maybe the
next time he’d kill you. Then you’d really be a
hero. You’d be in all the papers; you’d be on
television. They’d have all sorts of services for
you, dedications, plaques, scholarships, all in
your name. They’d remember you as the boy who
braved death in order to get a good public school
education. And no one would say anything about
how ... foolhardy you were. Even I’d keep my mouth
shut. I’d play dumb for you like I did ...” Her
voice cracks. “Oh God, I’ve had enough of heroes!”
Her last words stab you in the gut. Your feelings
of anger yield to feelings of shame. You still
keep your back to her, only now so she can’t see
your tears. But she knows. “Turn around, Mark,”
she whispers. You do so, but keep your head down.
She lifts up your chin gently with her finger.
Grabbing Kleenex from its box, she twists a corner
of it into a point and daubs your cheeks. “I
didn’t mean what I said. I still want you for my
hero.” She blushes a little. “I mean, I want you
to be everybody’s hero; mine, your family’s, the
school’s. And you still can be. You can be now
more than ever. You’ve come to a school where
everyone suddenly wants to hate you. It’s unfair
what they think about you. Unjust. But you’ve
come here, anyway. I know your mother wants you
to give this school up, and maybe you should. But
if you stay and brave this out, I’m here for you.
Every minute of the day, I’m here for you.”
She leans toward you. “Are you still mad at me?”
You look up at her tearfully, and shake your head
no. “Then can you smile for me?” You do your
best to smile. She returns the smile, almost as
teary-eyed as you.
At once she brushes her tears away, and sits
upright. “Oh dear, I’ve got to get you to your
next class.” She looks at you teasingly. “Or
maybe I should ask if you want me to take you.
Maybe you’d rather somebody else?” Before you
have a chance to answer, a voice at the door calls
out, “I’ll take him
“I’ll take him for you, Mrs. Andrews."
You look toward the door. You see standing there
a boy of African descent, lanky, well-built, with
a good-looking and pleasing face, but an awkward
manner about him. He has a funny accent, like a
foreigner.
"Why, Pierre," Mrs Andrews exclaims, "You startled
us. Were you listening in on our entire conversa-
tion?"
"Oh no Ma'am, Mrs. Andrews," he says, nervously,
"I only just got here."
"That's okay, Pierre. So -- are you sure you can
take Mark to his next class? It isn't out of the
way for you?"
"Um ... no, it ... doesn't have to be."
"All right. Well ... have you met Mark yet?"
"Um ... No, Ma'am, Mrs. Andrews."
"All right, then. Come in, Pierre." He steps in
self-consciously. "Pierre, this is Mark Letellier.
Mark, this is Pierre Apat." He bows to you, puts
out his hand to shake yours, can't see how you'll
manage it, and withdraws his hand with an apology.
"Shake his hand like this." For Pierre's benefit,
Mrs. Andrews shakes your hand with her thumb and
forefinger. Pierre does the same, though he's a
little rough; he almost wrenches your arm out of
its socket. He apologizes. "It's okay, Pierre,"
Mrs. Andrews assures him, "For a first try."
You, however, aren't quite so sure you want to be
handled by a boy so clumsy. And you are frankly a
little suspicious of him. He doesn't seem to have
a malicious intent; in fact, the word "malicious"
definitely does not describe him. Yet why would a
boy who doesn't even know you be so interested in
helping you out, when all the rest of the students
hate you?
After a painfully long pause, Mrs. Andrews says,
"Well, Pierre, it's so nice of you to want help
out a fellow student in need."
"Yes, Ma'am, it is ... I mean, yes Ma'am. Only,
um ... Mrs. Andrews?"
"Yes, Pierre?" She eyes him quizzically.
"Um ... well ... could you please ... keep this to
yourself?"
"You mean, You don't want me to tell anyone that
you're helping Mark, or in any way befriending a
helpless two inch tall boy?" He hangs his head in
shame. She sighs. "Very well, Pierre. Thank you
for offering your services under such trying cir-
cumstances. Only I think that Mark himself has the
right to decide whether to accept the offer as you
presented it."
She now looks down at you. "Well, Mark, are you
willing to take up Pierre on his ... generous
offer?"
You motion Mrs. Andrews down to you. Brushing her
hair to one side, she exposes her ear, then leans
down near enough for you to whisper in it. (Wow,
you think, even her ear is beautiful). You want
so much to keep Pierre from hearing you that you
practically crawl into the ear. "Please take me,"
you plead. Mrs. Andrews sits upright again, and
addresses Pierre: "Mark isn't quite ready yet for
you to handle him. I'm sure once he's gotten to
know you better, he'll gladly accept your offer.
But for now, know that the offer is appreciated.
You have at least shown Mark private support, and
that is a whole lot more than other students in
this school have done." He makes no reply, but
continues to stand there hanging his head.
Mrs. Andrews regards him sympathetically for a
moment longer; then she turns to you. With one
hand she scoops you up, while with the other she
pushes herself away from the desk and rises. She
brushes swiftly by his motionless figure, but once
she reaches the door she turns back around to him.
"Pierre -- thank you," she says, and hurries off.
Toward the end of Dr. Gompers' class, your sister
arrives in the doorway to pick you up. When the
bell rings and the class begins to file out, she
notices Elissa nudge the table on which you are
seated, causing some liquid in a beaker to slosh
out dangerously close to your desk. Julie steps
in Elissa's way. Elissa shoves her aside and
walks out. You don't mind Elissa's abusing you.
But when you see her do this to your sister -- oh,
how you wish you were taller. As you think this,
you catch sight of Pierre, watching from afar in
the corridor. From where he's standing, he must
have witnessed the whole scene. But he just
stands there, gaping.
Julie again hides you in her backpack. You hear
the sounds of the corridor, then the clattering
and tinkling sounds of the cafeteria. You hear
Julie talking to the ladies at the food counter.
A few moments later she is fishing for you in her
backpack. She lifts you out, and you discover
that she has chosen a table for you and her in a
remote corner of the room.
As you and she eat from her plate, you look over
and see a group of boys at a table. Pierre is
among them, but only barely paying attention to
their conversation, staring into nowhere. Not
watching what he’d doing, he grabs for a sandwich
and knocks over a carton of milk. The boys begin
to laugh uproariously, ridiculing him and thwart-
ing his attempts to clean up the mess, then all
getting up and leaving him there to finish the
clean-up alone.
After lunch period, Julie carries you to Mrs.
Beasley’s class. At the end of class she comes to
pick you up, but Mrs. Beasley wants to speak to
you about the class you’ve missed. Julie explains
that she’s in a hurry, but Mrs. Beasley insists.
“Isn’t there anyone else,” she complains, “who can
take your brother to class?” Since there isn’t,
Julie stays and waits for Mrs. Beasley to complete
her overblown summary of last Friday’s material.
Julie then grabs you and runs you to Mr. Lorenzo’s
class (already well in progress), then runs off to
her own class.
After Mr. Lorenzo’s class you wait for Julie.
She’s late, but after what happened last week,
Lorenzo doesn’t allow you to leave, and in fact
stays with you despite his own eagerness to get
home. When Julie finally shows up, he expresses
his annoyance, and rushes out of the room.
Julie slumps into a chair, on the verge of tears.
Since she was late to her last class, her teacher
held her fifteen minutes after everyone else left
and gave her an extra written assignment. “I
don’t know how I can keep this up,” she cries.
“Well,” you ask, “what about getting Mrs. Andrews
to help?”
“She already helps with fourth period,” Julie
replies. “We can’t ask her to do any more.”
“Well ... don’t you have any friends who ... ?”
“No-- duh!” she snaps.
“What -- you mean ... did you lose all your
friends ... because of... me?”
“Ooo!” Julie didn’t mean for you to know that.
“Um ... no! I mean ... not really. They were all
jerks anyway. The only one who’s stuck by me is
Daisy.”
“You don’t mean ‘Ditz’?”
“Yeah, ‘Ditz.’ How’d you like her to carry you to
class?”
“Wow -- I’d probably end up treading water in the
girls’ room.”
“Yeah -- while she’s looking for you in the boys’
room.” You both break into giggles, like when you
were kids. It’s good to hear Julie laugh.
“Yikes,” Julie exclaims, jumping up, “We've gotta
move it. Mom’s probably waiting for us out front,
worried sick.” She picks you up and runs with you
down a now empty maze of corridors, barges out the
front doors and heads for your car. She hops into
the front seat and sets you upon her lap while she
fastens her seat belt. It’s then you notice your
mother; her body slumped forward, her head resting
hard on the top of the steering wheel, her fists
clenching its sides, her eyes shut tight. Either
she’s dead, you think to yourself, or she’s upset.
And you don’t think she’s dead.
“Where -- have -- you -- two -- been?” She gasps
in a breath between each word.
You try to explain why you were late. It does no
good. “I was seconds away from calling for the
police!” she cries. You say you’re sorry, which
she acknowledges with a moan. She lifts her head
up off the wheel and all the way back against her
seat’s headrest, and remains there until she’s
composed enough to switch the car into gear and
drive on home. It’s a tense ride.
The atmosphere is sober the rest of the evening,
even after your mother has returned to calm. You
and Julie hardly talk. You both do your household
chores (you pick up any crumbs or lint which the
vacuum has missed), do homework before and after
supper, wash up and dress for bed. Then you join
Julie in the living room and she sits you on her
lap in front of the TV. Julie’s hiked-up shirt
exposes her abdomen; you rest your head in her
belly button.
Uninterested in the program she chose, you squirm
around until your head and feet have switched
positions. Now you’re looking up at Julie, as
your bare feet idly play inside her navel.
“Hey!” you shout up at her.
“What?” she replies, more interested in the TV
than in you.
“Do you know a guy in school named Pierre?”
“No. Who’s he?”
“The guy who spilled his milk at lunch today.”
“You mean the guy sitting with the football team?”
“Was that the football team?”
“Part of it, yeah. Why, who is he?”
“I thought you knew.”
“He’s a new kid in town, that’s all I know.”
Julie finally looks down at you. “Why do you
care?”
“Well, maybe he can carry me to class.”
You dig your feet a little too far into her navel.
Annoyed, she swats them away and pulls down her
shirt. “Why should he carry you to class?”
“Because he asked. After Mrs. Andrews’ class
today he came in the room and asked if he could
take me to my next class.”
“And you don’t know him?”
“I never even saw him before.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah, I thought so. Mrs. Andrews seemed to think
he was okay, though -- even though he asked her
not to tell anybody.”
“Not to tell anybody that he wants to be nice to
you?”
“Yeah.”
“What a jerk!”
“Yeah, well Mrs. Andrews said at least it’s more
than anyone else has done.”
“So what? The whole thing is too weird. And the
guy hangs out with the football team?”
“I guess so.”
“Then stay away from him. They all hate you.”
“Yeah, well ... too bad for them.” Now your feet
are playing with the bottom button of her shirt,
twisting it back and forth as if they’re steering
a ship. She picks you up and tosses you further
down her lap.
“Will you keep your feet away from my buttons?”
“Why should I?”
“Because -- I’ve now got like five shirts with
their bottom buttons missing.” You sneer at her,
and roll over to watch whatever dumb show she has
on TV, staying in that position until your mother
comes along and sends you both to bed.
The following day ...
The following day begins as usual, your loving but
overprotective sister carting you to and from each
class herself. Then comes class with Mrs. Andrews
again, who is the only person Julie has allowed to
touch you besides herself. After class, while the
rest of the students are filing out, you sit there
waiting for Mrs. Andrews to pick you up. You look
out the door and across the hall to notice Pierre,
leaning up against the wall, his eyes cast down to
the ground, while one foot idly scrapes the floor.
Mrs. Andrews notices you noticing him. A piece of
paper falls to the floor in front of her desk.
The last student to file out has reached the door.
"Oh Ivy," Mrs. Andrews calls out, "Could you come
here a minute?" The girl turns around. She is a
tiny thing compared to the rest of the class; her
dainty little feet don't even seem to measure out
to three times your height. Her mousy appearance
perfectly matches her personality. She stands at
the door timorously shaking. "No need to worry,"
Mrs. Andrews assures her, "I just need to ask you
something."
"Oh," Mrs. Andrews says, looking at you. "And I've
also got to see that you get to your class, don't
I? Hmmm. Well, would you rather wait for me here,
or can we think of someone else who can take you?"
Your eyes again point toward Pierre. You're still
Ivy, looking puzzled yet relieved, backs out the
door.
As Pierre walks you down the hallway, you start to
say to yourself, "What have I done? I just missed
a chance to let Mrs. Andrews hold me!" And Pierre
sure isn't Mrs. Andrews. Among other things, he's
still holding you too tightly -- which at least is
better than not holding you tightly enough.
Pierre brings you right to Dr. Gompers' classroom.
Then, he slips into a dark enclave of lockers, and
sets you down.
"What's the matter?" you ask.
"Sorry," he says, "but... do you mind walking into
the room alone?"
"Alone?" You know why -- he's still afraid to be
seen with you. "What a wimp!" you say to yourself.
"Alright," you say to him, "Stand back. Stand far
back. I'll go in alone."
As you walk away from him, you hear the clatter of
a locker being closed. Around the corner steps a
pair of girl's sandals. You look up; it's one of
Elissa's friends! You try hiding in the darkness,
but she spots you. A wicked grin flashes across
her face, and in a second she scoops you up. Her
long nails dig into your body as she holds you up
to her face. Then she throws you into her handbag
and runs off.
For a while you hear nothing but the sounds of the
corridor. Then you hear someone speaking Spanish,
and you realize that she's brought you into Senora
Mendoza's Spanish class.
Meanwhile (as you later find out) Pierre, who has
trailed this girl to her class, then runs back to
Mrs. Andrews in a panic. She finally gets out of
him that you were swiped up by Stacie Wilson, who
stashed you into her purse and is now holding you
in Sra Mendoza's classroom. Mrs. Andrews runs to
the class and calls out Sra Mendoza, who a moment
later asks Stacie Wilson to bring her things with
her and go with Mrs. Andrews. You hear Stacie as
she gathers up her things, and feel her fling her
purse (with you in it) around her shoulder. You
hear the brisk clicking of high heeled shoes and
the scuffing of sandals in what sounds like a now
empty corridor. The next thing you hear is Mrs.
Andrews' stern voice:
"Alright -- take him out of your bag."
"I ... I don't know what you mean." Stacie sounds
scared.
"Take Mark out of your bag. Now." Light enters
into her purse, Stacie's tremulous hand lifts you
out, and you see that you are now in Mrs. Andrews'
room again, facing Mrs. Andrews' stern face. You
then look up at Stacie's face. She's crying.
Mrs Andrews proceeds with the interrogation: "What
were you doing with him in your bag? What were
you planning to do with him?"
Between sobs, Stacie manages to answer, "I ... I
... don't ... know."
"Do you realize how serious this is, and how much
trouble you can get in for it?" Stacie hangs her
head and nods, still sobbing heavily. "In fact,"
Mrs. Andrews continues, "right now, your entire
future depends on one person."
Stacie raises her head, with a look of terror on
her face. Mrs. Andrews now addresses you. "Mark,
did you allow Stacie to put you in her purse like
that?"
"Oh great," you think to yourself, "Am I the one
now who has to get this stupid girl in trouble?"
You hate these moments (unless, of course, it's a
matter of getting your mother angry with Julie).
"Did you allow her to put you in her purse?" Mrs.
Andrews repeats. You nod. "You did?" Again you
nod. "You mean you purposely skipped Dr. Gompers'
class, so you could travel in Stacie's purse?" Oh
no! Is your lying for this dummy now going to get
you in trouble? Oh, well, you think, it's too late
to back out now. You nod again.
Stacie stares at you, gaping. "Now hand him over
to me," Mrs. Andrews says. Stacie does so. Mrs.
Andrews strokes your head as she addresses Stacie,
"You're a lucky young lady -- lucky that you chose
to abuse a boy who hates ratting on people."
Stacie's expression changes to one of puzzlement.
"That's right," continues Mrs. Andrews, "Now there
is at least one student in this school who knows.
Mark Letellier hates ratting on people. You hate
him, the whole student body hates him, for ratting
on the star football player, who by the way almost
killed him. But Mark didn't rat on Craig and the
others. He should have, but he refused to. And as
it turned out, he didn't have to. You know, there
was one other witness to what happened that day."
Mrs Andrews brings you up to her face. "Mark --
why don't you tell Stacie who that person is, the
person who really told on Craig and his buddies?"
Horrified, you shake your head with an adamant no.
"All right then, I'll do the ratting. I'll rat on
myself. I was the one who talked, not Mark; I was
the one got Craig and the others expelled."
Stacie stands there in shock. Mrs. Andrews hands
you back to her. "Here," she says. "Now tell him
you're sorry. Tell him you're sorry for being so
cruel to him."
Stacie begins sobbing again, hardly able to talk.
"I ... 'mmm ... sorry, ... I'm ... ssso ... sorry,
I ..."
"That's enough for now," Mrs. Andrews says, "Now
hand him back to me." You return to Mrs. Andrews'
soft, comforting hands. "And never forget what he
did for you here today," she adds. "After all you
did to him, he lied for you, even took the rap for
you, to save your skin. Because believe me, if he
had told me what you really did, I wouldn't have
hesitated to get you in trouble. Now get back to
your class."
Stacie, still heaving heavy sobs, gathers up her
things and dashes out of the room.
"Well," Mrs. Andrews says, smiling, "we sure
showed her, didn't we?"
But you aren't in a smiling mood. "Mrs. Andrews?"
"Mark?"
"Am ... am I in trouble?"
"In trouble? Why, honey, whatever makes you think
that?"
"Well, I... I told you I purposely skipped class."
"Oh, honey!" She kisses you impulsively, her lips
engulfing your whole face. "Don't you worry about
that. I know you really didn't."
"But then ... will I get in trouble for lying?"
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Andrews exclaims, as with her
finger she rubs all the lipstick off your face.
"Now that is a dilemma. But ... if you never
admit that you told a lie, and I never believe
that you really skipped class, how can you get in
trouble?"
"Yes, but I did ..."
"Hush!" She puts her finger to your lips (which
covers your whole face). "The next word you say
may get you in trouble for real; and we don’t want
that, do we?"
"No, but ... Mrs. Andrews?"
"Yes, Mark?"
"I don't ... want to be treated different from the
other kids."
Mrs. Andrews sets you down on the table. "Now,
why would I treat you differently from the other
kids?"
"Well, maybe because ... I'm smaller than the rest
of them, or because ... you like me."
"Mark," she replies, in an earnest tone, "If you
do anything that I consider worthy of punishment,
it will make no difference to me how small you are
or how much I like you, you will be punished, just
like anybody else. No special favors. Haven't I
already shown you how angry I can get with you,
when you deserve it?"
You have to smile as you acknowledge that.
"All right, then; no more of this silly talk about
being treated differently, okay?" You nod.
“Cross your heart?” She traces the cross over
your chest with her fingernail. You wince, then
try to cover up, hoping she didn’t notice.
“What was that about?” she asks. Her piercing
eyes stare down at you. “Did Stacie do something
to hurt you?” You try to brush the question off.
“Come on, let me see. Lift up your shirt.”
You pull down your shirt instead.
“I told your mother I would take over her job for
her during school hours. So if you don’t lift up
your shirt, I’ll have to do it.” You comply. Now
Mrs. Andrews winces, as she sees on your chest the
deep red indentation left by Stacie’s fingernail.
“Turn around now” Her finger guides your shoulder
around as you display your back to her, and she
sees the same markings of fingernails cut from
your shoulder blade to your belt.
She turns you around again. “Did she press her
nails down into your backside?” You again try to
evade the question, averting your eyes from her
gaze.
“If you don’t answer me, I’ll have to take a look
in there myself.” You stare up at her, horrified.
“Well, tell me then. Did she?” You drop your
chin to your chest, and shake your head yes.
“Oh! These kids are ... beyond cruel!” she cries,
shutting her eyes tight enough to squeeze tears
out of them. She opens them and sighs, looks down
at you and offers you an open palm for you to lay
down on. As you do so, she picks you up and
begins rubbing your rear end with her finger.
“Well, at least now maybe the kids will ease up on
you, once Stacie tells everyone what she knows.
You may even make a few friends." She sets you
down again and smiles. “Wouldn’t that be nice?
Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
You smile, but then get serious again. You have
something to say, but don't know if you can get it
out.
"Mrs Andrews?"
"Is there something still wrong, Mark?"
"No, no! But ... well ..." Your throat tightens
up. your voice begins to shake. "It will be nice
to find me some friends and all, but ..." Your
voice cracks. "But you ... you're my ... I mean I
... I don't need any more friends than ... the one
I've got."
"Oh Mark!" She whispers, as the tears come to her
eyes again, but now with her face lit up in a
smile. “You really know how to make a girl cry.”
“And ... Mrs. Andrews?”
“Yes, honey?”
“I ... I wish I were bigger.”
“What are you saying?”
“Well, like ... you do so many nice things for me,
and ... I can’t ...”
“No Mark, stop that!” she says as she lifts you up
and caresses you, “You’re my hero.”
“I know, but ... my Mom says that, too. Like when
she drops something and it rolls under the couch
and she asks me to walk under the couch and get
it. And then she tells me I’m her hero. But I
know she could have gone on her knees and gotten
it herself; because sometimes she has to, like if
it’s too heavy for me. But, if I were big, then
... I could do something big.”
“Mark,” she says, “I can’t tell you how many big
things you’ve already done for me. And that makes
you the biggest kid in this school, as far as I’m
concerned.” You hug her thumb, as she kisses you
again. “But, oh dear,” she says, as she sets you
down and straightens herself up. “We'd better be
careful what we say here. There’s someone in this
room who may be listening.” She looks to the back
of the room. You look too, and see ...
She looks to the back of the room. You look too,
and see what appears to be Pierre. He's seated in
a dark corner, up against a wall, with his elbows
on his knees and face in his hands.
"Oh, Mr. Apat!" Mrs. Andrews calls out, startling
him. "Are you going to stay back there all day?"
Pierre leaps out of his chair. "No Ma'am, Mrs.
Andrews."
"Well then," she continues, "why not come up here
and join us?"
"Yes Ma'am, Mrs. Andrews." Self-consciously the
boy walks up to the two of you, hanging his head.
"Is something troubling you, Pierre?" she asks.
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Do you feel that you ought to share it with us?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"What do you have to say, Pierre?"
"I ... I didn't mean to hurt him."
"Who -- Mark?" He nods. "How did you hurt him?"
"I left him in the hall outside of his class, and
... and ..."
"... and Stacie got him."
He clears a lump in his throat. "Yes, Ma'am."
"Well then, you didn't really hurt him. But you
feel like you hurt him, don't you?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Why do you feel that way?"
"Because I ... I let Stacie hurt him."
"And why did you do that?"
"Because I was ... afraid."
"Afraid?" she asks. "Afraid of what?"
"Afraid that everybody would hate me ... "
"... the way they hate him?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"... if you were seen with him?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
She folds her hands on her desk and leans forward.
"Pierre, come up closer to me." He steps right up
to the desk. "You know that what you did to Mark
today was very cowardly."
You can't imagine that a person's head could drop
any lower. But his now does. "Yes, Ma'am."
"You're over fifty times taller than Mark is, and
yet Mark is over fifty times braver than you are."
He heaves a heavy sigh.
"Now, do you think that a friendship with somebody
like you would be worth Mark's while?"
"No, Ma'am."
"No?" She now looks down at you. "Mark, what do
you think? Do you think Pierre is worth having
for a friend?"
"No!" your brain shouts out to you, as the sound
of "No! No! No!" reverberates in your head. But
you're not going to shout that out loud, for the
poor dumb kid to hear. So you merely shrug your
shoulders.
"Mark hates to commit himself on such things," she
explains to Pierre, "especially when doing so will
hurt someone's feelings; which is really very nice
of him, don't you think?"
Pierre doesn't respond.
"Well," she goes on, "Neither one of you has asked
me what I think about any of this. So what I asked
each of you, I guess I'm just going to have to ask
myself." She sets her elbow upon the desk and her
hand on her chin, in a pondering pose. "So, what
do I think? Do I think that Pierre Apat is worth
having for a friend?"
"What is she doing?" you ask yourself. You know
how she can be a tease, but all this goes beyond
teasing, beyond playful. It's positively cruel,
given that you know her answer is going to be ...
"Yes, I think that a boy like Pierre would make an
ideal friend for a boy like Mark."
Pierre's head springs up, his eyes bugging out in
shock. Yet he can't be as shocked as you are.
"WHAT???" you ask yourself. "Pierre -- a friend?
"A kid so goony that his gooniness lands you in a
hostile girl's clutches? A kid who hangs out with
the varsity football team, the one bunch of guys
who probably hate you more than anyone else in the
whole school? A kid so klutzy he can't even hold
you in his hand without practically squeezing you
to death? She expects me to make a friend with a
kid like that? What's gotten into her?"
"Does that surprise you?" she asks Pierre. "Well,
Mark is looking for somebody like you. He's just
told me how much he wants to do something big for
somebody. And he can do big things for you. He
can pass onto you a share of his courage, of his
strength of character. Isn't that what you want?"
Pierre nods his head.
"She hasn't asked me what I want!" you fume.
"Of course, I could be wrong." she says, "Perhaps
Mark doesn't really want to do something as big as
that. He may have just been talking, or maybe he
only meant all of that talk for me. But somehow I
don't think so. Even if he doesn't quite realize
it yet, I really do think he would like you for a
friend. But then, that's not for me to decide, is
it?" She now looks down at you. "So what do you
say, Mark? Are you willing to give Pierre here a
second chance?"
"What do I say?" You certainly don't want to say
out loud what you're thinking. Just a moment ago
you poured out to her all of your feelings for her
(and that took alot for you to do); then the next
thing you know, she's misusing words meant for her
alone for this goon's benefit. You feel betrayed.
But you can't say any of that. So you stand there
in stony silence.
"Mark," she says, "You've already done so much for
me. But I'm now asking you to do even more -- not
only for Pierre, but for me, too. Extend yourself
now to this classmate of yours, and you will prove
to me that you really are the man I think you are.
Pierre needs somebody like you in his life. And
believe it or not, you also need him. You may be
figuring that now the school's attitude toward you
is going to change, and you will no longer require
Pierre's services. But you'll still need to find
among your classmates a friend who was willing to
be your friend when nobody else was. You'll need
to find among your classmates a real friend. And
you will find such a person in nobody but Pierre."
"But," you say, "I ... I don’t even know him."
"Well then," Mrs. Andrews says, "Why don't you get
to know him -- right now. Find out why he is the
way he is. You may even discover that you and he
have a lot more in common than you have imagined.
What do you say? Are you willing to give it a try"
She's pretty persuasive, pretty understanding, and
... pretty all over. So you agree to her proposal.
"So Pierre," she says, turning back to him, "Mark
says he would like to get to know you better. What
would you like to
"What would you like to tell him about yourself?"
Pierre sputtered and stammered, until Mrs. Andrews
intervened.
"Alright then. Let's start at why you came to aid
Mark in the first place."
"Because ... because ... he helped me."
"Helped you? How did Mark help you?"
"He helped me get on the football team. I mean, I
am not really on the football team, but ... maybe
I can be now."
"Hmmm. What position would you like to play?"
"I would like to pass the ball to the runner."
"You mean you would like to play quarterback?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"And that was Craig Bradley's position?"
"Yes, Ma'am. And now, maybe it will be mine. But
the coach, he does not give me the chance alot to
try."
All this is not going over too well with you. The
one reason why this kid didn't turn against you is
because he wanted Bradley out of the picture. The
jerk's an opportunist. And that makes him no more
of a real friend than anyone else.
Curiously, Mrs. Andrews seems not to notice any of
this. She skips over it as she continues with her
interview. "I see. But why are you so anxious to
be on the football team?"
"They tell me maybe then I can get the scholarship
to the college, and then I go there. But I cannot
go to the college without the scholarship."
"No? Your family can't afford a college tuition?"
"Oh, no Ma'am, my family, it cannot. We are poor.
Even before my father dies, we are poor. But then
he dies, and mon mére, she knows not what to do at
the first. But then the lady she meet, she say to
her, 'Go to the States, and you find work there to
feed the family.'"
"How many are in your family, Pierre?"
"My brothers and sisters, we are eight. And I am
oldest of the rest."
"You're the oldest? And your mother has to support
you all? Shouldn't you help your mother and family
by getting a job yourself?"
"Yes, Ma'am. I would do. But mon ... my mother,
she say to me, 'Go to the college first, because
that will more help the family.' But I need the
scholarship first, or I cannot. Then the coach,
he give me only the one chance to show him how I
throw the football. But my foot, it slip on the
grass, and so the ball I throw not so good. But
then he say maybe he will try me again sometime.
So now I wait."
At this point, you are beginning to feel a little
ashamed of your initial reaction.
Mrs. Andrews continues. "You would like to impress
Coach Boggs on the football field. But here we're
hoping you can impress Mark. And I don't that you
have impressed him all that much so far. So far he
only knows that you feel strangely indebted to him
for a favor which he had no intention - absolutely
no intention - of bestowing upon you. In fact, he
may even resent your benefiting from what has been
for him a traumatic and painful experience. Can't
you think up any other reasons why a boy like Mark
ought to accept you as a friend?"
Pierre thinks hard for a moment. "Well ... yes
Ma'am, Mrs. Andrews." he finally replies. "Mark
and I, we have many ways that are much the same."
"You're much the same in many ways?" Mrs. Andrews
asks. "And in what ways are you much the same?"
"We are much the same because we are ... much the
different."
"Pierre! How silly that sounds! You're much the
same because you're much different?"
Pierre thinks about what he just said, and smiles.
"Why, Pierre!" Mrs. Andrews says, "What a lovely
smile you have! You ought to show it more often!"
"Yes, Ma'am. But I do. At my home, I do. All of
my friends and relatives, they call me the smiling
boy. But in school, I do not, because no one will
smile with me. Because I am different."
Mrs. Andrews now turns to you. "Do you understand
what Pierre is saying? He is saying that what the
two of you have in common is that both you and he
are different from the other students. You differ
from them because you are so little. But how does
Pierre differ from them?"
"Ummm ... because he is, ummm ... black?"
"No, we have quite a few African-American students
in our school, mixed in with students of a variety
of other ancestries. But Pierre isn't really what
you would call 'African-American.' He grew up in a
different country and culture, speaks a different
language, may even practice a different religion."
She turns back to Pierre. "Where did you grow up,
Pierre?"
"Martinique is where I grow up, Ma'am."
"And tell Mark what is the language spoken in your
country."
"We speak French, and much Creole."
"Mark's family speaks French, too." Mrs. Andrews
comments. "Or at least they did. Do any of your
relatives still speak French, Mark?"
"I know my father's family comes from Canada." you
reply. "My grandparents -- his parents -- grew up
there, but now they're living up in New Hampshire.
They speak English to me and Julie and my mom, but
they speak French to each other."
"Well then, you and Pierre have a bit of heritage
in common -- at least in terms of a language. Not
too many other students in this school could claim
even that much. And Pierre," Mrs. Andrews says as
she turns to him, "If you don't mind my asking, is
your family a religious one?"
"Much religious, yes, Ma'am."
"And what religion do you practice?"
"We are Catholic people, Ma'am."
"And you know your catechism?"
"Ah yes, Ma'am. My aunt, she is the nun, and she
teach me all."
"A practicing Catholic. That's kind of different,
too -- at least in this part of the country. Isn't
it, Mark?"
"Well yes," you say, "But ... I'm Catholic."
Mrs. Andrews' face lights up. "So there, you see?
You have that in common, too. You share the same
beliefs and values. What could be more important
than that?"
For the first time, you and Pierre smile at each
other. Pierre looks at Mrs. Andrews, "And you,
Ma'am?" he asks, then covers his mouth, for fear
he spoke out of turn.
"That's okay, Pierre" she smiles. "Let's just say
that we three form quite a little minority." She
laughs, and you and Pierre laugh, too.
"So," she adds with a smile, "If we all share the
same beliefs and values, our differences shouldn't
mean much, should they? They can only help. Now
you, Pierre, can learn from Mark what it's like to
be so different in size, and you, Mark, can learn
from Pierre what it's like to be in different in
culture. So, what do you say? Was it worthwhile
getting to know each other?"
Sheepishly but sincerely the two of you nod in the
affirmative.
"Good. Now, let's get the two of you back to your
classes. Mark I can carry to Dr. Gompers' myself,
and Pierre, where should you be this period?"
"Mrs. Beasley class, Ma'am."
"Youch! Let me write you out a note." She grabs a
piece of memo paper and a pencil and scribbles out
a permission slip, which she then hands to Pierre.
"There. If she still has any problem, tell her to
speak with me about it."
"Thank you, Ma'am."
"Good," she replies. "Now off you go." As Pierre
leaves the room, she scoops you up and follows him
out the door. As you arrive at Dr. Gompers' door,
she waves Pierre off, who continues down the hall.
She then knocks on the door, and quietly opens it.
Apologizing for interupting, she takes you to your
seat and leaves you for whatever little remains of
the class.
At the end of class Julie arrives as usual. As she
slips in to fetch you, she feels a tap on her left
shoulder. She turns and sees standing before her a
teary-eyed Stacie.
"Can ... can I please carry him to his next class,
or to ... wherever?" Stacie pleads.
Julie stares Stacie down with a contempuous snear,
and replies with a nasty "No." Stacie bursts into
tears and runs out the room.
You yell up at Julie: "What did you do that for?"
"What did I do that for? Why shouldn't I do that?"
she yells in reply. "What's going on here?"
"Oh -- I'll tell you later. Pierre!" you cry out.
Pierre, who has just arrived on the scene, hurries
in. "Quick, pick me up and catch up with Stacie!"
you cry. Pierre grabs you and runs for the door.
"Pierre? Stacie? What IS going on here?" Julie
cries.
"I'll tell you later!" you cry back to her as you
fly out the door, catching your final glimpse of a
flabbergasted Julie, and a few feet behind her, an
even more flabbergasted Elissa.
Pierre rushes down the corridor, brushing past one
person after another, until you reach Stacie. You
try calling to her, but either she can't hear your
teeny voice or she's too upset to turn around.
"Hold me up to her ear," you tell Pierre. He does
so (which can't be easy, since he's also trying to
keep up with Stacie's fast pace), and you yell out
her name. You startle her; she comes to an abrupt
halt and turns around. Pierre now holds you up to
her face; she's staring back at you; you can still
see the tears glistening in her reddened eyes. So
what do you say to her?
"Um ... hi!" you say, as you self-consciously pick
at your fingernails.
"Hi," she replies, trying to smile.
"Um ... Pierre here is carrying me now," you say,
looking down at your fingers. "but ... you can
carry me sometime ... if you want."
"Oh ... that's good."
"Ya. And ... Julie doesn't know anything yet. But
I'll talk to her. She'll be okay."
"Okay."
"Ya, well ... okay. So, I guess ... um ... I'll
see you."
"Okay."
You wish that Pierre would pull you away now. But
he keeps holding you in her face. And Stacie isn't
sure how to pull away from you. So you just stare
at each other for a bit. Then she lowers her head
and begins to cry.
"Don't cry," you whisper to her. "I didn't mean
to make you cry."
"I hurt you."
"No you didn't. Really -- I'm okay."
"No, I hurt you." she says again, and holds out a
tissue from her purse, with a little bloodstain on
it -- at which she sobs harder.
"Oh, that ... that's nothing. Mrs. Andrews doesn't
know anything about it. Look -- the stain matches
my shirt. So it's okay."
"No it's not okay. You're so tiny and I'm this ...
big enormous thing, and ... I hurt you. And now I
don't know what to do."
"What to do?"
"I'd do anything."
"I don't think you have to do anything. Except
maybe ... be my friend."
Stacie looks up. "What?"
"Will you be my ... will you be our friend?"
"Your friend?' she asks increduously.
"Well ... if you don't want to, that's okay, too."
"Oh -- no. Really I ... I want so much to be your
friend. But I can't. I hurt you."
"Yeah but, so what? Everyone makes mistakes." For
the first time you see her smile. "So what do you
say?"
She nods her head.
"Great!" you say, holding out your hand to her.
"Shake on it?"
She moves her hand forward to shake it in yours,
then hesistates as she compares their sizes.
"Look," Pierre says. "Shake it like this." And
he shows her how to shake your hand with his thumb
and forefinger. Stacie then tries. She's a little
rough, but that's okay. She's nervous, after all.
"Thanks," you say. "I'm ... I'm really happy."
"Me, too." she says.
"And Stacie?" you say, a little embarrassed. "You
were wrong. I know I'm tiny, but ... you're not a
big enormous thing. Mrs. Beasley is a big enormous
thing. You're just right."
She smiles. "And you're just right."
What do you say to that? "Um ... wanna come to
lunch with us?" She nods. "Great. Let's go."
"Wait." Pierre says. "Maybe Stacie, she would like
to hold you to there."
"Hey yeah. Stacie ... could you carry me, please?"
She nods and holds out her hand. Pierre places you
in it. You see her long nails, the nails that dug
so hard into you before, close in on you.
"I won't hurt you." she says.
"I know you won't," you say.
She smiles down at you, wrapped up in her hand,
for a few moments. Then she looks up and sees,
glaring just inches away from her --
"Elissa!"
"What are you doing?" Elissa snarls.
"Oh! No, Liss -- no! It's okay! Really it is!"
"Keep away from me!" Elissa whacks Stacie's hand
away -- with you in it. Stacie tightens her grip
to keep from losing hold of you: and squeezes the
breath out of you. She runs after Elissa, unaware
that you're gasping for air in her still clenched
fist.
"But Liss! You gotta listen! It wasn't Mark! It
was Mrs. Andrews!"
Elissa quickens her pace. Stacie eventually gives
up following her. She stands in the hall, yelling
out a last time: "Liss! Listen!" But Elissa turns
a corner and disappears. Stacie just stands there,
sighs, and relaxes her grip on you -- much to your
relief.
"She's mad at me." Stacie says, holding you up to
her chest.
"Because of me." you say.
"Yeah." She stares away from you and sighs.
"I'm sorry," you say. She doesn't reply. You
clear the lump in your throat and say, "If you
don't want to be my friend, ... "
"No, I do," she replies. "But .... she wouldn't
listen to me, and ... "
" ... and now everyone will hate you."
"Yeah."
"Yeah, so ... if you don't want to be my friend,
I'll understand."
She looks down at you. "Really?"
"Yeah. So hand me back to Pierre." She does so,
hesitantly. "And now ... go. Go back to Elissa."
"But ... "
"It's okay, because ... It's really awful to have
the whole school hate you, and ... I don't want to
see the whole school hate you on account of me. So
just go. I'll understand. But if you don't go ...
Elissa won't understand. Right?"
"Well yeah, but ... "
"So go. I'll know what's really ... in your heart.
And that'll make me feel better."
"But ... "
"I'm telling you it's okay. Now go!"
"Well ... okay then. Thanks." You watch Stacie
turn away from you and walk down the hall out of
sight.
"Would you like that I take you to lunch now?"
Pierre asks.
"I'm not hungry anymore." You say. "I just want to
find my sister."
Julie isn't hard to find; she's been standing next
to a nearby locker, seeing and hearing everything.
You ask Pierre to hand you to her. You and she go
to a stone bench outside, where you fill her in on
everything else that happened in the last three or
four hours.
You endure the next couple of hours of class. You
finally are back in your own car, back in your own
driveway, back in your own home. You ask your mom
please to excuse you from dinner. Julie tells her
that you had no lunch, but Mom picks up on how low
you're feeling, and lets you go to bed.
You lie awake in bed for what seems to be a really
long time. You finally begin dozing off, when you
hear the doorbell ring.
You hear voices downstairs, which fade away as you
doze off again.
'CLICK!' The harsh light above your bed forces you
back to consciousness. You feel your mom's finger
settle on you and begin gently to shake you awake.
You pretend to remain asleep, keeping your back to
her.
"Mark, honey. There's someone here to see you."
You refuse to budge. You soon feel her hand come
over your bed, lift it up and turn it so that now
you're facing her. You roll away from her again.
"Come on, honey. It's a friend."
"I got no friends."
"Julie tells me that you do have a friend -- a boy
named Pierre."
"Oh -- Pierre! Tell him ... to call me tomorrow."
You hear your mother whispering to someone else in
the room. You then feel another person's presence
peeking into your dollhouse.
"Hi Mark." That sure isn't Pierre's voice. It's
a girl's voice; but not Julie's. You turn around
and open your eyes.
"Stacie!" You suddenly feel silly, exposed to her
as you are, on top of your sheets in your pajamas.
"Hi." She seems embarrassed by the situation, too.
Why don't moms have more sense about such things?
"Yeah. Um ... hi." you reply, as you sit up and do
your best to keep from looking uncool.
"Um ... Elissa told me that I had to promise never
to talk to you again, and I did, but ... then when
my dad came home, I told him about it, and he said
that ... I was wrong to listen to you, because ...
he said it sounds to him like ... you're the only
real friend I have, and so ... I changed my mind."
"Yeah, but Stacie," you remind her. "Everybody in
school hates me."
"I told that to my dad, and he said ... um ... he
said: 'Anybody who doesn't have any enemies isn't
worth having for a friend.'"
"Oh. Wow -- your dad sounds pretty cool."
"Yeah. You wanna meet him? He's downstairs."
"Um ... sure." You look down self-consciously at
your attire.
"My fingers can, like ... cover up your peejays if
you want."
"Oh! Um ... okay." You say. Her fingers enter the
dollhouse and wrap around your entire body. Only
your head and feet show. She supresses a smile as
she notices your bare toes sticking out just below
her clenched pinky. She can't resist touching them
with a finger of her free hand, thrilling to watch
them wiggle in response as she runs the tip of her
finger back and forth across them.
"I'm sorry," she says, "But they're so tiny, and
so ... so CUTE!" Boy, do you feel your face get
red. She gives your toes a mischievious little
kiss, and carries you downstairs to her father.
"Hey dad! This is Mark." She holds you out to him.
"Well, so this is the young man I've heard so much
about. Nice to meet you, Mark." Without thinking,
he extends his hand to shake yours. And you with-
out thinking wriggle your arm out over her fingers
to accept his handshake. So much for hiding your
pajamas.
"No, dad. You shake his hand like this." Stacie
demonstrates with her thumb and forefinger. Her
father's attempt is pretty rough, but what else
can you expect?
"Well," your mom asks, after an awkward silence,
"Would you and Stacie care for something to eat?"
No, thank you," Mr. Wilson says, "We've already
eaten, and ..."
He notices Stacie's pleading expression.
"Oooh, that's right -- Stacie wasn't feeling up to
eating this evening." He throws his arm around her
shoulder and draws her close to him. "In fact, I
don't think she felt well enough to eat all day --
except for breakfast." He looks down at her as he
strokes her arm. "Feeling better now, See-see?"
She rests her head on his chest, looks up to him
and nods. "I think we've got ourselves a hungry
little girl here," Mr. Wilson says to your mother,
"who'd be happy to accept your kind invitation."
"And you, Mr. Wilson?" your mother asks.
“JULIE!” Uh-oh. Mom’s caught your act from the
window over the kitchen sink. “How many times
have I told you not to do that?”
“But Ma,” she argues, “He likes it!”
“Oh I know that! Hand him up to me -- now.” Julie
hands you over to Stacie, who hands you up to your
mother. She starts washing off your feet under a
trickle from the faucet. “I don’t want you to let
Julie do that to you,” she scolds.
“But Mom, it’s funny.”
“It’s rude and ill-mannered, especially in front
of company.”
“Oh Ma -- it’s just Stacie.”
“Yes, and I don’t want her or anyone else to think
they can treat you that way.” She grabs your face
between her thumb and forefinger. “Understand me?”
“Yeah.”
“All right then. Go back out to the girls.” She
lets go of your head, spanks you lightly with her
finger, and sets you down at the hole cut into the
porch door. As you walk through it and slide down
the string next to the stair, you grumble to your-
self, "How about the way you treat me? What other
kid my age has a mom who still spanks him?"
You walk over to the couch and holler up at Julie
(who is just finishing cleaning herself up). "Mom
says you can't eat off my feet anymore." She pouts
for a second, then brightens up.
"Well then, how about ... ?"
She bends down and grabs you, then reaches over to
a shelf full of knack-knacks and grabs the handle
of an odd-looking old tea kettle, long, narrow and
squat. She opens up the lid and drops you inside.
She wipes some tarnish off the rim of the lid and
applies it to your face, whispers a few words to
you, pushes you down and shuts the lid.
She sits in a lotus position, holds up the kettle
by the handle, shuts her eyes and begins a series
of bogus incantations, as she solemnly rubs the
kettle on its side. At the words:
‘Ali-ka-zam-ali-ka-BLAM!’
You pop out of the kettle, and leap into her open
hand. You squat down on her palm, with your feet
still bare and your pajama bottoms rolled up, and
now your pajama top wrapped around your head like
a turban, your arms folded across your bare chest,
and a smudge on your chin like a goatee. You bow
waist-deep to the ground, and announce: “I am zee
Teenie Genie Weenie, zee genie of zee lamp. Your
wish is my command.”
“Now,” Julie says to Stacie, “we've got three
wishes. And he has to do whatever we say.”
"What do we wish for?" Stacie asks.
"Wait a second," Julie replies. She screws up her
face and cocks her head. You know that look, only
too well. You can almost see the gears in her head
begin to engage. She is activating that devilish
imagination of hers, which in full tilt, churns
up the wackiest ideas -- usually at your expense.
You never can figure out why you let her abuse you
like this, why you always agree to go along with
her, and never call upon your mother to stop her,
except that ... well ... Julie's schemes are so
often so hilariously ... and so diabolically ...
funny. And you're a sucker for anything funny.
"Hmmm," Julie ponders aloud "The Swami-Mommy has
forbidden us to eat off the Teenie-Genie-Weenie's
feet."
"Yes," you add, "and the Teenie-Genie-Weenie has
no power to disobey the Swami-Mommy."
"Right. But the Swami-Mommy has not yet forbidden
the Teenie-Genie-Weenie to eat off OUR feet!"
At that she swipes you up, barges through the door
to the house and bounds up the stairs.
"What are you up to?" Your mother cries out in a
sing-songy tone of apprehension.
"Nothing Ma!" Julie calls back.
As you reach the top of the stairs, you cry out
for Julie to stop. She ignores you, and slips
into your mom's bedroom.
"Julie," you cry, as she sets you on the bed and
begins rifling through your mom’s sewing kit, "if
Mom catches me eating off your feet ..."
"Oh, you're not going to eat off MY feet."
"Huh? ... you mean ... No!" you cry, as you leap
to the corner of the bed and scramble halfway down
the covers -- until Julie’s thumb and forefinger
clasp your sides and pry you off. She sets you
belly-down on her shoulder, drops her tank top
strap, lifts her bra strap, and slides you snugly
under it. You bite her shoulder.
“Ow,” she says, as she continues rummaging through
your mom’s sewing things. “Stop that.”
"I won't!" You yell back, as you struggle to free
yourself from her bra strap’s hold. Julie sees
your progress in the mirror, pushes you back in
place, tightens the strap, and returns to her
search. You bite her again. Other than a slight
twitch, she ignores it
“I’m not gonna do this!” You yell to her. “And
you can’t make me!”
"Of course I can," she says calmly, as she
continues to rummage through the sewing kit.
"You're the Teenie-Genie- Weenie, and you have to
do whatever I say. That's the rule."
For some dumb reason, you accept this line of
argument without question.
"Yeah, well ... then why don't you be the Teenie-
Genie-Weenie?"
She stops her search and looks at you in the
mirror. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"Cuz, Stupid," she says, scrunching up her face at
you. "I'm not teenie-weenie."
Her attention switches back to the sewing kit.
You start to whimper.
"Don't be such a baby." She says, preoccupied.
"It's not like it’s going to hurt.”
“It better not.”
“Oh, like eating off somebody’s foot could hurt.
Ah!” She uncovers a final prop for her act.
“Besides,” she adds, as she closes up the sewing
kit, “I never hurt you.”
You groan.
“What’s your problem?”
“You’re hurting me now.”
“What?” She looks in the mirror, and notices the
buckle of her bra strap digging into your back.
“Ooh!” She lifts the strap and pulls you out,
then rubs your reddened back and kisses it. She
presses you against her cheek. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean it.”
Here sweetness at moments like this makes it all
the harder to defy her crazy schemes.
She holds you up to her face. “You okay?” You
nod. “Good. Let’s go.” With her free hand she
begins to gather up her collection of props off
the dresser.
“But what’s Stacie gonna think?” You ask.
“She’ll think it’s funny.”
“What if she thinks it’s gross?”
“She won’t, cuz it won’t be. We’re gonna do it
right.” She notices your skeptical expression,
and adds, “You’ll see. Even Mom would say so.”
You grimace in disbelief. “Alright,” she concurs,
“But Mom’s too picky. Come on.” With you in one
hand and her props in the other, she hurries out
the door and down the stairs.
“I hope you’re treating your brother right!” Your
mother intones.
“No problem, Ma!” Julie sings back to her.
Julie goes back out on the porch and sits again on
the couch next to Stacie, setting you down upon a
nearby table.
"Okay, Stacie," she says, "in order for our wish
to come true, you've got to take off your sandals
and close your eyes." Stacie does so. Julie then
lowers her face to the table and whispers her plan
to you. She then sets you down on the ground. As
she prepares materials for her act from the couch,
she has you prepare things on the floor. As usual,
the idea is not only screwy, but elaborate.
Stacie starts to fidget. "Can I open my eyes yet?"
she asks.
"No, wait till I say so." Julie replies, intent on
her preparations.
Finally she announces: "Okay, Stacie, open up your
eyes and look down."
Stacie does so, and finds you, the Teenie-Genie-
Weenie, standing before her left foot. From behind
you, you whip out a rectangular piece of tissue,
pin-pricked to resemble a lace table cloth, which
you spread out length-wise across her big toe. You
next step in between this toe and its neighboring
toe, and nestle down into a lotus position.
You clap your hands. “Food!” you cry out. As you
rest your elbows on Stacie’s second toe, Julie’s
right hand descends toward you. She has turned her
entire hand into a puppet, which she introduces as
your slave. The top part of her index finger has
a bearded face drawn on it, its tip is wrapped up
in a turban, while the rest of the hand is covered
in a cloth as if in a robe. Her thumb and middle
finger, now functioning as a pair of arms, carry a
big white button, whose concave side holds a lump
of pizza. Her finger bows profoundly to you, sets
the button down upon Stacie’s big toe, again bows
profoundly, and withdraws. You reach forward, rip
off a portion of pizza, and sample it.
You clap your hands again. “Drink!” you cry out,
as you rest your elbows on her second toe. Again
your puppet-slave descends, bows profoundly to you
and sets before you on Stacie’s big toe a thimble-
ful of Coke, bows profoundly again and withdraws.
You lean forward and with effort lift the thimble
to your lips, taking a sip and carefully setting
it back down on the toe.
You clap your hands a third time, and as you rest
your elbows on her second toe, cry out: “Bring on
the dancing girls!” Now Julie shoves her feet up
to your face. On each of her ten toes she had you
draw a female face, which you then veiled in gauze
so that only the eyes are showing. She wiggles her
toes seductively at you, while she hums in a reedy
voice an appropriately exotic tune.
At this you can no longer hold back, and burst out
laughing. So does Julie. So does Stacie. But when
Stacie does she forgets herself, and moves her own
toes, which upsets your table. The thimble of Coke
falls over and splashes out. You jump up onto her
other toes to avoid getting wet. The Coke totally
drenches her big toe, and the tissue on top of it.
You scoot forward off her toes to survey the mess.
You try to use the tissue to soak up the Coke, but
it falls apart, and some bits of it even bunch up
and tangle into the hairs on her toe's knuckle.
It's a yucky end to a very funny first wish.
Julie hands down to you a snippet of cloth.
"Here," she says, "you'd better clean her up."
You accept the cloth from her and bow. "Your wish
is my command."
"What?" She cries. "No -- I didn't mean -- that's
not fair!"
"It is too fair, and you know it. It's the rule."
You had her there. Once you have played out one
of her wishes, you have the right to consider any
statement she puts in the form of a request or a
command to be a separate wish. In other words,
Julie just accidently wasted her second wish.
She mopes for a moment, until the mischief in her
eyes lights up again. "Okay then. You clean her
up. But you gotta do it my way. That's the rule."
She jumps to her feet and bursts again through the
door into the house, leaving you behind this time.
As you hear her bounding back up the stairs, your
mother cries out: "What are you up to now?"
She yells back: "Just having fun, Ma!"
You can hear her tromping up on the second floor,
and especially can hear from the bathroom window
above you the sound of her rummaging through one
drawer after another.
As you listen, you are sitting on one of Stacie's
toes. She twitches it unexpectedly, throwing you
upward onto her foot.
"Oops!" she says, looking down at you. "Sorry."
"That's okay," you say, as you look up at her from
your new vantage point.
The two of you gaze at each other for a moment, as
both of you listen to Julie's activities upstairs.
Finally, Stacie speaks.
"Your sister is kind of ... um ..."
You finish her sentence: "...Crazy."
"Um ... yeah."
Julie bounds back down the stairs and barges again
through the porch door, her hands now full of her
latest props. Your mother sticks her head out the
kitchen window.
"What kind of fun?" she asks Julie.
Julie holds up a container of liquid soap. "Clean
fun," she says. Your mother frowns, as she returns
her head back inside to attend to her work.
Julie drops her materials on the table next to her
side of the couch, then reaches down and snatches
you up. With her back to Stacie, she whispers to
you her latest scheme, sets you on the table and
begins to prepare. You slip behind the lamp, as
one by one she hands around to you each new piece
of your costume. After a few minutes, she puts
the last of her tools aside and turns to Stacie.
"And now, the further adventures of your favorite
cartoon hero: Captain Spongepants!”
That's your cue. You leap out from behind the lamp
and strike a pose, hands on hips, a mask over your
eyes, cape about the shoulders, and a sponge where
your pants ought to be. (Julie cut out a roundish
piece from an old scouring sponge, gouged a hole
in its center, and made you squeeze into it.)
Stacie screws up her face. “Captain Spongepants?
Who’s that?”
“I don’t know," Julie says, "I just made him up.”
Now Julie plugs in a hair dryer, turns it on its
low setting, and hands it over to Stacie. "Here,"
she says, "point this toward me." She then picks
you up and holds you by your sides in front of the
blast of wind. You stretch yourself out, Superman
style, as your cape flaps in the breeze. Julie
dips you up and down, left and right, to simulate
the turbulence of flight. Your masked eyes scan
the world below you.
"What is it that Captain Spongepants sees? Oh no!
His archenemy, the evil Coke Fiend, has claimed a
new victim!" Julie yanks out the plug of the hair
dryer with one hand, and with the other lowers you
feet first, setting you down at Stacie's big toe.
"Can Captain Spongepants save her in time?" asks
announcer Julie.
You whip off your cape. "Soap!" you cry out. "I
must find soap!" As you look about, Julie grabs a
glass of soapy water off the table. She picks you
up, making it look as if you leap up onto the tall
glass in a single bound, then dunks you into it up
to your waist, until the sponge is saturated. She
now makes it look like you jump back down onto the
floor; then she lets go of you.
You hop onto Stacie's big toe and straddle it. You
proceed to clean it off with your spongy backside,
as Julie bops out a rhumba beat:
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
Your rear end jerks backward and forward in sync
with the beat:
updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!
You inch your way up Stacie’s toe. As soon as you
have cleaned the top of her toe, you dismount and
begin with your butt to clean the toe’s sides.
updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!
As you move your rear up and down against Stacie's
toe, you grasp tightly to the sponge, making sure
it keeps its place in front. But you fail to see
how it's holding up in the rear. Julie, however,
notices.
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Stacie notices too. She can't contain herself any
longer. She picks you up and, with the tip of her
nail, pushes the sponge further down, just enough
to expose the rest of your buttocks in their full
glory.
"Eeeeeeeee!" she squeals, "How totally CUTE!" Her
finger pats your cheeks, caresses your cheeks; her
thumb and finger squeeze and nip your cheeks. Then
her eye catches your other set of cheeks, the ones
attached to your face. They're beet red.
"Oh!" Stacie cries. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't
thinking." She taps the sponge back up, and holds
you up to her face. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.
You shake your head no, but with eyes cast down.
"Oh, you poor little guy" she says, as she nestles
you up against her cheek. Then she turns to Julie.
"Let's stop this."
"But we can’t" Julie says, "he’s still gotta rinse
off the soap."
"Oh. Well then, I’ll help him."
Julie now produces a cup of soapless water. Stacie
dips you up to the waist in the water and sets you
on top of her toe. Holding you firmly she glides
you gently up and down, back and forth, rinsing
as she goes the top, the sides, and the underside
of her toe. By the time she finishes, she stands
you back on the floor next to her foot. The
thrill of the experience has left you woozy.
“Now we’ll dry you off,” says Julie. She grabs the
hair dryer, unplugged, clicks it onto its highest
setting, and aims it at Stacie’s foot -- no, she
aims it at you, who still stand dazed in front of
Stacie’s foot.
“Get out of the way, dummy.” Julie says. She keeps
the hair dryer pointed at you as she turns away to
plug it in. You’re too dizzy to react. The next
thing you know, hurricane winds knock you over and
scoot you helplessly on your back along the floor,
toward a hole in a floorboard that leads straight
down to who-knows-what below.
Just in time Stacie’s foot comes down to save you.
The ball of her foot pins you firmly to the floor.
After a few moments of appreciating the sensation,
you begin wriggling your way up to the arch of her
foot -- until you sense that the sponge has failed
to wriggle along with you. As soon as Stacie lifts
her foot, you flip over on your stomach, and like
a cockroach scuttle on your hands and knees under
the couch.
Stacie just catches the “tail end” of your escape,
and suppresses a grin. Julie catches it too. She
leans down toward the bottom of the couch and says
to you: “Is that what they mean by ‘scuttlebutt’?”
“Shut up!” you cry back, “Just get me my pants!”
Julie fishes up your pants from behind the lamp on
the table. She lowers them to the floor, dangling
them just far enough so that you’d have to expose
yourself to grab them.
“Yoohoo! Big Chief Little Bare! Come and get it!”
“No! Bring them closer!”
“Okay, but ... what do you say?”
You know this routine, the “please, pretty please”
routine. Well, you’re not going to kow-tow to her
this time. “Just give me my pants!”
Stacie notices your cape still lying on the floor.
She grabs them with her toes and slowly backs her
flexed foot under the couch. You run over to her
foot, yank out the cape from between her toes and,
without even thinking, kiss her sole. You hear her
shiver with delight. You wrap the cape about you,
run out and yank your pants from Julie’s fingers,
run back in and slip your pants back on. Finally
you come out again.
“Okay,” you say, “you’ve got one wish left. And
could you make it a little less stupid this time?”
"Don't blame me," Julie says. "You're the one dumb
enough to make cleaning her toe our second wish."
"Okay, okay," you snap back, "Let's just finish
this idiot game, okay?"
Julie sits back and rolls up her eyes in thought.
She begins humming a tune, as her fingers tap out
the rhythmn of the tune on her knee. Suddenly her
eyes widen. She looks down at this finger-tapping,
slaps her knee and cries out: "I got it!" She runs
into the house again and up the stairs.
"I still don't know what you're up to!" Your mom
cries.
"Nothing, Ma!" Julie answers.
This time, you hear Julie rummaging about briefly
upstairs (sounds like maybe in the toy box in your
room), then hear you bound down the stairs again.
"I know you're up to something!"
"Nothing, ma!"
Julie bursts through the door to join you on the
porch again, carrying some long flat thing hidden
under her shirt.
Julie snatches you up and deposits you back on the
table. With her back to Stacie, she pulls out from
under her shirt her single prop -- a toy keyboard,
the type on which you can plunk out a simple tune.
Your mother bought it for you, and with it you and
Julie developed a routine from the movie BIG which
brings the house down whenever you perform it. Is
that what Julie wants to do with you now?
"Not quite," Julie says, and starts to explain her
latest idea to you. She starts giggling; you start
giggling.
"What's so funny?" Stacie asks.
You and Julie compose yourselves. "Nothing," Julie
replies. You roll your pant legs back up and again
wrap your shirt about your head like a turban. “We
will now hear a hopsichord solo, a mini-minuet, as
performed by the great maestro among the mice, the
teenie genie weenie ... Toscanini.”
You step into Julie's hand and she lowers you down
to Stacie's foot. You stand in deep concentration
in front of her toes. Then, listening attentively,
you press down on one of her toes and release. As
you do this, Julie hits a note on the still hidden
keyboard.
PLINK!
Several times more you press and release, press
and release, press and release.
PLINK! PLINK! PLINK!
Julie explains: "He's just testing the toenail --
I mean, the tonal -- quality."
Now you walk around to the outer edge of Stacie's
foot, hop up onto her littlest toe, and from there
hop back and forth from toe to toe. Julie, in the
meantime, plunks out Frere Jacques in perfect sync
with your hopping.
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
You hop off Stacie's foot and bow to her solemnly.
Stacie, who was giggling through your performance,
now laughs aloud and claps.
"Encore! Encore!" Julie cries. "Only do it faster
this time."
Again you jump up onto Stacie's foot and continue
hopping from toe to toe. Julie quickens the pace,
and you do all you can to keep up. Stacie is now
in a fit of laughter. In her delirious state she
momentarily forgets herself and flicks up her toes
just as you press your entire weight down on one.
Like a springboard, her toe throws you high in the
air. You are now flying headfirst toward a leg of
the table.
CRACK!
"He's not moving! He's not moving!"
"No! He is! Look! Now he is!"
You hear voices above you. But you can't see them;
your eyes are closed. "OW!" Your head! You throw
both of your hands up to your head. You feel your
shirt still wrapped around it. You yank the shirt
off. Then, with your chin tucked into your chest,
you wrap your arms over and around the top of your
head, as you roll back and forth in agony.
"I've hurt him! I've hurt him!"
You recognize the voice. It's Stacie; she's crying
again. You wish she wouldn't cry. You place down
your arms, stop rolling around, and open your eyes
to her. You do your best to smile, as you hold out
your arms to her. "Look, see? I'm okay. Really."
You hear from the kitchen window behind the couch:
"What's going on out there?"
Quickly Julie and Stacie straighten up.
"Nothing, Ma!"
"I've been hearing that all evening long, and I'm
getting a little tired of it. Where's Mark?"
"He's ... he's on Stacie's lap."
"Stacie, will you please show him to me?"
In a single movement, Julie slips her foot out of
her sandal, grabs you between her toes, and lifts
you up to Stacie, who grabs you and lifts you over
her head for your mom to see.
You smile at your mother weakly. Her eyes squint
as she scrutinizes you.
"Put your shirt on." She goes back to her work.
Stacie lowers you and sets you upon her lap. Julie
picks up your shirt and helps you put it on.
After your little accident, the evening takes on a
quieter tone. As Stacie strokes your head with the
tip of her finger, the conversation turns to her:
how you and she met, and how she's going to face
the rest of the school with you now for a friend.
After another half an hour or so, your mother
calls out: "It's getting late, kids. I think
Stacie's parents would expect her home now."
Julie turns herself around on the couch so that
she's kneeling on the seat, resting her elbows
upon the couch's headrest, looking up at your
mom's face in the kitchen window.
"Could Stacie sleep over, Mom?"
"Oh, dear. Honey, Stacie didn't bring any of her
things for a sleepover. I think this first time
it's better that she goes home. Another time."
"Oh ... oh okay. Well ... can we go with you when
you take her?"
"Of course you can. Come on to the car."
Mom heads for the front door. Stacie places you
in the palm of her hand as she and Julie get up.
"Wait," you say to Stacie. You call Julie over,
and ask you to get you some aspirin. (You didn't
dare ask her for it while your mom was watching.)
The three of you step into the kitchen where, in
one of the cabinets, Julie pulls out a cap full of
crushed aspirin. With a pair of tweezers she picks
out the right size morsel for you and holds it out
for you to take. As you swallow it, she fills your
cup from a drip of the faucet, and hands that to
you. You drink down and hand it back. You nestle
again into the softness of Stacie's palm, trusting
that the drug will soon rid you of that throbbing
in your head.
Stacie and Julie step out the front door; your Mom
has just started the car. They settle themselves
into the back seat, and the ride to Stacie's house
begins. The aspirin is working; the pain in your
head is now ebbing away. The car ride is soothing,
Stacie's palm warm and comforting, and the voices
in the car sounding more and more distant ...
You open your eyes and from a fetal position roll
onto your back and stretch your limbs. With your
feet and hands you feel that you still lay in the
palm of Stacie's hand. You look up to her; she's
looking down at you.
Wait a minute. Is that Stacie? Your eyes adjust
to the light in the room. It is the same pretty
face as Stacie's. But it's a woman's face, not a
girl's face.
"Oh, he's waking up. What should I do?"
"Talk to him." That sounded like your mom's voice.
"Hello there, Mark." the woman says. "I'm Stacie's
mom."
Then a child's voice: "Can I see him awake, Mama?
Please Mama?"
"Okay, but no touch." She lowers her hand and the
big face of a small boy peers down at you.
Oh that's nice. You're meeting Stacie's family in
your pajamas.
Stacie's mom struggles to find something to say.
"Well, Mark we're ... we're happy to have you for
Stacie's friend. And ... we hope we'll be seeing
more of you. You're ... always welcome."
You just lay there and blink up at her. You must
look pretty dumb.
"So, I guess I'll be ... handing you over to your
mother now." You pass from the unfamiliar hand of
this woman into the most familiar hand you know.
Your mom speaks: "Thank you so much, Mrs. Wilson."
"Darla, please."
"... Darla. We're also happy for Mark to have your
Stacie for a friend." Julie, standing by your mom,
tugs at her shirt. "... and for our Julie to have
Stacie for a friend. We'll see alot more of you
all, I'm sure."
Everybody smiles at everybody for a moment or two
... a long moment or two.
Your mom finally breaks the awkward silence: "Well
... we are keeping you good folks up, so we'd ...
best be going. It was a delight to meet you all."
"Oh, our pleasure. Do come again."
"We'd love to, and please feel free to visit us
whenever you ... feel so inclined."
"Thank you. We certainly will."
"Come on, Mom!" you're thinking, "Let's get outta
here."
After several more painful niceties, you finally
do. Your mom and Julie, now outside, head with
you toward the car. As your mom opens the car
door, you hear the padding of feet behind you.
"Mrs. LeTellier?"
Your mom turns around. "Oh! Stacie!"
"I ... I didn't say goodbye to Mark."
"Oh, of course." Your mother holds you up to her.
Stacie strokes you with her finger, and brings her
face near to you.
"Bye, Mark. Thanks for being my friend and .. for
everything."
You can't think of what to say.
Stacie draws her face back and stands upright. She
whispers something into your mom's ear. Your mom
nods her approval. Slowly, with some hesitation,
Stacie lowers her face down to you; her lips cover
your face with a gentle kiss. "See you soon," she
whispers, as she stands upright again, and starts
back for the house.
"Bye Julie!" she calls out.
"See you, Stacie!" Julie replies. Your mom hands
you over to Julie as you all get into the car and
head fo
Your mom hands you over to Julie as you all get
into the car and head for home.
Life becomes a little easier at school. The dirty
looks, the snide remarks, of the previous week
have all but disappeared. Your sister and
friends, at first so protective of you, gradually
carry you in the open again; sometimes, you even
walk the halls by yourself.
Hmm. Word must have gotten around about the real
story behind the expulsion of Craig Bradley.
Yet none of this means that you’ve gained much in
popularity. In fact, no one seems to want to have
much to do with you. Julie says it's because the
students are all still afraid of Elissa, who
continues to act especially cool toward you.
But none of that matters as much any more, because
now you have Pierre and Stacie. At first it's
hard for Stacie, once so popular, to deal with the
alienation that comes with being your friend. But
she sticks by you. And when she cries, you
console her. You even manage to turn her sobs into
giggles, as when you attempt to wipe away her
tears and end up drenched.
But tears become rarer as days go by. Stacie's
frequent smile, her laughter echoing in the halls,
tell all the school how happy she is with her new
set of friends. Her parents are happy, too. They
had seen disturbing changes come over their little
girl when she began hanging out with Elissa; a
once cheery and good-natured child had almost
overnight grown sullen and contrary. Now they
thank your mom for you and Julie; thanks to you,
they say, the loving child they had always known
has come back to them.
The Wilsons even let Stacie come with your family
and Pierre’s family to Church on Sunday.
You and Stacie now frequently hang around Pierre’s
family. Mrs. Apat, a tall and graceful woman,
with a youthful beauty amazing for a widowed
mother of ten, refers to you as “mon petit grand
fil” (“my little big boy”). The younger Apat
children enjoy playing with you, although the
really young ones need supervision. Once the four
year old, Monique, got her hands on you when no
one was looking, carried you off, and tried
dressing you in various sets of doll clothes, all
of which were way too big for you. When her
mother found you, you lay there stripped on the
changing table in the baby’s room, your own
clothes nowhere in sight. To preserve your
modesty, Mrs. Apat wrapped her long fingers snugly
around you, and carried you about as she searched
for your clothes. You were, despite your
embarrassment, a most willing captive, as her bare
fingers exerted a gentle pressure on your naked
extremities. Finally she found Monique outside,
trying to fit your clothes on an uncooperative
toad. After scolding the child, Mrs. Apat
instinctively brought you in to the changing table
and dressed you herself. You were just grateful
that she discovered you, and not Stacie.
Pierre enjoys your and Stacie’s friendship, but it
doesn’t keep him from falling into a funk over his
frustrated football career. The coach still never
gives him a chance to prove himself, or to improve
himself. So, one Saturday afternoon, while the
team is at an away game, you’re all hanging out in
Pierre’s basement: Pierre strewn across on old
couch, Stacie sunk into an overstuffed chair, and
you laying face up on her lap, your bare feet idly
playing in her navel. (Stacie’s much more
indulgent than your sister is.)
“What are we doing here?,” you ask.
“Just ... nothing,” Pierre says, “What can we do?”
“Football,” you say.
“But, the game is away, and for me they had no
room in the bus.”
“No, I mean practice football.”
“Practice? I cannot practice. The team is not
...”
“I mean practice with us, in the field across the
street.”
“With you? But you cannot ... ”
“With me coaching you on your shoulder, with all
your brothers and sisters, Stacie, and Julie in
the field, and especially with Choo-choo and Brie
[those are the Apat dogs]. We can train them to
rush you. You’ll have to try to keep away from
them, while at the same time trying to make
contact with someone running down the field.”
“But ... I do not see how that can ...”
“It’s better than sitting around here all day.”
“Pierre,” Stacie says, “I’m a real good sprinter.
I just didn’t try out for track this year because
... Elissa’s in it. If my running can help you
make the football team, that’ll make it, like,
worthwhile.”
“See Pierre,” you say, “This isn’t just for you.
So come on.”
“But she cannot catch a ball.”
“She doesn’t have to catch a ball. You have to
throw it to where she would catch the ball, if she
could. Get it?”
“Yes, but ...”
“Come on Stace. Let’s just go and do it.” She
puts you in her shoulder, stands up, and heads for
the stairs.
“Without me?” Pierre asks.
“Yeah.” you say, “If you’re not going to do it,
we’ll find ourselves someone else who will. Like
Roland.” Roland is the next Apat child after
Pierre.
“Roland? Roland is not the football player.”
“But he could be. He could be better than you.”
Pierre’s eyes flash with anger. “I am the
football player!”
“We’ll meet you out in the field then,” you yell
down to him, as Stacie walks you up the stairs.
From that point on, you practice with Pierre every
day. Again and again, Stacie runs down the field,
the Apat kids run all over the field, while
Choo-choo and Brie, at your command, do their best
to pounce on Pierre before he throws the ball at
Stacie. You, strapped to his shoulder, coach him,
while Julie, standing on the sidelines, judges
whether the ball reaches a place in the air where
Stacie would catch it if she could. You become
quite a team, and Pierre’s raw talent becomes
daily more refined.
Speaking of teams, Pierre and Stacie gradually get
closer to each other. Stacie had quite a crush on
you at first, but over the weeks you have gently
steered her in Pierre’s direction.
It’s not that you don’t like Stacie -- you really
do. You just don’t have a crush on her. You have
a crush on somebody else, on --
Oh, what does it matter? She'll never have you,
anyway. It's not because of your difference in
size (that would be true of anyone), but because
of your difference in age. She’s an adult, after
all, your own teacher, a good tens years older
than you are. And you're a child; at least, that
is how she treats you -- with affection, but with
the affection one shows toward a child. If only
you could prove to her otherwise. If only you
could show yourself a real hero to her -- that
might win her over.
For now, all you can do is attend her classes, and
quietly care about her. In fact, you worry about
her. Once you realize that all the school knows
the truth about Craig Bradley's expulsion, knows
that she, not you, reported him to the principal,
your immediate reaction is not one of relief. It
is concern for her, concern that the students will
treat her the same way they treated you. When you
warn her of this, she only laughs. “I don’t think
so --I haven’t fit in a girl’s handbag for years.”
Stacie feels terrible, too -- since it was she who
spilled the beans, when she told Elissa, when she,
in fact, blurted the facts out loud in the hall.
But Mrs. Andrews reassures her: “I’m a teacher,
not a student. They can hurt you, but they can’t
hurt me.”
One day, after your last class, Pierre is carrying
you through the halls when you pass by the wing of
the school where Mrs. Andrews has her classroom.
An overwhelming desire to see her comes over you;
you ask Pierre to stop.
"Weren't you supposed to meet Stacie at practice?"
you ask.
"Only after I take you to the car of your mother."
"Yeah, but ... you're missing football practice,
and Mom won't be coming for like another fifteen
minutes. So ... why not leave me here and go?"
"But I have to take you."
"No you don't. Hey -- leave me here, and I'll go
down the hall and ask Mrs. Andrews to take me.
You know she won't mind."
"Well ... okay. But then I take you to her."
"No, just leave me here and go. I'll be okay."
He places you on the floor and goes. The moment he
goes you wish he hadn't; you wish you had let him
take you to Mrs. Andrews himself. Now you have to
walk down this empty corridor alone. You've only
walked down it alone at this time of the day once
before, the day Craig Bradley ...
Oh, but why let that scare you? Craig Bradley's
not here in school anymore, and no one else has
any reason to hurt you. Just go, step by step,
toward that last room down the hall. Step by
step; that's it. Go a little faster -- you're
anxious to see Mrs. Andrews, after all. A little
faster. But don't run -- that would mean you're
scared. And ... it would attract attention.
Attention? Whose attention? There's no one
around to see you. There's no one behind you.
You can't hear anyone behind you. Don't turn
around. There's no need to turn around, because
there's no one behind you. And you wouldn't want
him to see you turn around, if he were behind you.
You're hugging the wall. But you should always hug
the wall, even if no one's around, because what if
someone were? He could step on you. Or she could
step on you. Anybody could step on you. A little
freshman girl could step on you. Always hug the
wall.
You reach an open door. But that's okay. Just
run across it. Now!
You made it. But of course you made it. And now
there's only a little bit left, and you'll be at
Mrs. Andrews' door. And she'll be happy to see
you, to see you safe. A little further and ...
What's that?
What was that sound? A sound like a muffled cry,
and a scuffle. It didn't come from behind you.
It came from in front of you. From Mrs. Andrews'
room.
You creep up to the room and slip your body under
the door, just far enough to look in. You notice
one of Mrs. Andrews' black pumps, not on her foot,
but laying on its side. To the left of it you see
her feet, one shoe off, one shoe on. She's sitting
in one of the students' desks. But the desk seems
to be up against the wall.
You see another pair of feet, large feet in a pair
of Nikes. The person who owns them is also seated
in a desk, facing her.
You crawl in further to see more. You can see Mrs.
Andrews' face now. She looks upset; no, more than
upset. You slide across the floor to see who the
other person is. It's a man; no a boy, but a big
one. Big and muscular. He's holding something
out to her.
Wait, he's shifting position. Maybe now you will
see who he ...
It's Craig Bradley! And with a gun!
You've got to run for help. So you slide yourself
back into the hall. You've got to run for help.
So you stand up and brace yourself. You've got to
run for help. So what's keeping you from running?
You can't leave her. You've got to go in to her.
Even if you can't help her. Even if you die with
her, you can't leave her.
But you must. It's your only chance to save her.
You can't help her yourself. You've got to get
someone else to help her.
Well, don't just stand there. You've got choose
one or the other: either to stay with her or get
help for her. After all, you can't do both.
Or can you?
Inspired, you drop back down onto your belly and
slide yourself under the door. You get to your
feet and tiptoe closer to Craig Bradley, close
enough to hear him. He keeps repeating how she
has destroyed his life, and now he will destroy
hers. As he speaks, you look up and notice, on
the teacher's desk near him, a pencil sharpener
clamped to the lip of the desk, and a lamp whose
cord drops down to a floor outlet. Good to know.
You walk over to Craig's feet. You climb up his
right shoe, and stealthily untie his laces. You
clamber down and do the same with his other shoe.
Back down on the floor, you tie each of the outer
laces to the nearest leg of the desk he's in, and
the inner laces to each other.
You climb up the cord of the lamp on the teacher's
desk, and look around the desktop until you notice
that box of thumb tacks you remember seeing there.
You push the box toward Craig Bradley and with one
great shove send it over the edge. The box hits
the floor, and bursts open.
The sound startles Craig Bradley, He looks down
at the box of tacks, then up to the desk. There
you stand, taunting him.
"You!" he snarls. "Next to this Andrews bitch,
there's no one else I want to get more than you."
He jumps to his feet, and tries to lunge at you.
But his strung-up feet trip him up, and he loses
his balance. He holds out his hands to break his
fall. His left hand lands in the middle of the
tacks; the student's desk he's still tied to falls
on top of him. He screams in pain and anger.
As this is going on, you slide down the cord. On
the floor, you notice a wasp crawling. With Craig
still struggling over the tacks, you pull the now
empty box over and capture the wasp under it, and
run away.
Craig notices movement under the box. "I got you
now, Worm!" he cries. Still tied up at the feet,
he nonetheless manages to flip over the box and
slap his hand down onto the life crawling beneath
it. He howls again in pain; the wasp flies away.
By now you have climbed up the cord of a Venetian
blind, and are standing on a window sill, drawing
attention to yourself. Craig spots you. Managing
to stand up, but still unable to free his feet, he
rips the pencil sharpener off the teacher's desk,
and hurls it at you. You jump out of the way, and
the missile smashes through the window. He grabs
the lamp off the teacher's desk and tries to kill
you with that. Again he misses you, only to smash
further the already damaged window.
As Craig struggles to free himself from his shoes,
you look outside and see that several people have
gathered, staring up at the broken window. One of
these breaks away from the rest and hurries off in
the direction of the front entrance.
A strange silence fills the room; a sudden shadow
looms over you. Mrs. Andrews screams.
Without even turning around to look, you leap onto
another window cord, just as Craig Bradley's fist
slams down on the sill. You slide down on the cord
behind the radiator, leaping off as you feel a tug
on the cord. You land on a pipe (a cold pipe: the
radiator, thank God, is not in use).
Craig lifts out of the radiator a now empty cord,
and howls in frustration. From a slit of grating
in the radiator you see him grab Mrs. Andrews by
the hair. "You tipped him off!" he cries, as he
yanks her out of her seat and hurls her onto the
ground. It's only then that you notice she is
bound and gagged (You wondered why she had only
given a muffled scream).
Craig grabs a ruler from her desk, and frantically
tries to fish you out with it. Furious, he throws
away the ruler, picks up a student's desk, and now
bangs it against the radiator. The whole radiator
shakes; the clanging is unbearable. But it's okay,
because you know that this unbearable clanging has
now traveled to every radiator in the building.
One colossal bang knocks you off your perch. You
fall from pipe to pipe, tumbling down to the floor
of the radiator. You look above you and see that
there is now nothing in your reach to climb onto.
So you peek out of the bottom of the radiator and
look up. You see Craig continuing his banging in
such a blind rage, that he isn't even looking for
you. Yet should he try to fish you out now, from
the bottom of the radiator, you wouldn't stand a
chance. You know what you have to do; you have to
get out of there while you can.
But where will you go? Hmmm ... What if you hung
onto one of his socks? Or climbed up his pants
leg? After all, the last place he'd look for you
is on his own person.
Sounds crazy, but it's the only chance you've got.
You go for it: you scramble out of the radiator,
jump to your feet, and ...
The banging stops.
You freeze. You didn't anticipate this. Where to
now? Toward him? He'll see you sure. Back under
the radiator? He's going to search for you there.
You're looking right into Mrs. Andrews' face. Her
eyes are directing you to safety. Into her shirt.
You hadn't even thought of that. You wouldn't have
dared. Even now, you hesitate. A split second too
long.
"HA! GOT YOU NOW WORM!" Craig hurls away the desk
he's holding, and looks right back down at you.
You're gone.
"Where is he? WHERE THE HELL IS HE?," you hear him
cry, against the background of her rapid heartbeat
and heavy breathing, as you go up and down, up and
down, on her chest.
You're now lying where her shirt doesn't touch her
body, between her breasts, so that he won't detect
any of your bodily movements against her clothing.
But couldn't he still peek down her shirt and find
you? That soon ceases to be a problem. With every
expanse of her lungs you sink deeper down into her
cleavage, until it all but engulfs you. Your only
problem now is trying to breathe.
You hear him frantically search about the room for
you. For the moment you feel secure. Then you hear
a thud; Mrs. Andrews yelps and writhes in pain.
"You know where he is. Where is he?," he yells, as
he kicks her again. For a moment you hear nothing
but her moaning, then a sharp "click" -- the click
of a gun.
"Hey wimp! Come out or the bitch here gets it!"
You know what you have to do. You wriggle yourself
free, and proceed to ascend back over her chest to
the top of her shirt. You've hardly begun when her
whole body jerks upward, and you fall further down
her shirt.
You know what that means. She's trying to keep you
from saving her!
Plan B: you begin crawling down her stomach, past
her navel, then forcing yourself under the elastic
waistband of her skirt. You slither down her right
hip. You reach her thigh, where you intend to jump
off to the right, away from her, and show yourself
in the open. As you begin to stand up, she jerks
her body to the left. You lose your balance, and
fall in between her legs. She's trapped you! You
can't crawl under her legs; she's tensing them so
as not to leave you any room. You can't crawl over
her legs; they're too high for you. So you run to
her feet, and crawl through the space between her
insteps. Before you have a chance to break away,
her giant left foot knocks you on your stomach and
pins you down.
Craig notices the movement. "What did you just do?
He's down there, isn't he?" He steps over to her
feet. "Lift up your foot!" he says, still holding
her at gunpoint. "I said, lift up the foot!"
Surprisingly, she does what he demands. She slowly
raises her foot. He now points the gun down to
the floor below him, where he discovers ...
"What the ... ? Okay, where's he hiding, bitch?"
Where are you hiding? Clenched in the secure grip
of Mrs. Andrews' toes. As soon as her foot pinned
you down, she rolled your helpless body toward her
long, slender toes, which grabbed you and picked
you up in the nick of time.
You hear Craig walking back toward Mrs. Andrews'
head.
"Hey, Wimp! I got this gun pointed right into the
bitch's pretty face. You got to the count of three
to come out, or I blow it off! One!"
Her toes tighten their grip on your tiny body even
more. But now your adrenelin kicks in, and in one
tremendous push, you free yourself and drop to the
ground. Her foot slaps down on you again, but you
roll out of the way just in time.
"Two!"
You jump to your feet and scuttle along the wall,
until you reach the far end of Mrs. Andrews' desk.
You run out behind one of its legs.
"THREE!"
"Hey Sport! You only go after easy targets? Let's
see you try to hit a moving one!"
At that you run out into the open, toward the wall
by the door.
"BLAM!" He misses you. You run forward, dodging
in and out of the student's desks.
"BLAM! BLAM!"
You hide behind the wastebasket, and see there one
of the thumb tacks. You pick it up and hurl it at
the metal leg of a desk.
"Ping!"
"BLAM!"
You make a beeline through a row of desks toward
the back wall.
"BLAM! click. click-click-click-click."
He whips the now empty gun at you, for the first
time almost hitting you. He runs after you, and
traps you in a corner. You look up at him as he
towers over you, his face red with rage.
"Well, Punk. It's back to just the two of us: you
and my foot. Remember my foot? In case you don't,
here's a reminder. A final reminder."
SMASH!
The door crashes open. Two policemen jump into
the room with guns held out in front of them.
"Freeze!"
Craig scoops you up and jumps out an open window.
The two policemen, a little middle-aged and even a
little more overweight, decide not to try pursuing
Craig out the window. Neither do they try to stop
him from the window with their guns, since without
a gun himself he no longer poses a serious threat
to human life. (They don't realize that he is now
holding you hostage.) So they run out the door, as
if, after running through the corridors and down a
flight of stairs, they could still catch up to him
outside.
As soon as these policemen leave, a pair of EMT's
rush in, followed by a policewoman, who sets down
the bullhorn she is carrying to help tend to Mrs.
Andrews. They untie and ungag Mrs. Andrews, and
try to hold her down until the stretcher arrives;
but in vain. She forces herself onto her feet,
swipes up the bullhorn, and runs for the window.
She aims the bullhorn toward the football field.
"Pierre! Pierre! Stop him! He's got Mark!"
Pierre, as usual, has been sitting on the team's
bench, watching the scrimmage. Stacie has been
watching from the stands. The team continues to
practice, despite all the alarming sounds they've
heard coming from the school -- breaking glass,
gunshot, and police sirens. The gunshot did stop
them for a moment -- until Coach Boggs screamed at
them to keep going.
Both Pierre and Stacie hear Mrs. Andrews on the
bullhorn, and look to see Craig Bradley running
onto the football field. Stacie runs after him.
Pierre tries to follow, when ...
Hut-hut-hike!
The center snaps up the ball, just as Pierre runs
between him and the quarterback. Pierre ends up
with the ball. All the players, on both sides, try
to grab him. He dodges them all just long enough
to look out on the field, calculate Craig's pace,
and let the ball go. It soars in the air, fifty,
sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety yards. And ...
BONK!
The ball beans Craig Bradley on the five yard
line. He loses his footing and falters. As he
begins to stumble, Stacie catches up to him, and
snatches you out of his hands. Craig falls to the
ground. The police, huffing and puffing, arrive
on the scene, and hold him down to handcuff him.
The football team look on in shock. No one appears
more shocked than Coach Boggs. "I have never seen
anyone throw like that before!" he says to Pierre.
"You have never let me show you before," Pierre
replies.
Stacie runs you up to your mom, who is waiting for
you next to her car, frightened and confused. The
moment you see your mom, you do what until now you
haven't allowed yourself to do in front of Stacie.
You break down and proceed to sob uncontrollably.
Stacie presses you up to her cheek, then envelopes
your whole face in a kiss, before handing you over
to your mother.
You watch EMTs and police convey Mrs. Andrews on a
stretcher into a waiting ambulance, which quickly
races away, its siren blaring. The policewoman who
remains behind assures your mom that Mrs. Andrews,
although badly bruised by Craig Bradley, will pull
through. This ride in stretcher and ambulance is
more precautionary than anything else.
That evening, two police arrive at your home. Your
mom leads them upstairs to your bedroom, where you
lie upon your bed, still trembling. The policeman
awkardly tries to explain that they need to obtain
a statement from you concerning the occurrences at
school this afternoon. The policewoman takes over
and, with your mother's permission, asks you if it
would be okay to place you in her hand. You agree.
Gently she picks you up and sets you down onto her
open palm. The policeman writes, as in a soothing
voice and with the consoling caress of her finger,
the policewoman coaxes out of you the information
they require.
The next day, your mom keeps you home from school,
so that you can recuperate from the trauma of the
day before, and so she can take you to the doctor,
just to make sure that you received no damage from
yesterday’s ordeal. This time, you do not protest
your mom's decision. You really do not want to go
to school today. In fact, you don’t want to go to
school ever again. Your classmates have all along
despised you, because of your connections to Craig
Bradley’s expulsion from school. How they now must
hate you, now that you’ve caused his arrest.
All this, you think to yourself, results from your
crush on a teacher. Puppy love, that's all it has
ever been, puppy love; with you as the puppy. And
most likely you’ve never been anything more to her
than that: just a pet, a cute little two inch pet.
Yeah, well, if that’s the case, then ... you never
want to see her again. You’ll stay away from her.
You’ll fight off that senseless pull you feel when
she’s near, and stay away.
But what can you do to avoid her? Maybe you really
will never go to school there again; that ought to
solve the problem. But what if you do? Well, you
can always ask to be tranferred to another history
class. Yeah, that’s what you’ll do. And whenever
you see her walking toward you down the hall? Not
a problem — if there’s one advantage to your size,
it’s your ability to keep a low profile. So you’ll
hide behind someone’s shoes, or should somebody be
carrying you, you'll ask to remain concealed from
view. That’s probably the way to go. You’ll have
Julie, Pierre or Stacie carry you everywhere, and
keep you hidden. You don’t want anyone looking at
you in the hall anyway, not if everyone hates you.
You stay moping in your room most of the day. The
telephone and the doorbell are ringing constantly,
giving your mom no time to be with you, giving you
lots of time to brood about school, and especially
about Mrs. Andrews. You wish you could just cease
to think about her. But since you can’t erase her
image from your mind, you brood about her.
The moment your mother finally has time to be with
you, Julie bursts through the front door and races
upstairs. She pulls your mom aside and starts that
infernal whispering of hers. Whatever news she has
to report from school this time, you don’t want to
know about it. You don’t even want to speak with
Pierre and Stacie when they call you that evening.
You assume the next morning that your mother will
indulge you, and let you stay out of school again.
Instead, she wants you to go to school. You plead
with her, and she tells you to go to school. You
you argue with her, and she commands you to go to
school.
What’s going on here? Even your own mom has turned
against you!
You sulk as you sit on Julie’s plate at breakfast.
After breakfast, your mother spends a long time in
her bedroom, threatening to make you late for your
first class, which you mind not a bit. She finally
hustles you both into the car. You sulk throughout
the ride, as Julie holds you in her hand. You feel
the car eventually slow down to a stop. Curiously,
you hear the motor stop, too. You look up through
the windshield above you and see that your mom has
parked, not along the curb in front of the school,
but in front of trees, as if in the school parking
lot. Then your mom steps out of the car, and once
outside with Julie, asks to carry you in herself.
You notice for the first time that she has dressed
better than on most mornings.
She and Julie hustle you into the school; yet once
in the hall, they turn away from the direction of
your first class. Julie leads your mother through
a door you haven't seen before. It’s dark as you
enter it; it becomes even darker as your mother’s
free hand covers up your head. You begin to hear
the rumbling of a crowd. It grows louder as your
mother walks, then settles into silence. You hear
a man's deep voice, the principal's voice, over a
PA system. He announces your name.
Your mother lifts away the hand which covers your
head. Bright lights blind you. An explosion of
sound deafens you. Your eyes soon adjust to the
light, your ears to the sound. You look out and
discover that ... you're on a stage! You're in
the school auditorium, in front of all the school.
Everyone in the audience, not only every teacher,
but every single student, is jumping up and down,
applauding you wildly.
They’re giving you a standing ovation!
Eventually this tumult dies down, and the audience
settles into their seats. Your mother settles you
into a special seat provided for you on the stage.
In front of you, a bunch of television cameras are
pointing at you. Behind you, a screen projects an
image of you enlarged to the size of everyone else
onstage.
You look about you, and discover Pierre and Stacie
seated alongside you. Stacie exchanges with you a
furtive wave and a quick smile, just as Mr. Ripley
acknowledges her and Pierre as the two who rescued
you. After the audience applauds them, Mr. Ripley
acknowledges the police men and women onstage, who
were on the scene for the arrest of Craig Bradley.
After the audience applauds them, Mr. Ripley steps
aside, and motions the mayor of the town to get up
and say a word or two. After him, the governor of
the state rises to add a few words. And after her,
a U.S. congressman from your state steps up to the
microphone, and reads a message from the President
of the United States, commending your courage, and
inviting you to the White House that weekend. The
assembly ends in a final long and lively ovation.
As the audience disperses, the dignitaries onstage
step over to you and one by one shake your hand --
as you shake their thumb and forefinger. Finally,
Pierre and Stacie come up to you. Stacie picks you
up and kisses you tenderly; Pierre, with a tear in
his eye, thanks you, his "best friend in the whole
world," for everything.
Soon your mother picks you up, and excuses herself
and you, explaining that you have a plane to catch
that evening. You exit through the same side door
that you entered. Just outside the door, students
line the walls, applauding you as you go by. Near
the front entrance, Julie steps up to you and Mom.
She takes you in her hand, kisses you, whispers "I
love you," then, just before handing you back over
to Mom, gives your behind a mischievous flick with
her finger. "Oooo!" You know it's just her way of
giving you lovin's, but -- man, it hurts. Your mom
frowns at her as she takes you back, then massages
your offended heinie with her finger.
"Be outside on time this afternoon;" your mom says
to Julie, "We have an 8:40 flight to catch."
"Yep yep. Bye Ma! Bye Markie!" Julie cries, as she
disappears in the crowd of students dispersing for
class, and your mother carries you back outside to
your car.
Once in the car, she puts you in a special harness
designed for you on the dashboard, buckles herself
in, and drives off. Every now and then, she smiles
down at you proudly.
After a long silence, you finally speak. "Mommy?"
(You never call her that anymore -- except when
you're alone with her, and are in a clingy mood.
"What is it, Swee' Pea?" (She never calls you that
anymore -- except when you call her "Mommy.")
"Mommy," your voice begins to break, "I'm scared."
"Scared? What are you scared about?"
"I'm scared that all the kids hate me."
"Hate you? Swee' Pea, didn't you hear them applaud
you?"
"Yeah, but ... that's because they had to, cuz all
those people were up there, and so if they didn’t,
Mr. Ripley would be mad at them."
“Don’t you think their seeing all those important
people up there impressed them?”
“No, Ma!” your voice indicates your impatience
with her. “That just made them madder at me.”
“Honey, why do you think they’re mad at you?”
“I got Craig Bradley arrested, Ma! And it was bad
enough that the police got involved. But now --
the mayor, the governor, the president! And now I
gotta go to Washington, and it’ll get into all the
papers, and be on the news! Oh, the kids are gonna
hate me!”
Your mother pauses a moment before asking her next
question. “Who do you think got all those people
involved, like the governor, and the president?”
“Mr. Ripley must have. He’s so ...”
“No Mark! Please.” Your mother pulls the car to
a stop and shuts off the ignition. She brings her
enormous, beautiful face down close to you, until
you can feel her sweet breath wafting over you.
You cast her eyes down from her.
“Look up at me, Baby. There's something I have to
tell you.” Gently her finger lifts up your chin.
She looks deep into your eyes. “Mr. Ripley did not
call in the mayor and the governor. Mr. Ripley did
not arrange for the president of the United States
to see you. The students did.”
She smiles down at your look of shock. “Why does
that surprise you?”
You fumble for words. “Well ... cuz ... Craig
Bradley ... he’s the most popular kid in the
school, and ...”
“He WAS the most popular kid in the school.”
“Well, yeah, cuz I got him expelled, and he’s not
at the school anymore.”
“No, Swee’ Pea. You got him arrested, and he’s
not popular anymore.”
You stare at her with your mouth open. She smiles.
“Oh, Baby, what a confused little face! Don’t you
see? Craig Bradley came into school with a gun, a
loaded gun. And he used it. He could have hit any-
one: teachers, students, police -- anyone. But you
got him to try and hit you. You stopped him. You
risked your life to stop him. You’re so tiny, and
he’s so big. The odds were completely against you,
yet all by yourself you stopped him. You saved the
whole school. And the whole school knows it.”
"But ... the football team ..."
She strokes your cheek with her finger. "Oh, Swee'
Pea! There are some things more important than the
football team. And now everyone knows it -- thanks
to you." She sits herself back up, pulls the keys
out of the ignition, grabs her pocketbook and sets
it upon her lap. "Besides," she says, as she drops
her keys into her purse. "I hear that the football
team will do alright -- thanks to you. But I think
I should let Pierre tell you about that."
Now she undoes you from the harness, and lifts you
out.
"But ... Ma! We're not home yet."
"I know, Swee' Pea. We're just going make a quick
little trip in here first."
"But ... where are we?"
Your mother doesn't answer you. Instead, she sets
you down gently into a special compartment of her
purse, and snaps it shut.
Your mom doesn't usually treat you like this. She
almost always carries you out in the open, letting
you see wherever she's taking you. You wonder why
she now is literally keeping you in the dark.
As you feel your mom slide herself out of the car,
stand herself up and begin walking, you press your
ear up to the wall of her purse, listening for any
clues as to your location. You recognize the click
of her heels on asphalt, the whoosh of a revolving
door, the rumbling of voices echoing in a spacious
room. You feel her lift up the pocketbook, and set
it down in front of her; you sense her press it to
her chest, and hear her converse briefly with some
lady whose voice you don't recognize. You feel Mom
pick up the purse and secure it under her arm; you
hear her heels click again. This clicking softens
into a dull pounding, as if she's walking now on a
carpet. The walking stops; you hear a bell sound,
a door open, a half dozen clicks of her heels, and
the door close. There's no mistaking the sensation
you now feel in your head and your stomach: you're
on an elevator. The queeziness comes to an abrupt
halt; you hear the door open, and your mom's heels
begin their clicking again. You feel her turn the
corner, and stop.
There's a pause; you think you hear whisperings.
You hear above you the snapping open of the purse.
A bright light blinds you, as you feel your mother
grasp her fingers around you and lift you out into
the open. She hands you over to some other person,
who holds you up to look at you. Your eyes adjust
to the light, and slowly begin making out who this
present captor of yours is: someone light, or even
pale, in complexion, blonde, feminine, pretty; no,
more than pretty --
Mrs. Andrews!
She's lying in a bed, dressed in a hospital johnny
(even that looks good on her). Tubing sticks into
her arm, pumping a clear liquid from a bag hanging
above her head. You look back into her face; tears
streak her cheeks.
"My hero. My big little hero."
She presses you to her bosom and sobs lightly. You
feel and hear the beating of her heart. You sense
in its pulsation more than a doctor could
diagnose.
You have already today received the highest praise
from your school, town, state, even nation. You've
learned that your classmates, who have looked down
on you for so long a time, are suddenly looking up
to you. Yet this moment, this moment with her, is
the sweetest moment of all.
Your time in eternity ends too soon, as she lifts
you off of her bosom and sets you on her stomach.
Your joy now is to gaze again at her beauty. She
strokes your head and asks you if you are alright.
She's the one in the hospital, yet she expresses
concern for you. You don't know whether you nod
or not; it doesn't seem to matter.
You stand there on her stomach, transfixed in a
lovesick grin. You look up at her smiling down
upon you, herself motionless, except for a quick
adjustment of her johnny. The movement triggers
in you a memory. Your grin turns into a grimace
as you drop your eyes in shame.
"What is it, Mark? What's the matter?"
You say nothing. Mrs. Andrews looks over at your
mother. Your mom returns a nod of ackowledgement.
"I'll be waiting outside," she whispers, and slips
out the door.
"Now Mark, what is it? What's bothering you?"
"What I did."
"What did you do?"
"What I did when ... I ran out and ... I tried to
hide, but ... he saw me and ... he was gonna kill
me and he ... he turned away, so I ... quick! ...
had to hide quick, but ... I didn't know where to
go, except ..." You grimace again at the memory.
"No Mark. Don't think about that. I know why you
did what you did. I let you do it. I told you to
do it. I looked at you, and motioned you to do it.
Remember?"
You try to remember. You strain to remember. But
you can't.
"It's okay, Mark. Just believe me. You only did
it because I told you to do it. You would never
have done it otherwise. I know you're a good boy,
who would never take a advantage like that. But
that was the only thing you could do. And nobody
has ever got to know that you did it, except you
and me."
"But ... the trial ..."
She bites her lip. "Oh dear. Well, maybe we will
have to tell somebody. But maybe they won't force
us to tell it in court."
"But if they do, my mom ..."
"Your mother will understand. If it has to come
out, I'll warn her about it ahead of time."
"But ... the boys at school ..."
"Oh dear. Well, I suppose they'll have their share
of cheap jokes about it, won't they? But you can
handle it.” She musses your hair with her finger.
"My Mark can handle anything."
You still hang your head.
"Oh Mark! There's no reason to feel bad about it.
And yet, you know ... I love you, because you do."
You grab her thumb, and hug it with all you have.
She strokes you with her other hand, then gently
pries you off, places you in her palm, brings you
to her lips, and indulges in a long, tender kiss.
Eventually, she releases you from her mouth, and
looks down at you.
"But you know, even if we've got to let the whole
world in on what you did, there's still one thing
that no one has to know about, except you and me."
She brings you up close, and whispers in your ear:
"You tickle."
Then, as if in retaliation, she proceeds to tickle
your tummy with her finger. You giggle helplessly.
"You couldn't possibly have chosen a worse time to
tickle a lady," she teases.
Your mother must hear all of the laughter, for now
she pops her head in the door. "All right to come
in?" she asks. The two of you compose yourselves,
and invite her to enter. She does so, followed by
a whole entourage of nurses and staffers, who have
heard that "the tiny hero" is making a visit.
You stay for another hour or so. The doctor comes
in, and informs you that Mrs. Andrews is suffering
from internal bleeding, and acute damage to one of
her kidneys, which he is confident can survive the
violence done to it. You lie on her belly, and she
caresses your body with her finger, as you and she
watch the first TV broadcast of the assembly. You
finally have to leave her, to prepare for the trip
this evening. You walk up her body, climb a strand
of her hair, and kiss her goodbye on the cheek.
That evening you, your mom and Julie arrive at the
airport, and confirm your tickets (or they confirm
theirs -- you don't need a ticket, since you don't
take up a separate seat). A guard at the security
check point, after letting your mom and sister go,
puts you through a thorough search. She even tells
you to remove your shoes and socks, then picks you
up and makes you to wiggle your toes. She has you
wiggle them for a long while, as she examines them
closely, gliding one of her fingers lightly across
them. Your mother considers the inspection rather
odd; Julie calls it "really weird."
You board the plane, and get to sit in first class
(which makes hardly a difference to you - you sure
don’t need the extra leg room). A few hours later
you land in Dulles airport. You don't get to your
hotel room until eleven, but then do not meet with
the President until the next afternoon. He and the
First Lady receive you cordially, then lead you to
the White House lawn where, before microphones and
cameras, he awards you a citation for bravery. The
First Lady then conducts you, your mother and your
sister on a tour, carrying you about herself. She
even takes you to the Oval Office, where you get a
chance to slide across the president’s desk. Then
she takes you out into the garden, and puts you on
top a table set for tea. After a while, you ask to
be put onto the ground to take a look around. She
does so, but only after she removes her shoes, for
fear of stepping on you, and asks everyone else to
do the same. It’s funny to see the Secret Service,
standing around self-consciously in their stocking
feet. Once on the ground, when you can see nothing
but their feet, they look even funnier. And when,
unbeknownst to the First Lady, a furry caterpillar
attacks her toes, it is no Secret Service man, but
you, who comes to her rescue, and shoos him off of
her foot.
Eventually, at the prompting of her secretary, the
First Lady excuses herself for another appointment
-- which she frankly seems reluctant to keep. She
shakes your mother's hand, then Julie's hand; then
she picks you up and covers your face with a light
and motherly kiss, and thanks you for rescuing her
toes from that nasty caterpillar. She hands you to
your mom and exits, just as a staff member arrives
to escort you to a waiting limo, which returns you
to your hotel.
Evidently, the media coverage of your citation has
by now traveled coast to coast. Messages await you
at your hotel, offers from movie and TV producers
from New York to Hollywood. Your mom, sensitive to
anyone out to exploit your size, wants you to have
nothing to do with any of them. There is an offer
from Disney for you to portray a modern Tom Thumb,
but your mother has for a while now disapproved of
Disney. What about an offer to be in a live action
commercial for Lucky Charms? "No." How about this
offer to appear in a TV ad for some product called
Tidy Bowl? "No way!" She refuses even to listen to
any more of this list of offers you're reading out
loud, offers from Jay Leno, David Letterman, Larry
King, Connie Chung, Barbara Walters, Good Morning
America, Live with Regis and Kelly ...
Live with Regis and Kelly? Your mother perks up.
That's her favorite show! Hmmm ...
The next morning, the three of you rush to catch a
plane to NYC. Again a security guard, this one at
Dulles Airport, gives you a more thorough checking
over than your sister and mom deem necessary. You
arrive at LaGuardia, and a cab drives you right to
the NBC studio, where a producer briefs you on the
next day's broadcast. After a good night's rest in
a fancy hotel, you arrive early at the studio; the
make-up technicians vie with each other to get the
chance to prepare you. The head of the department
chooses to do you herself, based on her experience
in a favorite hobby of hers: painting miniatures.
Because of your size, the interview proceeds in an
unusual manner. Kelly conducts it herself. She's
lying tummy-down on a couch, as you stand in front
of her on a pillow. After some preliminary small-
talk (she herself calls it that), she asks you:
"Aren't you afraid of me? Just a bit? I mean, gee
whiz, look: my arm alone is towering over you!"
"Oh, I've lived with that all my life," you reply.
"I'm so used to it, I don't even notice."
"But isn't life dangerous, from your perspective?"
"No, you just learn how to avoid people's feet and
stuff."
"How do you even know who's who from down there?"
"Well, when I'm on a table or something, I get to
know people by their arms and hands; and when I'm
on the floor, I get to know them by their feet."
"Oh my gosh -- my face is funny enough to look at,
never mind my feet." She gently wraps her fingers
round you and sets you down on the floor, then she
herself sits up, placing her feet down beside you.
She's in a high heeled sandal, without a stocking.
What's she talking about, you wonder. Her face is
beautiful; and her feet -- they aren't bad either,
as feet go.
A technician directs your eyes upon a monitor. On
it, You see yourself standing beside Kelly's feet.
Then -- you see Regis walk onto the screen -- just
as small as you! He's standing there on the other
side of Kelly's feet. You then turn away from the
monitor and look over to where he therefore should
really be, but he isn't there. A special effect!
So you glance back up at the monitor, and watch as
Regis points to Kelly's feet. "Now that's funny,"
he says. The giant foot beside him makes as if it
takes a swipe at him. He makes as if the foot has
just hit him, and he tumbles onto the ground, then
rolls offscreen.
At that they break for a commercial. Kelly gently
picks you up and congratulates you for a wonderful
performance. Your mom comes from behind a set and
Kelly hands you back to her, thanking her for such
a wonderful son, then rushing off to the adjoining
set. Your mom stares at her, starry-eyed.
"Oh, isn't this glorious?" she says. You doubt if
she's even aware that this show just did precisely
what she didn't want it to do: exploit your size.
After the show, you spend the remainder of the day
sight-seeing. Among the stores you patronize is a
top-of-the-line doll emporium. It's the only spot
in the world, you figure, that keeps somewhere, be
it on display or in a storeroom, decent clothes in
literally every size. You and your Mom spend alot
of time (and even more money) shopping for you in
there. Julie does some shopping in there as well;
though for what, you don't know -- and are wary to
find out. The closest thing she's got to any sort
of doll collection ... is you.
Early the next morning, as you and your family get
ready to go to the airport, you find out what your
sister was concealing in that tiny shopping bag of
hers. "It's a disguise," she says, "to keep those
obnoxious airport security ladies' hands off you."
You watch anxiously as her fingers reach deep into
the bag and pull out ...
"Mom! Julie's gonna try to make me wear a dress!"
"No, Mom -- it's a costume." She shows it to your
mother. It is a period piece, something like what
a Dutch milkmaid might have worn two hundred or so
years ago. She even bought for the overall look a
flaxen wig of long pigtails. "I thought if Markie
looked like a little doll, we could get those dumb
airport ladies to leave him alone."
"Mom!"
"Mark, your sister spent her own money on that, to
save you from embarrassment."
"Save me from embarrassment!" you say to yourself.
"She doesn't know what embarrassment is!" Yet you
realize from the tone of her voice that there's no
sense arguing with your mother, so you submit your
body to Julie's latest scheme. She dresses you up
and then, to your horror, takes out of her purse a
couple of almost empty tubes of makeup. "The lady
who made up your face in the studio yesterday said
I could take these," Julie says. She smears your
face with what almost looks like clown white, does
your eyebrows with a finely sharpened brown pencil
and then, with the blunt end of a toothpick, daubs
your lips and cheeks with rosy red. Even your mom
squeals with delight at the results, and takes out
her camera for a photo shoot. All you're thinking
about is with what perverse delight the gal at the
photo place will develop this roll of film.
However, as you will have to admit again and again
in upcoming months, Julie's little ruse does work;
airport security passes you by without any special
treatment. It is difficult trying to remain stiff
and glassy-eyed as security guards rummage through
the bag in which your sister is carrying you. But
thank goodness no one notices that you're really a
teenage male made up to look like a dairy maid.
Well, not until you get home, anyway. Both Stacie
and Pierre are waiting to greet you as you arrive.
"I'll never live this one down," you think.
Your mother carries you in the house, and sets you
upon a table in the living room, while Julie flops
on the sofa in front of the TV. Stacie and Pierre
follow close behind. Only now do they get a first
look at you. They try to suppress their laughter,
but can't, exploding in a sudden outburst. In the
midst of their laughter, you yell out: "Why didn't
she make me up like a ... a GI Joe or something?"
Your mother's brow wrinkles into a quizzical look.
She turns to Julie. "Why didn't you?"
"Hm?"
"Why didn't you?"
"Didn't I what?"
"Make him up like a GI Joe or something?"
"Oh," Julie yawns, stretching her long body out on
the sofa, as she surfs the TV with a remote, "That
would have been so uninteresting."
Your mother's whole face drops. She looks down at
you. You shrug. "She got you again, Mom."
"I guess she did," your Mom says, looking at Julie
blithely pretending not to hear what she obviously
is hearing. "Yes, she definitely did."
So life goes on as usual -- only the usual becomes
alot better than it was. You become overnight the
most popular kid in the school. The football team
dubs you their mascot; before every game, each one
of the players rubs you on his head for luck.
But both you and they know that there's a lot more
to their winning streak than that; it's really all
about their quarterback Pierre. His leadership on
and off the field hustles them right to the state
championship; he becomes the state's player of the
year, and receives offers for full scholarships to
the top universities in the country. Yet whenever
he acknowledges another award or does an interview
for the media, he always attributes the major part
of his success to you.
Stacie has her own share in fame and success. She
gets back on the track team, and boosts the team's
victories enough to lead them up to the regionals.
She also enjoys a renewed popularity in the school
-- thanks to her association with you.
But all good things must come to an end, including
high school. You, already voted Most Popular, now
are chosen valedictorian for your graduation. You
deliver your address standing on a raised platform
set atop the podium. As at that assembly given in
your honor, behind you is an enormous screen which
displays an image of you big enough for all in the
audience to see. And the topic of your address?
"Learning to Live with the Little Things in Life."
But we're getting ahead of ourselves. A few weeks
prior to graduation day is, of course, prom night.
Pierre already has Stacie for his date, and so you
decide that you'd like to ask -- Elissa. You have
felt sorry for her; her popularity plummeted after
Craig Bradley's arrest. But how will you ask her?
She has seemed almost afraid to go near you, as if
she were some sort of leper or something. But you
know where she sits in the library (she spents her
lunch hours there, to get away from people). With
Pierre's help, you get on the table and take cover
behind some books. At a few minutes before twelve
she arrives and sits down. You call out her name.
She looks around the room nervously. You step out
from the book shelf. You yell up to her: "No, I'm
down here!" She looks down and jumps back. "Hey,
come on! I'm not going to bite you -- it wouldn't
hurt that much, even if I did. I just want to ask
you something." Now you're the one who's nervous.
"Um ... Elissa ... are you going to the ... do you
want me to take you to the ... could I take you to
the ... prom?"
She hangs her head. "That's not funny." she says.
"Elissa, look at me." She does so. "I'm not here
to hurt you. I'm really asking you to go out with
me to the prom. But then (now you hang your head)
it's possible that you're the one who doesn't want
me."
"You're serious. You ... want me?"
"Elissa." You hold out your hands to her. Slowly,
apprehensively, she extends an index finger toward
you. You take it in both your hands. "I've never
been mean to you, ever -- have I?" She shakes her
head no. "Well, I'm not going to begin to now. I
really want to take you to the prom. So how about
it? Will you say yes?" She's speechless. "Hey,"
you say, "You once called me your boyfriend, but I
never did ask you on a date. So I owe you one."
She draws back her finger, then -- opens her palm.
You step into it. She closes her hand around you
and brings you to her now tear-stained cheek. It's
that kind of moment when it's actually nice to get
drenched. "Thank you." she repeats, over and over
again.