"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?"