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.