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