The Wednesday morning bell was seconds away from ringing as Erica jogged into Peter’s U.S. History room, so there was barely time for the freshman to dive from her palm and onto the surface of the desk to remain punctual.  Once she’d dropped him off, of course, the girl was far more leisurely about her exit and subsequent commute over to her own first period.

           Apparently she was learning to take full advantage of her perfectly valid excuse for being late to class, which the freshman decided could only work in his favor, since her general demeanor seemed to have improved as of late.  Almost out of breath himself from the rush despite the fact that he’d just been sitting in his sister’s hands the whole way, Peter wiped his eyes, which had watered from the wind blowing past that would’ve threatened to topple him down to the carpet far below if not for Erica’s fist forming a protective cocoon around him.

It was by no means his favorite way to travel, particularly since his younger and more immature cousins had occasionally taken it upon themselves during family reunions to playfully entrap Peter under household objects, or even just their own clammy and Cheeto-dusted fingers, giggling as he squirmed in an attempt to escape their grubby grasps, until the game was ended by an enraged Suzanne or Jessica.

Such a thing hadn’t happened in years since his relatives had gotten old enough to treat him with a modicum of human respect, but the sensation still lingered and tended to spook the freshman whenever his family felt the need to restrict his movement in their hands for safety reasons.

Not that he’d ever mention this fact to any of them, of course.

                As the last students guiltily filed in with the serenade of the bell followed by overhead office announcements, Peter craned his neck to find Lisa in her normal back corner of the room.  Today she had on a maroon sweater, but even against the ruddy competition, her silky locks still shone far brighter.  He couldn’t quite make out her face, as she seemed to be focused intently on a piece of paper she was writing on.  Gripping a pencil, her hand glided slowly in rounded swirls that let Peter know she was probably writing in cursive.  Awkwardly, he tried waving his arms without being too obnoxious, but it was no use.

                “Lisa!” he hissed, getting a few heads to turn with interest, but not the one he wanted.  “Hey, Lisa!”

                Still nothing.

                “I told you, shortstuff,” Sharon said from behind him, snapping Peter’s attention up to her silvery eyes instantly.  “Some people don’t always make the best friends.”

                “What do you mean?” Peter muttered, averting his eyes after a few stinging seconds.

                “Her, in the back.  I told you she doesn’t talk to people.  This is just what she does.”

                “She… she’s probably just tired or something,” Peter said as he looked back over at Lisa’s minute, robotic motions.  The classroom door swinging open interrupted his concerned study.

                “All right, sports fans, let’s get going.  Sorry I’m late,” Mr. Browning said cheerily, clapping his hands against a textbook as he came through the door.  The noise silenced the buzzing chatter of the class after just a few repetitions.  “It’s good to hear this kind of energy so early in the morning.  I can’t wait to see you bring that enthusiasm to your History Now spiels.”

                The class groaned collectively at being reminded of their academic obligations.  Peter dug through his backpack for the scraps of paper he’d written his notes on.

                “History Now,” he had to admit, was a pretty cheesy sounding name for the yearlong homework system.  Every week several students were assigned to give a brief presentation on a focused aspect of the subject matter from the recent lesson plans, and two other students along with Peter had been randomly assigned to go first.

                It was nice, Peter thought, to be able to get it out of the way so early, and he only needed to complete it once more later in the semester.  His topic was “mercantilism,” and all he had to do was talk about it for a few minutes.  He’d put plenty of study into it, far more than he probably needed, and was eager to demonstrate his ability to comprehend 16th century economic practices.

                “Would anyone like to present first?” Mr. Browning asked.  There was silence.  “Anyone?  Anyone?  Buehler?” he added, chuckling at his movie reference, but stopped himself when he realized how few of the students even understood it.

                Inhaling deeply and then releasing the air through his nostrils, Peter tried to pump himself up and patted onto his leg the drum solo from a song he’d heard on the radio that morning.  This would make good practice for his debut on the high school’s stage in Grimm-a-Palooza, assuming Suzanne didn’t backtrack on her allowance at the last second.  Mustering the gumption, then, he raised his hand.

                “Peter!  Great, thanks for volunteering,” Mr. Browning said happily.  “I was afraid I was going to have to make you all draw straws.”

                Peter straightened his notes precociously, a little boost of adrenaline coursing through his veins.  As eager as he was, a simultaneous feeling of anxiety was beginning to take hold.  After all, he’d never before had to formally present anything before a large group, and he could already feel every eye on him again like on the first day of class.  Now, though, if he could just cool off and embrace the limelight, it could be on his terms, not theirs.

                For courage, the freshman earnestly peered back to the corner of the room to see Lisa, but was surprised to see hers was the only pair of eyes not locked to him.  If anything, her head was bowed the same way it had been during biology the day before, ensuring there was very little of the room she could actually make out.  Peter crumpled the edge of his notes, if only for something to occupy his hands, and realized how sorely he wished he could just make simple eye contact with his friend.  It would’ve helped immensely.

                “Errr… Peter, normally people come up to the front to present, but I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.  Would you be all right with that?  Could you have a friend give you a lift?” Mr. Browning said, scratching his chin with slight embarrassment.

                After all this work he’d put into the research for a two-and-a-half-minute project, not to mention his continued quest to be treated as much like his taller peers as possible, Peter didn’t see how he could skip the chance to present from the front.

                “Sure, I can come up,” the height-challenged freshman said, turning once again to the back corner of the room, fully expecting that this question would at least give Lisa cause to look up at him finally.  It seemed like a no-brainer to address her in a moment like this, especially since she was the only person in the school besides his sister and two teachers that Peter had authorized to hold him.

                But once again, he was met with the sight of her startling red locks, covering her eyes as she leaned over her paper.  Her hand was moving slower now as she continued writing, like she was putting at least some energy into listening, but it kept up its trail all the same, having not even paused to acknowledge that Peter needed someone to carry him.

                “Is there… a particular person you’d be comfortable getting a ride from?” Mr. Browning said, repeating the previous question.   He nearly stumbled over the words, obviously severely unaccustomed to so casually mentioning the possibility of one student transporting another in their hand.

                “Uh… m-maybe,” Peter said.  He considered calling out her name again, but the soft syllables caught in his throat.  Instead he continued staring in Lisa’s direction, hoping if he did it intensely enough, she’d snap back into the present and acknowledge his existence.

                There was no such luck.  The girl remained hunched silently over her work, still as a statue save for her hand poised with the writing utensil.

                Was something the matter?  Had something happened to her?

                More than anything now, Peter wished he could speak to his friend.

                “I can take him,” came the sly quicksilver voice, slithering as a sharp whisper into Peter’s ear.  He nearly let the scribbled notes fall from his numbed fingertips.

                “Thank you, Sharon.  Is that all right with you, Peter?”

                Peter turned, realizing the queen bee had already silently risen from her chair and was standing over him, barely tilting her chin down to see him, as though his geographic position hardly warranted notice.  Her pale hand descended, curved a little like a crescent moon as her fingernails tapped with the volume of dropped pins onto the surface of his desk.

                “Y-Y…” he peeped, shell-shocked by the sudden sight of her looming over him: a beautiful mirage that barely minded his being.  What was he even saying right now?  “Y-Yes.”

                “Climb in, shortstuff,” she said.  The words came as steely orders despite how low under her breath they were delivered.

                Peter stepped closer to Sharon’s hand, the hairs on his arms standing on end.  He was painfully aware of how quiet the room had become as every person except for the one he cared about most was watching with supreme interest, but even if there’d been sound, it would’ve gone unnoticed by the hapless student.

Unlike most people who were offering to give Peter a ride, Sharon had made no effort to flatten her palm horizontally to act as a cushioned platform for her passenger.  Instead, she bent her fingers ever so slightly, creating an awkward shelf of space where he might stand.  Her wrist was steady, and Peter could tell she was entirely in control of her bodily movements, so there wasn’t a risk of falling.

Unless she wanted there to be one, of course.

And as Peter stared upward along the slender mountain of Sharon’s body and up to her cutting eyes, he realized there might very well be one.  His confirmation to let her carry him felt alien and distant in his mouth, and he wondered how it had managed to pass his lips.  The very idea of letting Sharon touch him in any context unless his very existence depended on it filled him with crackling, icy dread.

Unfortunately, the gentle clearing of a throat somewhere off to the side of the room flooded Peter with self-consciousness and jumpstarted him into action.  He placed both feet onto Sharon’s fingertips, and quickly realized he’d have to lean into the wall of her delicate digits if he wanted to feel entirely secure.  The girl’s hand rose almost immediately as she began walking up the aisle of desks, and with a heart-jolting thrust, Peter fell against Sharon’s palm.  Her skin was warm and incredibly soft, like a baby’s, yet the freshman couldn’t have felt colder as he became aware that his entire body was pressed up against Sharon’s hand, right where she wanted him.

The ride to the front of the room was a brief string of seconds but stretched on for what felt to Peter like minutes as he attempted to shuffle his body into a position that didn’t require him to awkwardly hug himself into Sharon’s flesh, yet try as he might, he couldn’t find the right angle, as though he’d been magnetized to her palm.  The longer he laid against the supple surface of the siren’s appendage, the more his heartbeats seemed to slow and become heavier, like a rock swaying against the inside of his tiny chest, and he knew she could probably feel it.  He managed a glance over his shoulder from this higher perch, where Lisa was more easily seen, but even now she still didn’t look up.

Unpeeling himself from Sharon’s hand at last felt to Peter like lunging onto a beach after being lost at sea.  As the girl set him down on the top of the wooden podium next to Mr. Browning’s desk, he found himself wishing to bend down and kiss the safe ground, but resolved not to for the very real possibility of further ostracization.

Sharon all but floated back to her desk, her hair sweeping gracefully behind her, and suddenly all attention was back on Peter.  The note cards in his hands had dampened with nervous sweat.

“M-M…” he mumbled, biting his tongue and forcing air into his lungs through sheer will.  “Mercantilism.”

His memory had gone blank as he looked back up to find all eyes, especially Sharon’s boring right through him, and he fumbled with the cards, reading their bullet points aloud like a foreign language.