Peter’s stomach oscillated against his heart. He sucked up what little air hadn’t been squeezed from his lungs by Mandy’s unforgiving fingers. His chest, already caved to sore capacity against the heel of the girl’s enormous hand, was only slightly helpful in letting him wriggle his shoulders just high enough to avoid banging his jaw against the hovering mass of her thumbpad.

                She was still running. And still holding him tightly in her clammy fist.

                Those Converses of hers pounded the carpet hallway, again and again with seismic fury Peter wasn’t quite sure he could remember experiencing before. No one had ever sprinted while they held him. Power-walked, sure, even jogged for a brief span, but nothing like this. The full weight of her body slamming down to a single foot on every impossibly long stride, the residual vibration rattling up through her arms, to the fingertips, and into his terrified bones.

                Through the mad state of senselessness she’d rocked him into by pumping her arm so fast and squeezing Peter’s five-inch body with such fervor, he’d just managed to make out a sound that gave him hope. A cry from somewhere in the art classroom just as the pair of them had reached the door at full speed. Someone had noticed how Mandy snuck out through a second door of the firing closet and came back in the classroom exit behind him. The panicked, unknown voice was followed by yelled chatter, and sounds of shuffling that Peter couldn’t sort out. He could only hope they were coming after him.

                At least, that was what he’d heard a minute before. Now, there was nothing distinct, although it could’ve just been that Mandy was beginning to make him sick.

                The softer glow of the math wing gave way to a slamming door opened by Mandy’s opposite forearm, another rumble through her frame that chattered Peter’s teeth, and a burst of harsher light. Blinking dumbly, adjusting to the fact that Mandy’s arm had finally stopped pumping and given Peter’s drunken brain a chance to relax, he realized they were in one of the girls’ bathrooms. A dead end.

                Whether that was good or bad remained to be seen. Almost instantly he regretted thinking of it as a “dead end.”

                “Mandy-” he panted.  Not like he had the slightest idea of what kind of appeal to make at this point. He looked up to her pleadingly as she held him at the height of her stomach. For once, though, her gaze wasn’t trained to him, instead seemingly lost in her own reflection in the wall-length mirror above the sinks.

                Peter laid his jaw down against the firm, curved wall that constituted Mandy’s balled fingers coiled around his sides. Hesitantly, he opened his mouth, daring himself to test out one of the defense lessons Erica had spooked into him on the reservoir hillside. Her skin was a little gritty, but it didn’t look any thicker than his sister’s; surely, given how high his adrenaline was pumped now, he could bite hard enough to inflict some pain. Discomfort, at least.

                Then out of the corner of his eye, the boy recalled the sheer drop toward the tile floor below. Even if he managed to take advantage of Mandy’s current failing in surveillance, she could just as easily drop him. Then he wouldn’t even need to wait to see what she’d do to him; he’d just break a bone or five on the drop. If he was lucky, he’d have the landing softened by the girl’s laced shoe, but how certain was he that he’d be able to aim that direction when she dropped him?

                Not very.

                Pausing in thought to let his heart catch up, Peter awkwardly wrestled his head further away from the side of Mandy’s finger. Looking back up in the direction of the bathroom mirror, off which the ceiling lights now glared and impaired clear vision, he could see that his captor was no longer looking at herself. She’d locked eyes with him in the reflection instead.

                So much for the terrible escape plan.

                “Look at you,” the girl chuckled, shaking her head piteously. “Just look at you.”

                For a few moments, the pair remained in squalid silence in the deserted bathroom. Mandy lifted her fist up higher, until her hand was level with her chest, and Peter had a proper view of his current position above the sinks.

                Frankly, he was much happier being held at the height of the girl’s stomach. At least he felt like she was paying less attention to him down there, and his blessings had to be counted in a situation like this, where she’d finally given in to three months of searing tension and snatched him up just like he’d suspected she’d do again for so long. Now, he was forced to look at her. And himself.

                It was pathetic, really. Peter never exactly needed a mirror to remember that he, in fact, stood at around five inches tall. Climbing into someone’s hand was plenty of reminder for the scale difference. Still, when he was forced to look into a reflective surface while in close proximity to a normal-sized human, it put things in an even more unfortunately humbling perspective.

                And it was humbling. Peter hadn’t felt so helpless in a long time, staring at his sad head peeping uselessly out of the top of the girl’s iron-clenched fist, his feet dangling clumsily on the other end. Mandy stood straight up, her other hand wandering through her auburn hair as it so often did, plucking at the stray strands and twirling, looking bigger than she ever had before. She proudly wore a victorious smile on her lips.

                He felt sick.

                “You look so funny,” she commented at length. “Peekin’ around. Like a little gopher in my hand.”

                Peter’s throat was too dry.

                “I guess you don’t have anything to say now, do you? It’s just when I’m not around that you feel like you can say whatever you want about me?”

                That seems fair, Peter thought bitterly to himself.

                “Well?” she grumbled, her voice suddenly devoid of its artificial cheer. The glower of before darkened her features as her eyes narrowed their focus on the image of the tiny boy in the mirror she had squeezed in her fist. “Nothing to say, huh? That’s cool, that’s cool. That’s how most bullies are, anyway, so I know you’re just doing what you know.”

                Peter almost had to wheeze at this statement out of principle, even though he didn’t have the oxygen to spare. Mandy’s fingers had only grown tenser around his frame, to the point that he was fairly sure his hips were already forming soft bruises.

                Bully? Him? Maybe she actually was crazy, and not just mildly unhinged, as the boy had long suspected. What kind of mental gymnastics were required for her to call him the bully in this situation?

                “Mandy… you… need to believe… me…” Peter grunted, carefully choosing words that didn’t require him to completely refill his diaphragm. “I… didn’t say… anything! About… anybody!”

                “Why should I?”

                Peter gulped. He had to keep her talking, even if it was something that upset her and probably increased the chances of deeper bruises. Talking was still better than her attempting a swirly on him, with the toilets so near. Most things were better, in fact.

                “Who… said… something?”

                “A few people,” Mandy sneered. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t wanna hear you try and lie and say you didn’t talk to them. All you have to do is say it to someone, and it goes around. That’s how it works.”

                Was she trying to give him an anti-bullying sermon? It was almost the last thing Peter expected to get from this particular girl.

                “Was it Sharon? And… Amy and Kimmy?” Peter mustered, swallowing empty air. His shoulders were starting to go numb from the strength of Mandy’s cold fingers wound about them.

                “And other people,” Mandy emphasized again. “I’m done hearing you make excuses. All you have to do is say sorry, and I’ll let you go.” At last, she broke eye contact with the mirror image of Peter, and instead lifted her hand up to the level of her eyes. Her hazel irises laid into him with newfound intensity, as though she intended to vaporize his skull right off the chopping block of her fist.

                “You… what?”

                “You heard me. Say you’re sorry, and I’ll put you down.”

                “Mandy…” Peter breathed, fighting back a choking gurgle in the back of his throat. He was surprised at his ability to form complete words without stammering out the syllables. The Peter of three or even two months before would never have managed it. Surely all his classmates needed was a few more precious seconds to track them down.

                “C’mon, you sad little boy. I did all that nice stuff for you… I let you be part of my painting… I drew that picture for you. I invited you over to watch movies. And you just keep on being rude. Rude, rude, rude,” she cantered. “Is it really so freakin’ hard for you to do one nice thing back for me?”

                Peter sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere good, and his limbs were on the verge of losing sensation now. As he’d learned so many times before, there were battles worth fighting, and then there were those worth sitting out so he’d be present for the next one. With Mandy’s palm compressed so heavily against his chest and stomach, this was rapidly turning into one of the latter.

                “Okay, okay. I’m sorry-” Peter began diplomatically. The words he’d mapped out to come next went something along the lines of “that there was a misunderstanding and your feelings were hurt,” but the very concept of forming syllables was squelched out of his lungs.

                Mandy’s knuckles went white, as did her eyes.

                “I knew it,” she declared somewhere between a hiss and a song. “I knew you said it. You pathetic little snail.”

                Peter was flung upside down again, still securely coiled in Mandy’s fist, but once again victim to tumbling gravity as her hand rocked and turned. Retorts mushed to jelly in his mouth. Her Converse slammed forward over the glossy tile, past the sinks, and toward the stalls.

                There was no additional time for thought or counterpoint. Peter was brandished right-side up for only one last painful second as Mandy kicked her way into the nearest bathroom stall. She flashed him one final rage-painted grimace, and then her fingers opened.

                The boy sputtered helplessly as he fell heels-over-head and splashed down into the toilet bowl.

                Reorienting himself in the frigid pool, Peter swam for the surface. He desperately clawed at the ovular porcelain shoreline, but only succeeded in slipping backward again into the water. Spitting a mouthful of the revolting liquid away, only then did the freshman pitifully peer upward, out of the halo of the toilet seat, and to the sight of Mandy towering above him, her hand poised above the silver flush handle.

                “I hope you know how to swim, little guy.”

                “Mandy…” Peter uttered, struggling even to stay afloat as he stared up at her. He was plenty practiced at treading water, but the concept was harder to enact on autopilot when he was trying so hard to come up with an acceptable plea. He also knew full well that if Mandy’s fingers were to depress a matter of inches, all the treading in the world wouldn’t keep him safe.

                “Peter…” she mocked back at him, the pitch rising in her voice. Her opposite hand was planted defiantly on her hip as she stood over the toilet, while her other arm was still threateningly stretched out for the handle. She shook her head. “Peter. It’s such a stupid-sounding name. Like Peter Rabbit or something.”

                “Please…” he hacked, outstretching a hand as far as he dared before using it to tread water again. His voice cracked. “Please let me out.”

                “Gonna have to do better than that,” she scowled. Her fingers danced gently against the unmoving flush handle. “Now that I know what you said, and you spent so long lying about it first, like the true little scaredy-cat you are. Or scaredy-rabbit, maybe.”

                “PLEASE,” he called out, the echo of it bouncing forlornly off the rounded inner walls of the toilet. “Please, Mandy.”

                “All you know how to say is “please” and my name, Peter-Rabbit. It’s like talking to a broken record,” Mandy tsked with another shake of her head. She shrugged. “Oh well…”

                Peter couldn’t be certain whether he saw her fingers arch up in preparation to press the handle, or if they were rising in surprise. He didn’t have to find out the answer, though, as the stall door was wrenched open from outside, and Mandy’s body was yanked away from its lording position over the doom bowl.

                It was difficult to make out the commotion outside, as Peter’s view was limited to the mellow glow of the light above the stall. All he could do was tread. He was fairly certain he could make out the sound of Alita screeching something in Spanish. Multiple pairs of shoes were heard stumbling around on the tile beyond, followed by a loud thump, as though someone's body had hit the floor.

                Peter’s heart was finally allowed to slow down from overdrive as Bluebell appeared over the rim of the toilet above, her hand swooping down to fish out her costar.