“JULIE!” Uh-oh. Mom’s caught your act from the
window over the kitchen sink. “How many times
have I told you not to do that?”

“But Ma,” she argues, “He likes it!”

“Oh I know that! Hand him up to me -- now.” Julie
hands you over to Stacie, who hands you up to your
mother. She starts washing off your feet under a
trickle from the faucet. “I don’t want you to let
Julie do that to you,” she scolds.

“But Mom, it’s funny.”

“It’s rude and ill-mannered, especially in front
of company.”

“Oh Ma -- it’s just Stacie.”

“Yes, and I don’t want her or anyone else to think
they can treat you that way.” She grabs your face
between her thumb and forefinger. “Understand me?”

“Yeah.”

“All right then. Go back out to the girls.” She
lets go of your head, spanks you lightly with her
finger, and sets you down at the hole cut into the
porch door. As you walk through it and slide down
the string next to the stair, you grumble to your-
self, "How about the way you treat me? What other
kid my age has a mom who still spanks him?"

You walk over to the couch and holler up at Julie
(who is just finishing cleaning herself up). "Mom
says you can't eat off my feet anymore." She pouts
for a second, then brightens up.

"Well then, how about ... ?"

She bends down and grabs you, then reaches over to
a shelf full of knack-knacks and grabs the handle
of an odd-looking old tea kettle, long, narrow and
squat. She opens up the lid and drops you inside.
She wipes some tarnish off the rim of the lid and
applies it to your face, whispers a few words to
you, pushes you down and shuts the lid.

She sits in a lotus position, holds up the kettle
by the handle, shuts her eyes and begins a series
of bogus incantations, as she solemnly rubs the
kettle on its side. At the words:

‘Ali-ka-zam-ali-ka-BLAM!’

You pop out of the kettle, and leap into her open
hand. You squat down on her palm, with your feet
still bare and your pajama bottoms rolled up, and
now your pajama top wrapped around your head like
a turban, your arms folded across your bare chest,
and a smudge on your chin like a goatee. You bow
waist-deep to the ground, and announce: “I am zee
Teenie Genie Weenie, zee genie of zee lamp. Your
wish is my command.”

“Now,” Julie says to Stacie, “we've got three
wishes. And he has to do whatever we say.”

"What do we wish for?" Stacie asks.

"Wait a second," Julie replies. She screws up her
face and cocks her head. You know that look, only
too well. You can almost see the gears in her head
begin to engage. She is activating that devilish
imagination of hers, which in full tilt, churns
up the wackiest ideas -- usually at your expense.

You never can figure out why you let her abuse you
like this, why you always agree to go along with
her, and never call upon your mother to stop her,
except that ... well ... Julie's schemes are so
often so hilariously ... and so diabolically ...
funny. And you're a sucker for anything funny.

"Hmmm," Julie ponders aloud "The Swami-Mommy has
forbidden us to eat off the Teenie-Genie-Weenie's
feet."

"Yes," you add, "and the Teenie-Genie-Weenie has
no power to disobey the Swami-Mommy."

"Right. But the Swami-Mommy has not yet forbidden
the Teenie-Genie-Weenie to eat off OUR feet!"

At that she swipes you up, barges through the door
to the house and bounds up the stairs.

"What are you up to?" Your mother cries out in a
sing-songy tone of apprehension.

"Nothing Ma!" Julie calls back.

As you reach the top of the stairs, you cry out
for Julie to stop. She ignores you, and slips
into your mom's bedroom.

"Julie," you cry, as she sets you on the bed and
begins rifling through your mom’s sewing kit, "if
Mom catches me eating off your feet ..."

"Oh, you're not going to eat off MY feet."

"Huh? ... you mean ... No!" you cry, as you leap
to the corner of the bed and scramble halfway down
the covers -- until Julie’s thumb and forefinger
clasp your sides and pry you off. She sets you
belly-down on her shoulder, drops her tank top
strap, lifts her bra strap, and slides you snugly
under it. You bite her shoulder.

“Ow,” she says, as she continues rummaging through
your mom’s sewing things. “Stop that.”

"I won't!" You yell back, as you struggle to free
yourself from her bra strap’s hold. Julie sees
your progress in the mirror, pushes you back in
place, tightens the strap, and returns to her
search. You bite her again. Other than a slight
twitch, she ignores it

“I’m not gonna do this!” You yell to her. “And
you can’t make me!”

"Of course I can," she says calmly, as she
continues to rummage through the sewing kit.
"You're the Teenie-Genie- Weenie, and you have to
do whatever I say. That's the rule."

For some dumb reason, you accept this line of
argument without question.

"Yeah, well ... then why don't you be the Teenie-
Genie-Weenie?"

She stops her search and looks at you in the
mirror. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Cuz, Stupid," she says, scrunching up her face at
you. "I'm not teenie-weenie."

Her attention switches back to the sewing kit.
You start to whimper.

"Don't be such a baby." She says, preoccupied.
"It's not like it’s going to hurt.”

“It better not.”

“Oh, like eating off somebody’s foot could hurt.
Ah!” She uncovers a final prop for her act.
“Besides,” she adds, as she closes up the sewing
kit, “I never hurt you.”

You groan.

“What’s your problem?”

“You’re hurting me now.”

“What?” She looks in the mirror, and notices the
buckle of her bra strap digging into your back.
“Ooh!” She lifts the strap and pulls you out,
then rubs your reddened back and kisses it. She
presses you against her cheek. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean it.”

Here sweetness at moments like this makes it all
the harder to defy her crazy schemes.

She holds you up to her face. “You okay?” You
nod. “Good. Let’s go.” With her free hand she
begins to gather up her collection of props off
the dresser.

“But what’s Stacie gonna think?” You ask.

“She’ll think it’s funny.”

“What if she thinks it’s gross?”

“She won’t, cuz it won’t be. We’re gonna do it
right.” She notices your skeptical expression,
and adds, “You’ll see. Even Mom would say so.”
You grimace in disbelief. “Alright,” she concurs,
“But Mom’s too picky. Come on.” With you in one
hand and her props in the other, she hurries out
the door and down the stairs.

“I hope you’re treating your brother right!” Your
mother intones.

“No problem, Ma!” Julie sings back to her.

Julie goes back out on the porch and sits again on
the couch next to Stacie, setting you down upon a
nearby table.

"Okay, Stacie," she says, "in order for our wish
to come true, you've got to take off your sandals
and close your eyes." Stacie does so. Julie then
lowers her face to the table and whispers her plan
to you. She then sets you down on the ground. As
she prepares materials for her act from the couch,
she has you prepare things on the floor. As usual,
the idea is not only screwy, but elaborate.

Stacie starts to fidget. "Can I open my eyes yet?"
she asks.

"No, wait till I say so." Julie replies, intent on
her preparations.

Finally she announces: "Okay, Stacie, open up your
eyes and look down."

Stacie does so, and finds you, the Teenie-Genie-
Weenie, standing before her left foot. From behind
you, you whip out a rectangular piece of tissue,
pin-pricked to resemble a lace table cloth, which
you spread out length-wise across her big toe. You
next step in between this toe and its neighboring
toe, and nestle down into a lotus position.

You clap your hands. “Food!” you cry out. As you
rest your elbows on Stacie’s second toe, Julie’s
right hand descends toward you. She has turned her
entire hand into a puppet, which she introduces as
your slave. The top part of her index finger has
a bearded face drawn on it, its tip is wrapped up
in a turban, while the rest of the hand is covered
in a cloth as if in a robe. Her thumb and middle
finger, now functioning as a pair of arms, carry a
big white button, whose concave side holds a lump
of pizza. Her finger bows profoundly to you, sets
the button down upon Stacie’s big toe, again bows
profoundly, and withdraws. You reach forward, rip
off a portion of pizza, and sample it.

You clap your hands again. “Drink!” you cry out,
as you rest your elbows on her second toe. Again
your puppet-slave descends, bows profoundly to you
and sets before you on Stacie’s big toe a thimble-
ful of Coke, bows profoundly again and withdraws.
You lean forward and with effort lift the thimble
to your lips, taking a sip and carefully setting
it back down on the toe.

You clap your hands a third time, and as you rest
your elbows on her second toe, cry out: “Bring on
the dancing girls!” Now Julie shoves her feet up
to your face. On each of her ten toes she had you
draw a female face, which you then veiled in gauze
so that only the eyes are showing. She wiggles her
toes seductively at you, while she hums in a reedy
voice an appropriately exotic tune.

At this you can no longer hold back, and burst out
laughing. So does Julie. So does Stacie. But when
Stacie does she forgets herself, and moves her own
toes, which upsets your table. The thimble of Coke
falls over and splashes out. You jump up onto her
other toes to avoid getting wet. The Coke totally
drenches her big toe, and the tissue on top of it.
You scoot forward off her toes to survey the mess.
You try to use the tissue to soak up the Coke, but
it falls apart, and some bits of it even bunch up
and tangle into the hairs on her toe's knuckle.

It's a yucky end to a very funny first wish.

Julie hands down to you a snippet of cloth.
"Here," she says, "you'd better clean her up."

You accept the cloth from her and bow. "Your wish
is my command."

"What?" She cries. "No -- I didn't mean -- that's
not fair!"

"It is too fair, and you know it. It's the rule."

You had her there. Once you have played out one
of her wishes, you have the right to consider any
statement she puts in the form of a request or a
command to be a separate wish. In other words,
Julie just accidently wasted her second wish.

She mopes for a moment, until the mischief in her
eyes lights up again. "Okay then. You clean her
up. But you gotta do it my way. That's the rule."

She jumps to her feet and bursts again through the
door into the house, leaving you behind this time.
As you hear her bounding back up the stairs, your
mother cries out: "What are you up to now?"

She yells back: "Just having fun, Ma!"

You can hear her tromping up on the second floor,
and especially can hear from the bathroom window
above you the sound of her rummaging through one
drawer after another.

As you listen, you are sitting on one of Stacie's
toes. She twitches it unexpectedly, throwing you
upward onto her foot.

"Oops!" she says, looking down at you. "Sorry."

"That's okay," you say, as you look up at her from
your new vantage point.

The two of you gaze at each other for a moment, as
both of you listen to Julie's activities upstairs.
Finally, Stacie speaks.

"Your sister is kind of ... um ..."

You finish her sentence: "...Crazy."

"Um ... yeah."

Julie bounds back down the stairs and barges again
through the porch door, her hands now full of her
latest props. Your mother sticks her head out the
kitchen window.

"What kind of fun?" she asks Julie.

Julie holds up a container of liquid soap. "Clean
fun," she says. Your mother frowns, as she returns
her head back inside to attend to her work.

Julie drops her materials on the table next to her
side of the couch, then reaches down and snatches
you up. With her back to Stacie, she whispers to
you her latest scheme, sets you on the table and
begins to prepare. You slip behind the lamp, as
one by one she hands around to you each new piece
of your costume. After a few minutes, she puts
the last of her tools aside and turns to Stacie.

"And now, the further adventures of your favorite
cartoon hero: Captain Spongepants!”

That's your cue. You leap out from behind the lamp
and strike a pose, hands on hips, a mask over your
eyes, cape about the shoulders, and a sponge where
your pants ought to be. (Julie cut out a roundish
piece from an old scouring sponge, gouged a hole
in its center, and made you squeeze into it.)

Stacie screws up her face. “Captain Spongepants?
Who’s that?”

“I don’t know," Julie says, "I just made him up.”

Now Julie plugs in a hair dryer, turns it on its
low setting, and hands it over to Stacie. "Here,"
she says, "point this toward me." She then picks
you up and holds you by your sides in front of the
blast of wind. You stretch yourself out, Superman
style, as your cape flaps in the breeze. Julie
dips you up and down, left and right, to simulate
the turbulence of flight. Your masked eyes scan
the world below you.

"What is it that Captain Spongepants sees? Oh no!
His archenemy, the evil Coke Fiend, has claimed a
new victim!" Julie yanks out the plug of the hair
dryer with one hand, and with the other lowers you
feet first, setting you down at Stacie's big toe.

"Can Captain Spongepants save her in time?" asks
announcer Julie.

You whip off your cape. "Soap!" you cry out. "I
must find soap!" As you look about, Julie grabs a
glass of soapy water off the table. She picks you
up, making it look as if you leap up onto the tall
glass in a single bound, then dunks you into it up
to your waist, until the sponge is saturated. She
now makes it look like you jump back down onto the
floor; then she lets go of you.

You hop onto Stacie's big toe and straddle it. You
proceed to clean it off with your spongy backside,
as Julie bops out a rhumba beat:

bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!
bumbum-bumbum bum BUM!

Your rear end jerks backward and forward in sync
with the beat:

updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!
updown-updown up DOWN!

You inch your way up Stacie’s toe. As soon as you
have cleaned the top of her toe, you dismount and
begin with your butt to clean the toe’s sides.

updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!
updown-updown left RIGHT!

As you move your rear up and down against Stacie's
toe, you grasp tightly to the sponge, making sure
it keeps its place in front. But you fail to see
how it's holding up in the rear. Julie, however,
notices.

Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!
Look-at-Mark-ie's bum BUM!

Stacie notices too. She can't contain herself any
longer. She picks you up and, with the tip of her
nail, pushes the sponge further down, just enough
to expose the rest of your buttocks in their full
glory.

"Eeeeeeeee!" she squeals, "How totally CUTE!" Her
finger pats your cheeks, caresses your cheeks; her
thumb and finger squeeze and nip your cheeks. Then
her eye catches your other set of cheeks, the ones
attached to your face. They're beet red.

"Oh!" Stacie cries. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't
thinking." She taps the sponge back up, and holds
you up to her face. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.
You shake your head no, but with eyes cast down.

"Oh, you poor little guy" she says, as she nestles
you up against her cheek. Then she turns to Julie.
"Let's stop this."

"But we can’t" Julie says, "he’s still gotta rinse
off the soap."

"Oh. Well then, I’ll help him."

Julie now produces a cup of soapless water. Stacie
dips you up to the waist in the water and sets you
on top of her toe. Holding you firmly she glides
you gently up and down, back and forth, rinsing
as she goes the top, the sides, and the underside
of her toe. By the time she finishes, she stands
you back on the floor next to her foot. The
thrill of the experience has left you woozy.

“Now we’ll dry you off,” says Julie. She grabs the
hair dryer, unplugged, clicks it onto its highest
setting, and aims it at Stacie’s foot -- no, she
aims it at you, who still stand dazed in front of
Stacie’s foot.

“Get out of the way, dummy.” Julie says. She keeps
the hair dryer pointed at you as she turns away to
plug it in. You’re too dizzy to react. The next
thing you know, hurricane winds knock you over and
scoot you helplessly on your back along the floor,
toward a hole in a floorboard that leads straight
down to who-knows-what below.

Just in time Stacie’s foot comes down to save you.
The ball of her foot pins you firmly to the floor.
After a few moments of appreciating the sensation,
you begin wriggling your way up to the arch of her
foot -- until you sense that the sponge has failed
to wriggle along with you. As soon as Stacie lifts
her foot, you flip over on your stomach, and like
a cockroach scuttle on your hands and knees under
the couch.

Stacie just catches the “tail end” of your escape,
and suppresses a grin. Julie catches it too. She
leans down toward the bottom of the couch and says
to you: “Is that what they mean by ‘scuttlebutt’?”

“Shut up!” you cry back, “Just get me my pants!”

Julie fishes up your pants from behind the lamp on
the table. She lowers them to the floor, dangling
them just far enough so that you’d have to expose
yourself to grab them.

“Yoohoo! Big Chief Little Bare! Come and get it!”

“No! Bring them closer!”

“Okay, but ... what do you say?”

You know this routine, the “please, pretty please”
routine. Well, you’re not going to kow-tow to her
this time. “Just give me my pants!”

Stacie notices your cape still lying on the floor.
She grabs them with her toes and slowly backs her
flexed foot under the couch. You run over to her
foot, yank out the cape from between her toes and,
without even thinking, kiss her sole. You hear her
shiver with delight. You wrap the cape about you,
run out and yank your pants from Julie’s fingers,
run back in and slip your pants back on. Finally
you come out again.

“Okay,” you say, “you’ve got one wish left. And
could you make it a little less stupid this time?”

"Don't blame me," Julie says. "You're the one dumb
enough to make cleaning her toe our second wish."

"Okay, okay," you snap back, "Let's just finish
this idiot game, okay?"

Julie sits back and rolls up her eyes in thought.
She begins humming a tune, as her fingers tap out
the rhythmn of the tune on her knee. Suddenly her
eyes widen. She looks down at this finger-tapping,
slaps her knee and cries out: "I got it!" She runs
into the house again and up the stairs.

"I still don't know what you're up to!" Your mom
cries.

"Nothing, Ma!" Julie answers.

This time, you hear Julie rummaging about briefly
upstairs (sounds like maybe in the toy box in your
room), then hear you bound down the stairs again.

"I know you're up to something!"

"Nothing, ma!"

Julie bursts through the door to join you on the
porch again, carrying some long flat thing hidden
under her shirt.

Julie snatches you up and deposits you back on the
table. With her back to Stacie, she pulls out from
under her shirt her single prop -- a toy keyboard,
the type on which you can plunk out a simple tune.
Your mother bought it for you, and with it you and
Julie developed a routine from the movie BIG which
brings the house down whenever you perform it. Is
that what Julie wants to do with you now?

"Not quite," Julie says, and starts to explain her
latest idea to you. She starts giggling; you start
giggling.

"What's so funny?" Stacie asks.

You and Julie compose yourselves. "Nothing," Julie
replies. You roll your pant legs back up and again
wrap your shirt about your head like a turban. “We
will now hear a hopsichord solo, a mini-minuet, as
performed by the great maestro among the mice, the
teenie genie weenie ... Toscanini.”

You step into Julie's hand and she lowers you down
to Stacie's foot. You stand in deep concentration
in front of her toes. Then, listening attentively,
you press down on one of her toes and release. As
you do this, Julie hits a note on the still hidden
keyboard.

PLINK!

Several times more you press and release, press
and release, press and release.

PLINK! PLINK! PLINK!

Julie explains: "He's just testing the toenail --
I mean, the tonal -- quality."

Now you walk around to the outer edge of Stacie's
foot, hop up onto her littlest toe, and from there
hop back and forth from toe to toe. Julie, in the
meantime, plunks out Frere Jacques in perfect sync
with your hopping.



PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK
PLINK-PLINK-PLINK

You hop off Stacie's foot and bow to her solemnly.
Stacie, who was giggling through your performance,
now laughs aloud and claps.

"Encore! Encore!" Julie cries. "Only do it faster
this time."

Again you jump up onto Stacie's foot and continue
hopping from toe to toe. Julie quickens the pace,
and you do all you can to keep up. Stacie is now
in a fit of laughter. In her delirious state she
momentarily forgets herself and flicks up her toes
just as you press your entire weight down on one.
Like a springboard, her toe throws you high in the
air. You are now flying headfirst toward a leg of
the table.

CRACK!

"He's not moving! He's not moving!"

"No! He is! Look! Now he is!"

You hear voices above you. But you can't see them;
your eyes are closed. "OW!" Your head! You throw
both of your hands up to your head. You feel your
shirt still wrapped around it. You yank the shirt
off. Then, with your chin tucked into your chest,
you wrap your arms over and around the top of your
head, as you roll back and forth in agony.

"I've hurt him! I've hurt him!"

You recognize the voice. It's Stacie; she's crying
again. You wish she wouldn't cry. You place down
your arms, stop rolling around, and open your eyes
to her. You do your best to smile, as you hold out
your arms to her. "Look, see? I'm okay. Really."

You hear from the kitchen window behind the couch:
"What's going on out there?"

Quickly Julie and Stacie straighten up.

"Nothing, Ma!"

"I've been hearing that all evening long, and I'm
getting a little tired of it. Where's Mark?"

"He's ... he's on Stacie's lap."

"Stacie, will you please show him to me?"

In a single movement, Julie slips her foot out of
her sandal, grabs you between her toes, and lifts
you up to Stacie, who grabs you and lifts you over
her head for your mom to see.

You smile at your mother weakly. Her eyes squint
as she scrutinizes you.

"Put your shirt on." She goes back to her work.

Stacie lowers you and sets you upon her lap. Julie
picks up your shirt and helps you put it on.

After your little accident, the evening takes on a
quieter tone. As Stacie strokes your head with the
tip of her finger, the conversation turns to her:
how you and she met, and how she's going to face
the rest of the school with you now for a friend.

After another half an hour or so, your mother
calls out: "It's getting late, kids. I think
Stacie's parents would expect her home now."

Julie turns herself around on the couch so that
she's kneeling on the seat, resting her elbows
upon the couch's headrest, looking up at your
mom's face in the kitchen window.

"Could Stacie sleep over, Mom?"

"Oh, dear. Honey, Stacie didn't bring any of her
things for a sleepover. I think this first time
it's better that she goes home. Another time."

"Oh ... oh okay. Well ... can we go with you when
you take her?"

"Of course you can. Come on to the car."

Mom heads for the front door. Stacie places you
in the palm of her hand as she and Julie get up.
"Wait," you say to Stacie. You call Julie over,
and ask you to get you some aspirin. (You didn't
dare ask her for it while your mom was watching.)

The three of you step into the kitchen where, in
one of the cabinets, Julie pulls out a cap full of
crushed aspirin. With a pair of tweezers she picks
out the right size morsel for you and holds it out
for you to take. As you swallow it, she fills your
cup from a drip of the faucet, and hands that to
you. You drink down and hand it back. You nestle
again into the softness of Stacie's palm, trusting
that the drug will soon rid you of that throbbing
in your head.

Stacie and Julie step out the front door; your Mom
has just started the car. They settle themselves
into the back seat, and the ride to Stacie's house
begins. The aspirin is working; the pain in your
head is now ebbing away. The car ride is soothing,
Stacie's palm warm and comforting, and the voices
in the car sounding more and more distant ...

You open your eyes and from a fetal position roll
onto your back and stretch your limbs. With your
feet and hands you feel that you still lay in the
palm of Stacie's hand. You look up to her; she's
looking down at you.

Wait a minute. Is that Stacie? Your eyes adjust
to the light in the room. It is the same pretty
face as Stacie's. But it's a woman's face, not a
girl's face.

"Oh, he's waking up. What should I do?"

"Talk to him." That sounded like your mom's voice.

"Hello there, Mark." the woman says. "I'm Stacie's
mom."

Then a child's voice: "Can I see him awake, Mama?
Please Mama?"

"Okay, but no touch." She lowers her hand and the
big face of a small boy peers down at you.

Oh that's nice. You're meeting Stacie's family in
your pajamas.

Stacie's mom struggles to find something to say.
"Well, Mark we're ... we're happy to have you for
Stacie's friend. And ... we hope we'll be seeing
more of you. You're ... always welcome."

You just lay there and blink up at her. You must
look pretty dumb.

"So, I guess I'll be ... handing you over to your
mother now." You pass from the unfamiliar hand of
this woman into the most familiar hand you know.

Your mom speaks: "Thank you so much, Mrs. Wilson."

"Darla, please."

"... Darla. We're also happy for Mark to have your
Stacie for a friend." Julie, standing by your mom,
tugs at her shirt. "... and for our Julie to have
Stacie for a friend. We'll see alot more of you
all, I'm sure."

Everybody smiles at everybody for a moment or two
... a long moment or two.

Your mom finally breaks the awkward silence: "Well
... we are keeping you good folks up, so we'd ...
best be going. It was a delight to meet you all."

"Oh, our pleasure. Do come again."

"We'd love to, and please feel free to visit us
whenever you ... feel so inclined."

"Thank you. We certainly will."

"Come on, Mom!" you're thinking, "Let's get outta
here."

After several more painful niceties, you finally
do. Your mom and Julie, now outside, head with
you toward the car. As your mom opens the car
door, you hear the padding of feet behind you.

"Mrs. LeTellier?"

Your mom turns around. "Oh! Stacie!"

"I ... I didn't say goodbye to Mark."

"Oh, of course." Your mother holds you up to her.
Stacie strokes you with her finger, and brings her
face near to you.

"Bye, Mark. Thanks for being my friend and .. for
everything."

You can't think of what to say.

Stacie draws her face back and stands upright. She
whispers something into your mom's ear. Your mom
nods her approval. Slowly, with some hesitation,
Stacie lowers her face down to you; her lips cover
your face with a gentle kiss. "See you soon," she
whispers, as she stands upright again, and starts
back for the house.

"Bye Julie!" she calls out.

"See you, Stacie!" Julie replies. Your mom hands
you over to Julie as you all get into the car and
head fo

Your mom hands you over to Julie as you all get
into the car and head for home.

Life becomes a little easier at school. The dirty
looks, the snide remarks, of the previous week
have all but disappeared. Your sister and
friends, at first so protective of you, gradually
carry you in the open again; sometimes, you even
walk the halls by yourself.

Hmm. Word must have gotten around about the real
story behind the expulsion of Craig Bradley.

Yet none of this means that you’ve gained much in
popularity. In fact, no one seems to want to have
much to do with you. Julie says it's because the
students are all still afraid of Elissa, who
continues to act especially cool toward you.

But none of that matters as much any more, because
now you have Pierre and Stacie. At first it's
hard for Stacie, once so popular, to deal with the
alienation that comes with being your friend. But
she sticks by you. And when she cries, you
console her. You even manage to turn her sobs into
giggles, as when you attempt to wipe away her
tears and end up drenched.

But tears become rarer as days go by. Stacie's
frequent smile, her laughter echoing in the halls,
tell all the school how happy she is with her new
set of friends. Her parents are happy, too. They
had seen disturbing changes come over their little
girl when she began hanging out with Elissa; a
once cheery and good-natured child had almost
overnight grown sullen and contrary. Now they
thank your mom for you and Julie; thanks to you,
they say, the loving child they had always known
has come back to them.

The Wilsons even let Stacie come with your family
and Pierre’s family to Church on Sunday.

You and Stacie now frequently hang around Pierre’s
family. Mrs. Apat, a tall and graceful woman,
with a youthful beauty amazing for a widowed
mother of ten, refers to you as “mon petit grand
fil” (“my little big boy”). The younger Apat
children enjoy playing with you, although the
really young ones need supervision. Once the four
year old, Monique, got her hands on you when no
one was looking, carried you off, and tried
dressing you in various sets of doll clothes, all
of which were way too big for you. When her
mother found you, you lay there stripped on the
changing table in the baby’s room, your own
clothes nowhere in sight. To preserve your
modesty, Mrs. Apat wrapped her long fingers snugly
around you, and carried you about as she searched
for your clothes. You were, despite your
embarrassment, a most willing captive, as her bare
fingers exerted a gentle pressure on your naked
extremities. Finally she found Monique outside,
trying to fit your clothes on an uncooperative
toad. After scolding the child, Mrs. Apat
instinctively brought you in to the changing table
and dressed you herself. You were just grateful
that she discovered you, and not Stacie.

Pierre enjoys your and Stacie’s friendship, but it
doesn’t keep him from falling into a funk over his
frustrated football career. The coach still never
gives him a chance to prove himself, or to improve
himself. So, one Saturday afternoon, while the
team is at an away game, you’re all hanging out in
Pierre’s basement: Pierre strewn across on old
couch, Stacie sunk into an overstuffed chair, and
you laying face up on her lap, your bare feet idly
playing in her navel. (Stacie’s much more
indulgent than your sister is.)

“What are we doing here?,” you ask.

“Just ... nothing,” Pierre says, “What can we do?”

“Football,” you say.

“But, the game is away, and for me they had no
room in the bus.”

“No, I mean practice football.”

“Practice? I cannot practice. The team is not
...”

“I mean practice with us, in the field across the
street.”

“With you? But you cannot ... ”

“With me coaching you on your shoulder, with all
your brothers and sisters, Stacie, and Julie in
the field, and especially with Choo-choo and Brie
[those are the Apat dogs]. We can train them to
rush you. You’ll have to try to keep away from
them, while at the same time trying to make
contact with someone running down the field.”

“But ... I do not see how that can ...”

“It’s better than sitting around here all day.”

“Pierre,” Stacie says, “I’m a real good sprinter.
I just didn’t try out for track this year because
... Elissa’s in it. If my running can help you
make the football team, that’ll make it, like,
worthwhile.”

“See Pierre,” you say, “This isn’t just for you.
So come on.”

“But she cannot catch a ball.”

“She doesn’t have to catch a ball. You have to
throw it to where she would catch the ball, if she
could. Get it?”

“Yes, but ...”

“Come on Stace. Let’s just go and do it.” She
puts you in her shoulder, stands up, and heads for
the stairs.

“Without me?” Pierre asks.

“Yeah.” you say, “If you’re not going to do it,
we’ll find ourselves someone else who will. Like
Roland.” Roland is the next Apat child after
Pierre.

“Roland? Roland is not the football player.”

“But he could be. He could be better than you.”

Pierre’s eyes flash with anger. “I am the
football player!”

“We’ll meet you out in the field then,” you yell
down to him, as Stacie walks you up the stairs.

From that point on, you practice with Pierre every
day. Again and again, Stacie runs down the field,
the Apat kids run all over the field, while
Choo-choo and Brie, at your command, do their best
to pounce on Pierre before he throws the ball at
Stacie. You, strapped to his shoulder, coach him,
while Julie, standing on the sidelines, judges
whether the ball reaches a place in the air where
Stacie would catch it if she could. You become
quite a team, and Pierre’s raw talent becomes
daily more refined.

Speaking of teams, Pierre and Stacie gradually get
closer to each other. Stacie had quite a crush on
you at first, but over the weeks you have gently
steered her in Pierre’s direction.

It’s not that you don’t like Stacie -- you really
do. You just don’t have a crush on her. You have
a crush on somebody else, on --

Oh, what does it matter? She'll never have you,
anyway. It's not because of your difference in
size (that would be true of anyone), but because
of your difference in age. She’s an adult, after
all, your own teacher, a good tens years older
than you are. And you're a child; at least, that
is how she treats you -- with affection, but with
the affection one shows toward a child. If only
you could prove to her otherwise. If only you
could show yourself a real hero to her -- that
might win her over.

For now, all you can do is attend her classes, and
quietly care about her. In fact, you worry about
her. Once you realize that all the school knows
the truth about Craig Bradley's expulsion, knows
that she, not you, reported him to the principal,
your immediate reaction is not one of relief. It
is concern for her, concern that the students will
treat her the same way they treated you. When you
warn her of this, she only laughs. “I don’t think
so --I haven’t fit in a girl’s handbag for years.”
Stacie feels terrible, too -- since it was she who
spilled the beans, when she told Elissa, when she,
in fact, blurted the facts out loud in the hall.
But Mrs. Andrews reassures her: “I’m a teacher,
not a student. They can hurt you, but they can’t
hurt me.”

One day, after your last class, Pierre is carrying
you through the halls when you pass by the wing of
the school where Mrs. Andrews has her classroom.
An overwhelming desire to see her comes over you;
you ask Pierre to stop.

"Weren't you supposed to meet Stacie at practice?"
you ask.

"Only after I take you to the car of your mother."

"Yeah, but ... you're missing football practice,
and Mom won't be coming for like another fifteen
minutes. So ... why not leave me here and go?"

"But I have to take you."

"No you don't. Hey -- leave me here, and I'll go
down the hall and ask Mrs. Andrews to take me.
You know she won't mind."

"Well ... okay. But then I take you to her."

"No, just leave me here and go. I'll be okay."

He places you on the floor and goes. The moment he
goes you wish he hadn't; you wish you had let him
take you to Mrs. Andrews himself. Now you have to
walk down this empty corridor alone. You've only
walked down it alone at this time of the day once
before, the day Craig Bradley ...

Oh, but why let that scare you? Craig Bradley's
not here in school anymore, and no one else has
any reason to hurt you. Just go, step by step,
toward that last room down the hall. Step by
step; that's it. Go a little faster -- you're
anxious to see Mrs. Andrews, after all. A little
faster. But don't run -- that would mean you're
scared. And ... it would attract attention.

Attention? Whose attention? There's no one
around to see you. There's no one behind you.
You can't hear anyone behind you. Don't turn
around. There's no need to turn around, because
there's no one behind you. And you wouldn't want
him to see you turn around, if he were behind you.

You're hugging the wall. But you should always hug
the wall, even if no one's around, because what if
someone were? He could step on you. Or she could
step on you. Anybody could step on you. A little
freshman girl could step on you. Always hug the
wall.

You reach an open door. But that's okay. Just
run across it. Now!

You made it. But of course you made it. And now
there's only a little bit left, and you'll be at
Mrs. Andrews' door. And she'll be happy to see
you, to see you safe. A little further and ...

What's that?

What was that sound? A sound like a muffled cry,
and a scuffle. It didn't come from behind you.
It came from in front of you. From Mrs. Andrews'
room.

You creep up to the room and slip your body under
the door, just far enough to look in. You notice
one of Mrs. Andrews' black pumps, not on her foot,
but laying on its side. To the left of it you see
her feet, one shoe off, one shoe on. She's sitting
in one of the students' desks. But the desk seems
to be up against the wall.

You see another pair of feet, large feet in a pair
of Nikes. The person who owns them is also seated
in a desk, facing her.

You crawl in further to see more. You can see Mrs.
Andrews' face now. She looks upset; no, more than
upset. You slide across the floor to see who the
other person is. It's a man; no a boy, but a big
one. Big and muscular. He's holding something
out to her.

Wait, he's shifting position. Maybe now you will
see who he ...

It's Craig Bradley! And with a gun!

You've got to run for help. So you slide yourself
back into the hall. You've got to run for help.
So you stand up and brace yourself. You've got to
run for help. So what's keeping you from running?

You can't leave her. You've got to go in to her.
Even if you can't help her. Even if you die with
her, you can't leave her.

But you must. It's your only chance to save her.
You can't help her yourself. You've got to get
someone else to help her.

Well, don't just stand there. You've got choose
one or the other: either to stay with her or get
help for her. After all, you can't do both.

Or can you?