Inspired, you drop back down onto your belly and
slide yourself under the door. You get to your
feet and tiptoe closer to Craig Bradley, close
enough to hear him. He keeps repeating how she
has destroyed his life, and now he will destroy
hers. As he speaks, you look up and notice, on
the teacher's desk near him, a pencil sharpener
clamped to the lip of the desk, and a lamp whose
cord drops down to a floor outlet. Good to know.

You walk over to Craig's feet. You climb up his
right shoe, and stealthily untie his laces. You
clamber down and do the same with his other shoe.
Back down on the floor, you tie each of the outer
laces to the nearest leg of the desk he's in, and
the inner laces to each other.

You climb up the cord of the lamp on the teacher's
desk, and look around the desktop until you notice
that box of thumb tacks you remember seeing there.
You push the box toward Craig Bradley and with one
great shove send it over the edge. The box hits
the floor, and bursts open.

The sound startles Craig Bradley, He looks down
at the box of tacks, then up to the desk. There
you stand, taunting him.

"You!" he snarls. "Next to this Andrews bitch,
there's no one else I want to get more than you."

He jumps to his feet, and tries to lunge at you.
But his strung-up feet trip him up, and he loses
his balance. He holds out his hands to break his
fall. His left hand lands in the middle of the
tacks; the student's desk he's still tied to falls
on top of him. He screams in pain and anger.

As this is going on, you slide down the cord. On
the floor, you notice a wasp crawling. With Craig
still struggling over the tacks, you pull the now
empty box over and capture the wasp under it, and
run away.

Craig notices movement under the box. "I got you
now, Worm!" he cries. Still tied up at the feet,
he nonetheless manages to flip over the box and
slap his hand down onto the life crawling beneath
it. He howls again in pain; the wasp flies away.

By now you have climbed up the cord of a Venetian
blind, and are standing on a window sill, drawing
attention to yourself. Craig spots you. Managing
to stand up, but still unable to free his feet, he
rips the pencil sharpener off the teacher's desk,
and hurls it at you. You jump out of the way, and
the missile smashes through the window. He grabs
the lamp off the teacher's desk and tries to kill
you with that. Again he misses you, only to smash
further the already damaged window.

As Craig struggles to free himself from his shoes,
you look outside and see that several people have
gathered, staring up at the broken window. One of
these breaks away from the rest and hurries off in
the direction of the front entrance.

A strange silence fills the room; a sudden shadow
looms over you. Mrs. Andrews screams.

Without even turning around to look, you leap onto
another window cord, just as Craig Bradley's fist
slams down on the sill. You slide down on the cord
behind the radiator, leaping off as you feel a tug
on the cord. You land on a pipe (a cold pipe: the
radiator, thank God, is not in use).

Craig lifts out of the radiator a now empty cord,
and howls in frustration. From a slit of grating
in the radiator you see him grab Mrs. Andrews by
the hair. "You tipped him off!" he cries, as he
yanks her out of her seat and hurls her onto the
ground. It's only then that you notice she is
bound and gagged (You wondered why she had only
given a muffled scream).

Craig grabs a ruler from her desk, and frantically
tries to fish you out with it. Furious, he throws
away the ruler, picks up a student's desk, and now
bangs it against the radiator. The whole radiator
shakes; the clanging is unbearable. But it's okay,
because you know that this unbearable clanging has
now traveled to every radiator in the building.

One colossal bang knocks you off your perch. You
fall from pipe to pipe, tumbling down to the floor
of the radiator. You look above you and see that
there is now nothing in your reach to climb onto.
So you peek out of the bottom of the radiator and
look up. You see Craig continuing his banging in
such a blind rage, that he isn't even looking for
you. Yet should he try to fish you out now, from
the bottom of the radiator, you wouldn't stand a
chance. You know what you have to do; you have to
get out of there while you can.

But where will you go? Hmmm ... What if you hung
onto one of his socks? Or climbed up his pants
leg? After all, the last place he'd look for you
is on his own person.

Sounds crazy, but it's the only chance you've got.

You go for it: you scramble out of the radiator,
jump to your feet, and ...

The banging stops.

You freeze. You didn't anticipate this. Where to
now? Toward him? He'll see you sure. Back under
the radiator? He's going to search for you there.

You're looking right into Mrs. Andrews' face. Her
eyes are directing you to safety. Into her shirt.

You hadn't even thought of that. You wouldn't have
dared. Even now, you hesitate. A split second too
long.

"HA! GOT YOU NOW WORM!" Craig hurls away the desk
he's holding, and looks right back down at you.
You're gone.

"Where is he? WHERE THE HELL IS HE?," you hear him
cry, against the background of her rapid heartbeat
and heavy breathing, as you go up and down, up and
down, on her chest.

You're now lying where her shirt doesn't touch her
body, between her breasts, so that he won't detect
any of your bodily movements against her clothing.
But couldn't he still peek down her shirt and find
you? That soon ceases to be a problem. With every
expanse of her lungs you sink deeper down into her
cleavage, until it all but engulfs you. Your only
problem now is trying to breathe.

You hear him frantically search about the room for
you. For the moment you feel secure. Then you hear
a thud; Mrs. Andrews yelps and writhes in pain.

"You know where he is. Where is he?," he yells, as
he kicks her again. For a moment you hear nothing
but her moaning, then a sharp "click" -- the click
of a gun.

"Hey wimp! Come out or the bitch here gets it!"

You know what you have to do. You wriggle yourself
free, and proceed to ascend back over her chest to
the top of her shirt. You've hardly begun when her
whole body jerks upward, and you fall further down
her shirt.

You know what that means. She's trying to keep you
from saving her!

Plan B: you begin crawling down her stomach, past
her navel, then forcing yourself under the elastic
waistband of her skirt. You slither down her right
hip. You reach her thigh, where you intend to jump
off to the right, away from her, and show yourself
in the open. As you begin to stand up, she jerks
her body to the left. You lose your balance, and
fall in between her legs. She's trapped you! You
can't crawl under her legs; she's tensing them so
as not to leave you any room. You can't crawl over
her legs; they're too high for you. So you run to
her feet, and crawl through the space between her
insteps. Before you have a chance to break away,
her giant left foot knocks you on your stomach and
pins you down.

Craig notices the movement. "What did you just do?
He's down there, isn't he?" He steps over to her
feet. "Lift up your foot!" he says, still holding
her at gunpoint. "I said, lift up the foot!"

Surprisingly, she does what he demands. She slowly
raises her foot. He now points the gun down to
the floor below him, where he discovers ...

"What the ... ? Okay, where's he hiding, bitch?"

Where are you hiding? Clenched in the secure grip
of Mrs. Andrews' toes. As soon as her foot pinned
you down, she rolled your helpless body toward her
long, slender toes, which grabbed you and picked
you up in the nick of time.

You hear Craig walking back toward Mrs. Andrews'
head.

"Hey, Wimp! I got this gun pointed right into the
bitch's pretty face. You got to the count of three
to come out, or I blow it off! One!"

Her toes tighten their grip on your tiny body even
more. But now your adrenelin kicks in, and in one
tremendous push, you free yourself and drop to the
ground. Her foot slaps down on you again, but you
roll out of the way just in time.

"Two!"

You jump to your feet and scuttle along the wall,
until you reach the far end of Mrs. Andrews' desk.
You run out behind one of its legs.

"THREE!"

"Hey Sport! You only go after easy targets? Let's
see you try to hit a moving one!"

At that you run out into the open, toward the wall
by the door.

"BLAM!" He misses you. You run forward, dodging
in and out of the student's desks.

"BLAM! BLAM!"

You hide behind the wastebasket, and see there one
of the thumb tacks. You pick it up and hurl it at
the metal leg of a desk.

"Ping!"

"BLAM!"

You make a beeline through a row of desks toward
the back wall.

"BLAM! click. click-click-click-click."

He whips the now empty gun at you, for the first
time almost hitting you. He runs after you, and
traps you in a corner. You look up at him as he
towers over you, his face red with rage.

"Well, Punk. It's back to just the two of us: you
and my foot. Remember my foot? In case you don't,
here's a reminder. A final reminder."

SMASH!

The door crashes open. Two policemen jump into
the room with guns held out in front of them.

"Freeze!"

Craig scoops you up and jumps out an open window.

The two policemen, a little middle-aged and even a
little more overweight, decide not to try pursuing
Craig out the window. Neither do they try to stop
him from the window with their guns, since without
a gun himself he no longer poses a serious threat
to human life. (They don't realize that he is now
holding you hostage.) So they run out the door, as
if, after running through the corridors and down a
flight of stairs, they could still catch up to him
outside.

As soon as these policemen leave, a pair of EMT's
rush in, followed by a policewoman, who sets down
the bullhorn she is carrying to help tend to Mrs.
Andrews. They untie and ungag Mrs. Andrews, and
try to hold her down until the stretcher arrives;
but in vain. She forces herself onto her feet,
swipes up the bullhorn, and runs for the window.
She aims the bullhorn toward the football field.

"Pierre! Pierre! Stop him! He's got Mark!"

Pierre, as usual, has been sitting on the team's
bench, watching the scrimmage. Stacie has been
watching from the stands. The team continues to
practice, despite all the alarming sounds they've
heard coming from the school -- breaking glass,
gunshot, and police sirens. The gunshot did stop
them for a moment -- until Coach Boggs screamed at
them to keep going.

Both Pierre and Stacie hear Mrs. Andrews on the
bullhorn, and look to see Craig Bradley running
onto the football field. Stacie runs after him.
Pierre tries to follow, when ...

Hut-hut-hike!

The center snaps up the ball, just as Pierre runs
between him and the quarterback. Pierre ends up
with the ball. All the players, on both sides, try
to grab him. He dodges them all just long enough
to look out on the field, calculate Craig's pace,
and let the ball go. It soars in the air, fifty,
sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety yards. And ...

BONK!

The ball beans Craig Bradley on the five yard
line. He loses his footing and falters. As he
begins to stumble, Stacie catches up to him, and
snatches you out of his hands. Craig falls to the
ground. The police, huffing and puffing, arrive
on the scene, and hold him down to handcuff him.

The football team look on in shock. No one appears
more shocked than Coach Boggs. "I have never seen
anyone throw like that before!" he says to Pierre.

"You have never let me show you before," Pierre
replies.

Stacie runs you up to your mom, who is waiting for
you next to her car, frightened and confused. The
moment you see your mom, you do what until now you
haven't allowed yourself to do in front of Stacie.
You break down and proceed to sob uncontrollably.
Stacie presses you up to her cheek, then envelopes
your whole face in a kiss, before handing you over
to your mother.

You watch EMTs and police convey Mrs. Andrews on a
stretcher into a waiting ambulance, which quickly
races away, its siren blaring. The policewoman who
remains behind assures your mom that Mrs. Andrews,
although badly bruised by Craig Bradley, will pull
through. This ride in stretcher and ambulance is
more precautionary than anything else.

That evening, two police arrive at your home. Your
mom leads them upstairs to your bedroom, where you
lie upon your bed, still trembling. The policeman
awkardly tries to explain that they need to obtain
a statement from you concerning the occurrences at
school this afternoon. The policewoman takes over
and, with your mother's permission, asks you if it
would be okay to place you in her hand. You agree.
Gently she picks you up and sets you down onto her
open palm. The policeman writes, as in a soothing
voice and with the consoling caress of her finger,
the policewoman coaxes out of you the information
they require.

The next day, your mom keeps you home from school,
so that you can recuperate from the trauma of the
day before, and so she can take you to the doctor,
just to make sure that you received no damage from
yesterday’s ordeal. This time, you do not protest
your mom's decision. You really do not want to go
to school today. In fact, you don’t want to go to
school ever again. Your classmates have all along
despised you, because of your connections to Craig
Bradley’s expulsion from school. How they now must
hate you, now that you’ve caused his arrest.

All this, you think to yourself, results from your
crush on a teacher. Puppy love, that's all it has
ever been, puppy love; with you as the puppy. And
most likely you’ve never been anything more to her
than that: just a pet, a cute little two inch pet.
Yeah, well, if that’s the case, then ... you never
want to see her again. You’ll stay away from her.
You’ll fight off that senseless pull you feel when
she’s near, and stay away.

But what can you do to avoid her? Maybe you really
will never go to school there again; that ought to
solve the problem. But what if you do? Well, you
can always ask to be tranferred to another history
class. Yeah, that’s what you’ll do. And whenever
you see her walking toward you down the hall? Not
a problem — if there’s one advantage to your size,
it’s your ability to keep a low profile. So you’ll
hide behind someone’s shoes, or should somebody be
carrying you, you'll ask to remain concealed from
view. That’s probably the way to go. You’ll have
Julie, Pierre or Stacie carry you everywhere, and
keep you hidden. You don’t want anyone looking at
you in the hall anyway, not if everyone hates you.

You stay moping in your room most of the day. The
telephone and the doorbell are ringing constantly,
giving your mom no time to be with you, giving you
lots of time to brood about school, and especially
about Mrs. Andrews. You wish you could just cease
to think about her. But since you can’t erase her
image from your mind, you brood about her.

The moment your mother finally has time to be with
you, Julie bursts through the front door and races
upstairs. She pulls your mom aside and starts that
infernal whispering of hers. Whatever news she has
to report from school this time, you don’t want to
know about it. You don’t even want to speak with
Pierre and Stacie when they call you that evening.

You assume the next morning that your mother will
indulge you, and let you stay out of school again.
Instead, she wants you to go to school. You plead
with her, and she tells you to go to school. You
you argue with her, and she commands you to go to
school.

What’s going on here? Even your own mom has turned
against you!

You sulk as you sit on Julie’s plate at breakfast.
After breakfast, your mother spends a long time in
her bedroom, threatening to make you late for your
first class, which you mind not a bit. She finally
hustles you both into the car. You sulk throughout
the ride, as Julie holds you in her hand. You feel
the car eventually slow down to a stop. Curiously,
you hear the motor stop, too. You look up through
the windshield above you and see that your mom has
parked, not along the curb in front of the school,
but in front of trees, as if in the school parking
lot. Then your mom steps out of the car, and once
outside with Julie, asks to carry you in herself.
You notice for the first time that she has dressed
better than on most mornings.

She and Julie hustle you into the school; yet once
in the hall, they turn away from the direction of
your first class. Julie leads your mother through
a door you haven't seen before. It’s dark as you
enter it; it becomes even darker as your mother’s
free hand covers up your head. You begin to hear
the rumbling of a crowd. It grows louder as your
mother walks, then settles into silence. You hear
a man's deep voice, the principal's voice, over a
PA system. He announces your name.

Your mother lifts away the hand which covers your
head. Bright lights blind you. An explosion of
sound deafens you. Your eyes soon adjust to the
light, your ears to the sound. You look out and
discover that ... you're on a stage! You're in
the school auditorium, in front of all the school.
Everyone in the audience, not only every teacher,
but every single student, is jumping up and down,
applauding you wildly.


 

They’re giving you a standing ovation!

Eventually this tumult dies down, and the audience
settles into their seats. Your mother settles you
into a special seat provided for you on the stage.
In front of you, a bunch of television cameras are
pointing at you. Behind you, a screen projects an
image of you enlarged to the size of everyone else
onstage.

You look about you, and discover Pierre and Stacie
seated alongside you. Stacie exchanges with you a
furtive wave and a quick smile, just as Mr. Ripley
acknowledges her and Pierre as the two who rescued
you. After the audience applauds them, Mr. Ripley
acknowledges the police men and women onstage, who
were on the scene for the arrest of Craig Bradley.

After the audience applauds them, Mr. Ripley steps
aside, and motions the mayor of the town to get up
and say a word or two. After him, the governor of
the state rises to add a few words. And after her,
a U.S. congressman from your state steps up to the
microphone, and reads a message from the President
of the United States, commending your courage, and
inviting you to the White House that weekend. The
assembly ends in a final long and lively ovation.

As the audience disperses, the dignitaries onstage
step over to you and one by one shake your hand --
as you shake their thumb and forefinger. Finally,
Pierre and Stacie come up to you. Stacie picks you
up and kisses you tenderly; Pierre, with a tear in
his eye, thanks you, his "best friend in the whole
world," for everything.

Soon your mother picks you up, and excuses herself
and you, explaining that you have a plane to catch
that evening. You exit through the same side door
that you entered. Just outside the door, students
line the walls, applauding you as you go by. Near
the front entrance, Julie steps up to you and Mom.
She takes you in her hand, kisses you, whispers "I
love you," then, just before handing you back over
to Mom, gives your behind a mischievous flick with
her finger. "Oooo!" You know it's just her way of
giving you lovin's, but -- man, it hurts. Your mom
frowns at her as she takes you back, then massages
your offended heinie with her finger.

"Be outside on time this afternoon;" your mom says
to Julie, "We have an 8:40 flight to catch."

"Yep yep. Bye Ma! Bye Markie!" Julie cries, as she
disappears in the crowd of students dispersing for
class, and your mother carries you back outside to
your car.

Once in the car, she puts you in a special harness
designed for you on the dashboard, buckles herself
in, and drives off. Every now and then, she smiles
down at you proudly.

After a long silence, you finally speak. "Mommy?"
(You never call her that anymore -- except when
you're alone with her, and are in a clingy mood.

"What is it, Swee' Pea?" (She never calls you that
anymore -- except when you call her "Mommy.")

"Mommy," your voice begins to break, "I'm scared."

"Scared? What are you scared about?"

"I'm scared that all the kids hate me."

"Hate you? Swee' Pea, didn't you hear them applaud
you?"

"Yeah, but ... that's because they had to, cuz all
those people were up there, and so if they didn’t,
Mr. Ripley would be mad at them."

“Don’t you think their seeing all those important
people up there impressed them?”

“No, Ma!” your voice indicates your impatience
with her. “That just made them madder at me.”

“Honey, why do you think they’re mad at you?”

“I got Craig Bradley arrested, Ma! And it was bad
enough that the police got involved. But now --
the mayor, the governor, the president! And now I
gotta go to Washington, and it’ll get into all the
papers, and be on the news! Oh, the kids are gonna
hate me!”

Your mother pauses a moment before asking her next
question. “Who do you think got all those people
involved, like the governor, and the president?”

“Mr. Ripley must have. He’s so ...”

“No Mark! Please.” Your mother pulls the car to
a stop and shuts off the ignition. She brings her
enormous, beautiful face down close to you, until
you can feel her sweet breath wafting over you.
You cast her eyes down from her.

“Look up at me, Baby. There's something I have to
tell you.” Gently her finger lifts up your chin.
She looks deep into your eyes. “Mr. Ripley did not
call in the mayor and the governor. Mr. Ripley did
not arrange for the president of the United States
to see you. The students did.”

She smiles down at your look of shock. “Why does
that surprise you?”

You fumble for words. “Well ... cuz ... Craig
Bradley ... he’s the most popular kid in the
school, and ...”

“He WAS the most popular kid in the school.”

“Well, yeah, cuz I got him expelled, and he’s not
at the school anymore.”

“No, Swee’ Pea. You got him arrested, and he’s
not popular anymore.”

You stare at her with your mouth open. She smiles.
“Oh, Baby, what a confused little face! Don’t you
see? Craig Bradley came into school with a gun, a
loaded gun. And he used it. He could have hit any-
one: teachers, students, police -- anyone. But you
got him to try and hit you. You stopped him. You
risked your life to stop him. You’re so tiny, and
he’s so big. The odds were completely against you,
yet all by yourself you stopped him. You saved the
whole school. And the whole school knows it.”

"But ... the football team ..."

She strokes your cheek with her finger. "Oh, Swee'
Pea! There are some things more important than the
football team. And now everyone knows it -- thanks
to you." She sits herself back up, pulls the keys
out of the ignition, grabs her pocketbook and sets
it upon her lap. "Besides," she says, as she drops
her keys into her purse. "I hear that the football
team will do alright -- thanks to you. But I think
I should let Pierre tell you about that."

Now she undoes you from the harness, and lifts you
out.

"But ... Ma! We're not home yet."

"I know, Swee' Pea. We're just going make a quick
little trip in here first."

"But ... where are we?"

Your mother doesn't answer you. Instead, she sets
you down gently into a special compartment of her
purse, and snaps it shut.

Your mom doesn't usually treat you like this. She
almost always carries you out in the open, letting
you see wherever she's taking you. You wonder why
she now is literally keeping you in the dark.

As you feel your mom slide herself out of the car,
stand herself up and begin walking, you press your
ear up to the wall of her purse, listening for any
clues as to your location. You recognize the click
of her heels on asphalt, the whoosh of a revolving
door, the rumbling of voices echoing in a spacious
room. You feel her lift up the pocketbook, and set
it down in front of her; you sense her press it to
her chest, and hear her converse briefly with some
lady whose voice you don't recognize. You feel Mom
pick up the purse and secure it under her arm; you
hear her heels click again. This clicking softens
into a dull pounding, as if she's walking now on a
carpet. The walking stops; you hear a bell sound,
a door open, a half dozen clicks of her heels, and
the door close. There's no mistaking the sensation
you now feel in your head and your stomach: you're
on an elevator. The queeziness comes to an abrupt
halt; you hear the door open, and your mom's heels
begin their clicking again. You feel her turn the
corner, and stop.

There's a pause; you think you hear whisperings.

You hear above you the snapping open of the purse.
A bright light blinds you, as you feel your mother
grasp her fingers around you and lift you out into
the open. She hands you over to some other person,
who holds you up to look at you. Your eyes adjust
to the light, and slowly begin making out who this
present captor of yours is: someone light, or even
pale, in complexion, blonde, feminine, pretty; no,
more than pretty --

Mrs. Andrews!

She's lying in a bed, dressed in a hospital johnny
(even that looks good on her). Tubing sticks into
her arm, pumping a clear liquid from a bag hanging
above her head. You look back into her face; tears
streak her cheeks.

"My hero. My big little hero."

She presses you to her bosom and sobs lightly. You
feel and hear the beating of her heart. You sense
in its pulsation more than a doctor could
diagnose.

You have already today received the highest praise
from your school, town, state, even nation. You've
learned that your classmates, who have looked down
on you for so long a time, are suddenly looking up
to you. Yet this moment, this moment with her, is
the sweetest moment of all.

Your time in eternity ends too soon, as she lifts
you off of her bosom and sets you on her stomach.
Your joy now is to gaze again at her beauty. She
strokes your head and asks you if you are alright.
She's the one in the hospital, yet she expresses
concern for you. You don't know whether you nod
or not; it doesn't seem to matter.

You stand there on her stomach, transfixed in a
lovesick grin. You look up at her smiling down
upon you, herself motionless, except for a quick
adjustment of her johnny. The movement triggers
in you a memory. Your grin turns into a grimace
as you drop your eyes in shame.

"What is it, Mark? What's the matter?"

You say nothing. Mrs. Andrews looks over at your
mother. Your mom returns a nod of ackowledgement.

"I'll be waiting outside," she whispers, and slips
out the door.

"Now Mark, what is it? What's bothering you?"

"What I did."

"What did you do?"

"What I did when ... I ran out and ... I tried to
hide, but ... he saw me and ... he was gonna kill
me and he ... he turned away, so I ... quick! ...
had to hide quick, but ... I didn't know where to
go, except ..." You grimace again at the memory.

"No Mark. Don't think about that. I know why you
did what you did. I let you do it. I told you to
do it. I looked at you, and motioned you to do it.
Remember?"

You try to remember. You strain to remember. But
you can't.

"It's okay, Mark. Just believe me. You only did
it because I told you to do it. You would never
have done it otherwise. I know you're a good boy,
who would never take a advantage like that. But
that was the only thing you could do. And nobody
has ever got to know that you did it, except you
and me."

"But ... the trial ..."

She bites her lip. "Oh dear. Well, maybe we will
have to tell somebody. But maybe they won't force
us to tell it in court."

"But if they do, my mom ..."

"Your mother will understand. If it has to come
out, I'll warn her about it ahead of time."

"But ... the boys at school ..."

"Oh dear. Well, I suppose they'll have their share
of cheap jokes about it, won't they? But you can
handle it.” She musses your hair with her finger.
"My Mark can handle anything."

You still hang your head.

"Oh Mark! There's no reason to feel bad about it.
And yet, you know ... I love you, because you do."

You grab her thumb, and hug it with all you have.
She strokes you with her other hand, then gently
pries you off, places you in her palm, brings you
to her lips, and indulges in a long, tender kiss.
Eventually, she releases you from her mouth, and
looks down at you.

"But you know, even if we've got to let the whole
world in on what you did, there's still one thing
that no one has to know about, except you and me."
She brings you up close, and whispers in your ear:
"You tickle."

Then, as if in retaliation, she proceeds to tickle
your tummy with her finger. You giggle helplessly.
"You couldn't possibly have chosen a worse time to
tickle a lady," she teases.

Your mother must hear all of the laughter, for now
she pops her head in the door. "All right to come
in?" she asks. The two of you compose yourselves,
and invite her to enter. She does so, followed by
a whole entourage of nurses and staffers, who have
heard that "the tiny hero" is making a visit.

You stay for another hour or so. The doctor comes
in, and informs you that Mrs. Andrews is suffering
from internal bleeding, and acute damage to one of
her kidneys, which he is confident can survive the
violence done to it. You lie on her belly, and she
caresses your body with her finger, as you and she
watch the first TV broadcast of the assembly. You
finally have to leave her, to prepare for the trip
this evening. You walk up her body, climb a strand
of her hair, and kiss her goodbye on the cheek.

That evening you, your mom and Julie arrive at the
airport, and confirm your tickets (or they confirm
theirs -- you don't need a ticket, since you don't
take up a separate seat). A guard at the security
check point, after letting your mom and sister go,
puts you through a thorough search. She even tells
you to remove your shoes and socks, then picks you
up and makes you to wiggle your toes. She has you
wiggle them for a long while, as she examines them
closely, gliding one of her fingers lightly across
them. Your mother considers the inspection rather
odd; Julie calls it "really weird."

You board the plane, and get to sit in first class
(which makes hardly a difference to you - you sure
don’t need the extra leg room). A few hours later
you land in Dulles airport. You don't get to your
hotel room until eleven, but then do not meet with
the President until the next afternoon. He and the
First Lady receive you cordially, then lead you to
the White House lawn where, before microphones and
cameras, he awards you a citation for bravery. The
First Lady then conducts you, your mother and your
sister on a tour, carrying you about herself. She
even takes you to the Oval Office, where you get a
chance to slide across the president’s desk. Then
she takes you out into the garden, and puts you on
top a table set for tea. After a while, you ask to
be put onto the ground to take a look around. She
does so, but only after she removes her shoes, for
fear of stepping on you, and asks everyone else to
do the same. It’s funny to see the Secret Service,
standing around self-consciously in their stocking
feet. Once on the ground, when you can see nothing
but their feet, they look even funnier. And when,
unbeknownst to the First Lady, a furry caterpillar
attacks her toes, it is no Secret Service man, but
you, who comes to her rescue, and shoos him off of
her foot.

Eventually, at the prompting of her secretary, the
First Lady excuses herself for another appointment
-- which she frankly seems reluctant to keep. She
shakes your mother's hand, then Julie's hand; then
she picks you up and covers your face with a light
and motherly kiss, and thanks you for rescuing her
toes from that nasty caterpillar. She hands you to
your mom and exits, just as a staff member arrives
to escort you to a waiting limo, which returns you
to your hotel.

Evidently, the media coverage of your citation has
by now traveled coast to coast. Messages await you
at your hotel, offers from movie and TV producers
from New York to Hollywood. Your mom, sensitive to
anyone out to exploit your size, wants you to have
nothing to do with any of them. There is an offer
from Disney for you to portray a modern Tom Thumb,
but your mother has for a while now disapproved of
Disney. What about an offer to be in a live action
commercial for Lucky Charms? "No." How about this
offer to appear in a TV ad for some product called
Tidy Bowl? "No way!" She refuses even to listen to
any more of this list of offers you're reading out
loud, offers from Jay Leno, David Letterman, Larry
King, Connie Chung, Barbara Walters, Good Morning
America, Live with Regis and Kelly ...

Live with Regis and Kelly? Your mother perks up.
That's her favorite show! Hmmm ...

The next morning, the three of you rush to catch a
plane to NYC. Again a security guard, this one at
Dulles Airport, gives you a more thorough checking
over than your sister and mom deem necessary. You
arrive at LaGuardia, and a cab drives you right to
the NBC studio, where a producer briefs you on the
next day's broadcast. After a good night's rest in
a fancy hotel, you arrive early at the studio; the
make-up technicians vie with each other to get the
chance to prepare you. The head of the department
chooses to do you herself, based on her experience
in a favorite hobby of hers: painting miniatures.

Because of your size, the interview proceeds in an
unusual manner. Kelly conducts it herself. She's
lying tummy-down on a couch, as you stand in front
of her on a pillow. After some preliminary small-
talk (she herself calls it that), she asks you:

"Aren't you afraid of me? Just a bit? I mean, gee
whiz, look: my arm alone is towering over you!"

"Oh, I've lived with that all my life," you reply.
"I'm so used to it, I don't even notice."

"But isn't life dangerous, from your perspective?"

"No, you just learn how to avoid people's feet and
stuff."

"How do you even know who's who from down there?"

"Well, when I'm on a table or something, I get to
know people by their arms and hands; and when I'm
on the floor, I get to know them by their feet."

"Oh my gosh -- my face is funny enough to look at,
never mind my feet." She gently wraps her fingers
round you and sets you down on the floor, then she
herself sits up, placing her feet down beside you.
She's in a high heeled sandal, without a stocking.
What's she talking about, you wonder. Her face is
beautiful; and her feet -- they aren't bad either,
as feet go.

A technician directs your eyes upon a monitor. On
it, You see yourself standing beside Kelly's feet.
Then -- you see Regis walk onto the screen -- just
as small as you! He's standing there on the other
side of Kelly's feet. You then turn away from the
monitor and look over to where he therefore should
really be, but he isn't there. A special effect!

So you glance back up at the monitor, and watch as
Regis points to Kelly's feet. "Now that's funny,"
he says. The giant foot beside him makes as if it
takes a swipe at him. He makes as if the foot has
just hit him, and he tumbles onto the ground, then
rolls offscreen.

At that they break for a commercial. Kelly gently
picks you up and congratulates you for a wonderful
performance. Your mom comes from behind a set and
Kelly hands you back to her, thanking her for such
a wonderful son, then rushing off to the adjoining
set. Your mom stares at her, starry-eyed.

"Oh, isn't this glorious?" she says. You doubt if
she's even aware that this show just did precisely
what she didn't want it to do: exploit your size.

After the show, you spend the remainder of the day
sight-seeing. Among the stores you patronize is a
top-of-the-line doll emporium. It's the only spot
in the world, you figure, that keeps somewhere, be
it on display or in a storeroom, decent clothes in
literally every size. You and your Mom spend alot
of time (and even more money) shopping for you in
there. Julie does some shopping in there as well;
though for what, you don't know -- and are wary to
find out. The closest thing she's got to any sort
of doll collection ... is you.

Early the next morning, as you and your family get
ready to go to the airport, you find out what your
sister was concealing in that tiny shopping bag of
hers. "It's a disguise," she says, "to keep those
obnoxious airport security ladies' hands off you."
You watch anxiously as her fingers reach deep into
the bag and pull out ...

"Mom! Julie's gonna try to make me wear a dress!"

"No, Mom -- it's a costume." She shows it to your
mother. It is a period piece, something like what
a Dutch milkmaid might have worn two hundred or so
years ago. She even bought for the overall look a
flaxen wig of long pigtails. "I thought if Markie
looked like a little doll, we could get those dumb
airport ladies to leave him alone."

"Mom!"

"Mark, your sister spent her own money on that, to
save you from embarrassment."

"Save me from embarrassment!" you say to yourself.
"She doesn't know what embarrassment is!" Yet you
realize from the tone of her voice that there's no
sense arguing with your mother, so you submit your
body to Julie's latest scheme. She dresses you up
and then, to your horror, takes out of her purse a
couple of almost empty tubes of makeup. "The lady
who made up your face in the studio yesterday said
I could take these," Julie says. She smears your
face with what almost looks like clown white, does
your eyebrows with a finely sharpened brown pencil
and then, with the blunt end of a toothpick, daubs
your lips and cheeks with rosy red. Even your mom
squeals with delight at the results, and takes out
her camera for a photo shoot. All you're thinking
about is with what perverse delight the gal at the
photo place will develop this roll of film.

However, as you will have to admit again and again
in upcoming months, Julie's little ruse does work;
airport security passes you by without any special
treatment. It is difficult trying to remain stiff
and glassy-eyed as security guards rummage through
the bag in which your sister is carrying you. But
thank goodness no one notices that you're really a
teenage male made up to look like a dairy maid.

Well, not until you get home, anyway. Both Stacie
and Pierre are waiting to greet you as you arrive.
"I'll never live this one down," you think.

Your mother carries you in the house, and sets you
upon a table in the living room, while Julie flops
on the sofa in front of the TV. Stacie and Pierre
follow close behind. Only now do they get a first
look at you. They try to suppress their laughter,
but can't, exploding in a sudden outburst. In the
midst of their laughter, you yell out: "Why didn't
she make me up like a ... a GI Joe or something?"

Your mother's brow wrinkles into a quizzical look.
She turns to Julie. "Why didn't you?"

"Hm?"

"Why didn't you?"

"Didn't I what?"

"Make him up like a GI Joe or something?"

"Oh," Julie yawns, stretching her long body out on
the sofa, as she surfs the TV with a remote, "That
would have been so uninteresting."

Your mother's whole face drops. She looks down at
you. You shrug. "She got you again, Mom."

"I guess she did," your Mom says, looking at Julie
blithely pretending not to hear what she obviously
is hearing. "Yes, she definitely did."

So life goes on as usual -- only the usual becomes
alot better than it was. You become overnight the
most popular kid in the school. The football team
dubs you their mascot; before every game, each one
of the players rubs you on his head for luck.

But both you and they know that there's a lot more
to their winning streak than that; it's really all
about their quarterback Pierre. His leadership on
and off the field hustles them right to the state
championship; he becomes the state's player of the
year, and receives offers for full scholarships to
the top universities in the country. Yet whenever
he acknowledges another award or does an interview
for the media, he always attributes the major part
of his success to you.

Stacie has her own share in fame and success. She
gets back on the track team, and boosts the team's
victories enough to lead them up to the regionals.
She also enjoys a renewed popularity in the school
-- thanks to her association with you.

But all good things must come to an end, including
high school. You, already voted Most Popular, now
are chosen valedictorian for your graduation. You
deliver your address standing on a raised platform
set atop the podium. As at that assembly given in
your honor, behind you is an enormous screen which
displays an image of you big enough for all in the
audience to see. And the topic of your address?
"Learning to Live with the Little Things in Life."

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. A few weeks
prior to graduation day is, of course, prom night.
Pierre already has Stacie for his date, and so you
decide that you'd like to ask -- Elissa. You have
felt sorry for her; her popularity plummeted after
Craig Bradley's arrest. But how will you ask her?
She has seemed almost afraid to go near you, as if
she were some sort of leper or something. But you
know where she sits in the library (she spents her
lunch hours there, to get away from people). With
Pierre's help, you get on the table and take cover
behind some books. At a few minutes before twelve
she arrives and sits down. You call out her name.
She looks around the room nervously. You step out
from the book shelf. You yell up to her: "No, I'm
down here!" She looks down and jumps back. "Hey,
come on! I'm not going to bite you -- it wouldn't
hurt that much, even if I did. I just want to ask
you something." Now you're the one who's nervous.
"Um ... Elissa ... are you going to the ... do you
want me to take you to the ... could I take you to
the ... prom?"

She hangs her head. "That's not funny." she says.

"Elissa, look at me." She does so. "I'm not here
to hurt you. I'm really asking you to go out with
me to the prom. But then (now you hang your head)
it's possible that you're the one who doesn't want
me."

"You're serious. You ... want me?"

"Elissa." You hold out your hands to her. Slowly,
apprehensively, she extends an index finger toward
you. You take it in both your hands. "I've never
been mean to you, ever -- have I?" She shakes her
head no. "Well, I'm not going to begin to now. I
really want to take you to the prom. So how about
it? Will you say yes?" She's speechless. "Hey,"
you say, "You once called me your boyfriend, but I
never did ask you on a date. So I owe you one."

She draws back her finger, then -- opens her palm.
You step into it. She closes her hand around you
and brings you to her now tear-stained cheek. It's
that kind of moment when it's actually nice to get
drenched. "Thank you." she repeats, over and over
again.