guys,” I chirped. “How are things in the Magic Kingdom?”
Jonathan zipped on the scene and hovered directlyin Peter’s face to observe him. His wings beat quickly. He flew backward a foot, stopped, tilted, and pointed toward the ceiling. He took a small cluster of grapes from his quiver and began eating them. Julia looked at me with total, irritated shock; Peter broke into a wide, friendly grin and started laughing. Jonathan dived straight down and darted in and out between them, his brow furrowed. Peter kept laughing and said did I realize how funny I was? He’d see me around. I watched them leave.
Jonathan landed on my shoulder. “Still too early to tell,” he said.
I ducked behind the sainted statue of Benjamin Franklin; angst surged through me. I gripped Ben’s bronze boot. “I’m falling apart!” I wailed.
Jonathan eyed me somberly. “The human will is not easily broken, my friend. People are not robots.”
“I don’t want a robot! I want a boyfriend!”
“Everyone reacts differently to love,” he added. “How Peter Terris reacts, we have no control over. That, my dear, was the piece of information you didn’t care about earlier on!”
Three lowly freshmen had stopped to watch me shout and gesture to the air. I swung around.
“
Do you mind?
” I bellowed. They scattered like squirrels. I brushed off my jacket. Never underestimate the supremacy of senior year.
“A.J….” It was Trish Beckman, looking VeryWorried. She was holding her psychology textbook open to chapter twenty-one—“Word Association.”
“I’m going to say a word, A.J., and you say the first thing that comes into your mind. There are no wrong answers. Your subconscious will give us important clues so that we can get to the bottom of”—she winced—“your situation.”
“I can’t cope with this, Trish…”
“Mother,” she said, her number-two pencil poised.
“Trish, please…”
“
Mother
…,” she insisted.
“Food,” I said, sighing.
Trish shivered and wrote that down. “Father,” she said.
“Cereal.”
She sucked in a stream of air. I was flunking. “Love,” she tried.
“Arrow,” I said.
Trish considered my responses and said that she knew a fine psychiatrist in New Leonard who specialized in adolescent stress. She said she’d walk me to my next class because I shouldn’t be alone. I patted her shoulder and said I’d manage, really, hoisted my book bag, and headed toward Oz. I leaned against the art-room door. It had a poster that read, ART IS THE DOOR WE OPEN TO UNDERSTAND OURSELVES . I tried opening the door; it was locked. Figures. Jonathan tapped his arrow on my book bag and hovered in my face.
“How,” I muttered, “can something so small make me so crazy?”
“
What?
” Donny Krumper shrieked, frozen in my path. Donny was the smallest person at Ben Franklin High and took everything seriously.
“You think small people don’t have feelings?” he bellowed.
“Donny, I wasn’t talking to you, I was—”
“
Sure!
” Donny spat. “
Sure!
Walk all over small people! We’re cute! We’ll bounce back! You’re going to get yours someday, McCreary!”
He stormed off, but it was clear I’d already gotten mine. Jonathan placed his arrow in his quiver and zoomed upward like a B-1 bomber.
I was sitting on the World Peace Bench in the Student Center contemplating the vicissitudes of life. This was not easy because the World Peace Bench was the most uncomfortable bench ever concocted: the back forced you forward, the seat forced you into contortions. It had been given to the school by last year’s graduating class in the hope that everyone who sat on it would think about world peace. I shifted my weight and rubbed my lower back. The only thing I ever thought about when I sat on it was sitting somewhere else.
It was four o’clock; afternoon shadows crept across the Student Center. Jessica Wong hung a poster about the King of Hearts Dance that was five days away
Jonathan zipped on the scene and hovered directlyin Peter’s face to observe him. His wings beat quickly. He flew backward a foot, stopped, tilted, and pointed toward the ceiling. He took a small cluster of grapes from his quiver and began eating them. Julia looked at me with total, irritated shock; Peter broke into a wide, friendly grin and started laughing. Jonathan dived straight down and darted in and out between them, his brow furrowed. Peter kept laughing and said did I realize how funny I was? He’d see me around. I watched them leave.
Jonathan landed on my shoulder. “Still too early to tell,” he said.
I ducked behind the sainted statue of Benjamin Franklin; angst surged through me. I gripped Ben’s bronze boot. “I’m falling apart!” I wailed.
Jonathan eyed me somberly. “The human will is not easily broken, my friend. People are not robots.”
“I don’t want a robot! I want a boyfriend!”
“Everyone reacts differently to love,” he added. “How Peter Terris reacts, we have no control over. That, my dear, was the piece of information you didn’t care about earlier on!”
Three lowly freshmen had stopped to watch me shout and gesture to the air. I swung around.
“
Do you mind?
” I bellowed. They scattered like squirrels. I brushed off my jacket. Never underestimate the supremacy of senior year.
“A.J….” It was Trish Beckman, looking VeryWorried. She was holding her psychology textbook open to chapter twenty-one—“Word Association.”
“I’m going to say a word, A.J., and you say the first thing that comes into your mind. There are no wrong answers. Your subconscious will give us important clues so that we can get to the bottom of”—she winced—“your situation.”
“I can’t cope with this, Trish…”
“Mother,” she said, her number-two pencil poised.
“Trish, please…”
“
Mother
…,” she insisted.
“Food,” I said, sighing.
Trish shivered and wrote that down. “Father,” she said.
“Cereal.”
She sucked in a stream of air. I was flunking. “Love,” she tried.
“Arrow,” I said.
Trish considered my responses and said that she knew a fine psychiatrist in New Leonard who specialized in adolescent stress. She said she’d walk me to my next class because I shouldn’t be alone. I patted her shoulder and said I’d manage, really, hoisted my book bag, and headed toward Oz. I leaned against the art-room door. It had a poster that read, ART IS THE DOOR WE OPEN TO UNDERSTAND OURSELVES . I tried opening the door; it was locked. Figures. Jonathan tapped his arrow on my book bag and hovered in my face.
“How,” I muttered, “can something so small make me so crazy?”
“
What?
” Donny Krumper shrieked, frozen in my path. Donny was the smallest person at Ben Franklin High and took everything seriously.
“You think small people don’t have feelings?” he bellowed.
“Donny, I wasn’t talking to you, I was—”
“
Sure!
” Donny spat. “
Sure!
Walk all over small people! We’re cute! We’ll bounce back! You’re going to get yours someday, McCreary!”
He stormed off, but it was clear I’d already gotten mine. Jonathan placed his arrow in his quiver and zoomed upward like a B-1 bomber.
I was sitting on the World Peace Bench in the Student Center contemplating the vicissitudes of life. This was not easy because the World Peace Bench was the most uncomfortable bench ever concocted: the back forced you forward, the seat forced you into contortions. It had been given to the school by last year’s graduating class in the hope that everyone who sat on it would think about world peace. I shifted my weight and rubbed my lower back. The only thing I ever thought about when I sat on it was sitting somewhere else.
It was four o’clock; afternoon shadows crept across the Student Center. Jessica Wong hung a poster about the King of Hearts Dance that was five days away
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