Sundays, when she was not at work, Mrs. Krimble took her children to church. They had to attend the noon mass because Wyatt would never wake up early enough to get to any of the morning masses.
Willow didn’t sleep too well on the previous night; she kept on replaying the prior days events in her mind. It all seemed so surreal. Her neighbor went from being lifeless on his floor to perfectly healthy a few minutes later. Then there was the incident in the pet shop. Was she making too much of it or did that guinea pig go from injured, to not having a scratch on him? Was she going crazy? What did it all mean?
Willow was still deep in thought as she and her family took their seats in the pews. She didn’t particularly enjoy church. She lost her father at such a young age and always found it difficult to “connect with God,” as the Catholic priest would phrase it. She never expressed anger or hatred toward her church, but she found it quite difficult to believe in all of the amazing miracles described in the bible when her father could not be saved from illness. At least she tried to pay attention to the homily; Wyatt often found himself being pinched by his mother for falling asleep and sometimes even snoring lightly. “What, I wasn’t sleeping, I was just blinking for a long time.”
Fifteen minutes into the mass and Willow was still mulling over her thoughts. It came time for the gospel reading and Deacon Bruce took the podium. “A reading from the Holy Gospel according to … ” Deacon Bruce’s voice was a real sedative. He read the gospel in such an uninspired tone, even Mrs. Krimble had to rub her eyes to keep from drifting off. Wyatt always referred to him as “Deacon Snooze.”
Amidst her thoughts, Willow caught words here and there, “… heal ... follow ... believe …” Deacon Bruce droned on about someone asking to be healed and “ … if you follow God ... ”
As the reading was coming to a close, Willow tried to pay attention but she kept on thinking about how Carlo Sprunco had gotten his strength back after she came in contact with him.
Alright, so he had an attack and then it passed - no big deal, but then … that guinea pig … where did his wound go? Maybe it wasn’t him. I was so rushed to get out of the pet shop to make the movie, I wasn’t looking carefully enough. I looked at the wrong guinea pig. That’s it! That has to be it. Don’t blow things out of proportion. This isn’t one of your fantasy novels.”
Everyone in the church took their seats as the parish pastor, Father Strauburn, took the podium.
“In today’s gospel … ”
Willow tried to be attentive, but it was difficult. Once she began analyzing something, she became obsessed with it, but then she heard Father Strauburn say something that snapped her out of her analytical trance, “… so you see, anyone can become a healer.”
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Willow’s ears perked up.
“Of course, you cannot put your hands over a blind person’s eyes and give them sight, not in the literal sense.”
Wyatt leaned over to his sister, “Queue the metaphors and clichés.” Mrs. Krimble shot him a chastising look.
“… you can help someone see the light in other ways than with their eyes,” Father Strauburn continued.
“Corn anyone?” Wyatt muttered to himself, shaking his head.
“We can heal others in different ways. If a cancerous child is sick, you will not be able to dispel their ailment, but by making them laugh, you can heal their hearts, thus bringing them peace.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes.
“God does not expect any of you to come up with a cure for paralysis by tomorrow, but by volunteering to take a disabled person to a movie, this is how you can become a healer.”
Wyatt let out a yawn. Willow couldn’t tell if it was real or forced in order to stress his boredom.
“This I say to all of you: Anyone here can be a healer. If you put someone before yourself in order to help them in any way, you will be a healer of the spirit.
When you reach a path in your life where you must choose between benefiting yourself or helping someone that needs it more than you, and you choose the latter, you will feel the presence of God through your actions. Leave here today and find someone who has lost their smile and aid them in finding it.”
Wyatt checked his watch and let out a sigh.
By Monday morning, Willow had stopped scrutinizing her weekend and was all set for first period: Science. This was one of her favorite classes. Willow liked subjects where things could be broken down into logical explanations, formulas. After being dropped off by her mother, she walked up the school steps where she usually waited for Razzel. Willow took a seat on the top step and decided to wait for her friend, greeting anyone she recognized.
“Hey Daryl … How was your weekend, Freddy … What’s up, Stace … Thanks Lila, I got them at Delicious Denim last week….”
The school bell signifying first period rang out. Groans and exhausted huffs immediately followed. Willow leaned over to pick up her bag when she spotted two pairs of designer shoes that she, unfortunately, recognized.
“Look, Shayla,” Snella Burinbine said with a sadistic smirk, “the school isn’t enforcing the no-pets-allowed rule today.”
“That’s good news for you, Snella,” a voice from behind replied, “or Shayla may have to actually put a leash on you and tie you to a hydrant – a gold one, of course.”
Shayla and Snella whipped around to find Razzel staring them down. Willow was relieved to see her. Willow wasn’t afraid of Shayla or Snella; she just never knew what to say; she could never conjure the quick come-backs that Razzel had a knack for.
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“Let’s get going, Snella,” said Shayla, surveying Razzel. “I haven’t had my shots yet and if she bites, we could be in serious trouble.”
Snella began laughing, repeating Shayla’s retort, “‘Haven’t had my shots yet’ - Woo!”
Razzel put her bag down and clenched her fists, but Willow grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back. Razzel grabbed her backpack and followed Willow up the stairs, shooting daggers at Shayla and Snella.
“You’ve got good timing, Raz, but you shouldn’t let them get to you. They’re just couple of snobs.”
“I’m so sick of those runway rejects!” said Razzel. “They think they can get away with saying and doing whatever they want just because they have shiny hair and picket-fence-white teeth. Well I can certainly change that with one punch.”
“Let ‘em talk, Raz. They’re just words from an empty mind. Let’s get to class before we’re late.”
The school morning had passed uneventfully. Razzel doodled in her notebook during Science class while Willow raised her hand to answer almost every question asked about the anatomy of earth worms; she had already read ahead two chapters last week.
In Math there was a pop quiz. Willow felt she had done fairly well, while Razzel was certain she had just barely scraped by.
In Italian class, however, Razzel was the one to shine. She never raised her hand, but Mrs. Roselli always called on her when no one else could answer and Razzel was correct almost every time. Students were always amazed at how the light-skinned black girl with long, wavy black hair was able to speak and write so fluently in Italian. What most of them didn’t know was Razzel’s parents met in Italy when her mother, Diane Myers, a beautiful African American college student from New York, traveled to Europe to study abroad. She was a Philosophy major with a minor in Fine Arts. It was Italy where she met Razzel’s father, Pietro Fiora. The abbreviated story is that they fell in love; boy followed girl back to the states; boy married girl; six years later, girl gets pregnant. The result: “I hate when she always freakin’ calls on me! It’s mortifying!”
“Oh, come on. I love hearing you speak Italiano, Signora Fiora.”
“Cut it out, Will.”
“You’re not so uptight when you respond to Mr. Sprunco when he speaks to you.”
“That’s different; he cracks me up. Besides, I don’t feel 25 sets of eyes on me when he’s around.”
“Well, at least it’s lunch time.”
The two friends noticed a small assembly at the cafeteria bulletin board.
“What now?” said Razzel. “Last time I saw a mob like this out here, it was the great chocolate milk shortage of last fall.” She pretended to shudder. “Ohhh - that was terrifying.”
Willow recognized Taren Swirkle and Brent Deital, who she and Razzel usually sat with at lunch.
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“What’s up, guys?” said Willow.
“Check it out …” replied Brent eagerly, “… a school talent show on December 5th. This is the first year Ginkelman has ever held one. I’m signing up straight away. Seven years of dance lessons are finally gonna pay off.”
“I’ll be there,” chimed Razzel.
“Really?” said Brent, elated.
“Absolutely! And when you’re done dancing, we could all listen to the crickets chirping together.”
Brent’s expression went from blissful to defeated. Taren laughed out loud while Willow tried to suppress her chuckle.
“Don’t listen to her, Brent,” she said, playfully slapping Razzel on the arm, “we’ll all be there to cheer you on.”
“I’m only kidding, man,” said Razzel. “I wouldn’t miss it, especially if those snobs enter. I can’t wait to see them lose at something for once in their lives.
“I wonder what they would do for the show,” said Taren, in her characteristic bubbly tone. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be fun to watch.” Taren Swirkle was oblivious to anything negative around her. Last year, Snella smacked her lunch out of her hand because she didn’t like the way Taren said “Hi.” Taren’s reply to such a vile and cruel act was, “I think she just wanted to give me ‘five’ on my hand, but I was too slow for her. It was all my fault.”
Razzel noticed Shayla and Snella pushing their way through the crowd to investigate the posted notice that had everyone in such a frenzy.
“Speak of the minions,” Razzel muttered.
Shayla glanced at the notice and then curled her upper lip at Snella as if she had just tasted something awful.
“I can’t imagine anything more pathetic,” she said.
Snella looked in the direction of the four friends behind her and noticed they were all staring at her and Shayla. Razzel in particular wore a look of great disdain.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Snella, motioning to Brent who was now writing down the sign-up information in his notebook, “it should make for some good laughs.” She and Shayla then giggled at Brent’s fervor to participate.
Willow had to grab Razzel’s wrist for the second time that day.
“Let’s eat, ” she said, gesturing to Taren and Brent. “Come on, Raz. Maybe we’ll see how far salisbury steak can fly from the rubber band on my retainer.”
Razzel unclenched her fists and smirked.
“Now yer talkin’!”
For the remainder of the school week, students could be heard expressing their enthusiasm for the talent show. “… I’m gonna sing ... ” “… I have a hilarious ventriloquist routine ... ” “… I can’t wait to do my celebrity impersonations ..."
By Thursday, Razzel would grunt at anyone who mentioned the talent show. “The next person to sing at me better have good medical insurance.”
It was the final period of the day on Thursday: English. Although Willow loved to read and write, she was always on edge in Miss Protts’ English class, but who wasn’t?
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Consetta Protts was a crotchety old woman who had been teaching for over 50 years. She was one of those teachers who hated the way the school was being run, hated dealing with students and could barely tolerate the staff. Since announcing in the beginning of the school year that this would be her final year teaching, she was exceptionally callous toward any student that dared cross her.
Most students knew better than to provoke her. Even Razzel would not dare respond to Miss Protts with her usual tone of sarcasm; she knew the consequences would be dire.
Miss Protts was never married and none of the students needed to waste any time wondering why.
“The bell rang six seconds ago, Spritzman! Why do I still hear your yap going? Take your seat, Phillips or I’ll make you stand the entire period! Spit out that gum, Rogers, or you’ll be wearing it on your nose for the remainder of the school year!”
Snella rolled her eyes, pulled out her cell phone and began texting Shayla who was sitting in the seat directly in front of her. Miss Protts immediately snatched the phone out of Snella’s hand.
“Hey, that was a gift from my father!” barked Snella, “I’d better get it back!”
Miss Protts glared at Snella for moment.
“No worries, Princess,” she said, walking around to the front of her teacher’s desk. She opened up the top drawer, pulled out a large, rusty metal stapler, placed the cell phone on her desk and proceeded to smash it four times. She pushed the remains of the former phone into her drawer, returned the stapler to its place and slammed her desk drawer shut. She looked up at Snella, who appeared horrorstricken. “You can just pick it up right after class, Your Highness.”
Shayla’s jaw dropped at her friend’s predicament while the remainder of the class fell silent. Willow gave Razzel a cautious look. Razzel returned a satisfied grin.
“Anyone else have any toys I can play with? No? Fine! Maybe we can actually learn something today!”
Miss Protts proceeded to pull out a stack of papers from her bottom desk drawer.
“Last week, while studying 17th Century poetry, I gave you all an assignment to write your own poem based on anything that was important to you in your lives - anything at all. I felt this was a simple assignment and expected to read a broad scope of poetry.
“Some of you decided to write about your pets … ” Miss Protts continued, handing papers back to their previous owners, “ … so it should come as no surprise to those people that I gave them an F! YOU MISSED THE WHOLE POINT, JORKINS!” she snapped at a student, startling him into almost falling out of his seat. “Life isn’t about how happy you feel when your constipated turtle craps in his tank!” A few students stifled a laugh.
“There were a few of you, and I mean a few, that actually understood that life is about more than just material, tangible things.” She proceeded to hand Willow back her paper, giving her an unreadable expression, as only Miss Protts could.
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Willow swallowed hard before looking down at her paper. She loved to write, but Miss Protts was tough to please. At the beginning of the semester, Miss Protts announced that she never gave anyone an A. “An A implies that you are perfect and nobody is perfect; there is always room for improvement.”
When Willow finally looked down at her paper, she was bewildered. There was no grade – just a note in red ink that read, “See me after class.” Willow became unnerved. What could it mean?
For the remainder of the period, Miss Protts gave an overview of the next book they would need to read and explained the new assignment.
“Re-write the ending in three pages or more. Change it to whatever you think will fit according to the way you feel about the characters. JORKINS!” The student jumped up once again. “Let’s leave your turtle out of it this time.”
As soon as the bell rang, Willow turned around to look at Razzel.
“I need to stay. She wants to see me about my poem.”
Razzel just shrugged her shoulders and flipped her poem around so Willow could see the big red B- on it.
“Not bad, Raz,” said Willow.”
“For this class,” replied Razzel, “it’s pretty damn good. I’ll take it. Thanks for all your help, Will. What did you get?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s what she wants to see me about.” Willow held up her paper for Razzel to see.
“KRIMBLE!” Both Willow and Razzel flinched at the bellow coming from the front of the classroom. “What’s taking so long? Front and center!” Miss Protts shouted while packing up her bag for the day.
Willow and Razzel quickly gathered their belongings and hurried to the front of the class as the remainder of the students filed out; Snella and Shayla still looking scandalized over the cell phone incident.
“Need something, Fiora?” Miss Protts barked at Razzel. Razzel shook her head. “Then why am I still looking at you?”
Razzel gave Willow an I’ll meet you outside look and quickly exited the classroom. No one was left but Willow and Miss Protts.
“Hell of a poem, Krimble; not bad at all. A bit sappy for my taste, but I see potential in you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed Fiora’s writing improving. No doubt you’ve been helping her along.”
“I - ”
“Oh, it’s fine, Krimble. I don’t have a problem with students working together as long as you’re not writing it for her.”
“I - ”
“Listen up, Krimble, because they don’t pay me extra for repeating myself. There’s the school assembly tomorrow at two o’clock so Principal Sabina can welcome new students and brag about what a great job she thinks she’s doing with this school.” Miss Protts rolled her eyes. “She’s under the delusion that the heads of each department want to share their curriculum for the year and what’s more, she actually thinks the students will give a rat’s rump.”
Willow stood silently with her mouth half open. What did any of this have to do with her poem?
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“So, I had a thought,” Miss Protts continued, “rather than having my blood pressure go through the roof at the sight of hundreds of blank stares gazing up at me, I can introduce you and you can share your poem with the rest of the school. Who knows, since it will be a student speaking, maybe they’ll actually pay attention; maybe they’ll actually learn something. What do you say, Krimble?”
“I - ”
“Great! I thought you might like the idea. You might want to work on that stutter though.”
Miss Protts picked up her bag and headed toward the door, leaving Willow petrified at the thought of having to speak in front of the entire school.
“Oh, and Krimble ... ” Miss Protts peaked her head back into the classroom, “ … you got an A-.”
Willow smiled.
“Are you crazy!” shouted Razzel from the other end of the phone. “I already told you this afternoon, you have to read that poem in front of everyone. You’ve been writing for years, Will. This is a great opportunity for you.”
“What if people laugh at me?” said Willow, lying on her bed, gazing up at the paint-chipped ceiling.
“Boo freakin’ hoo. ‘What if people laugh at me?’” Razzel impersonated Willow in a childish tone. “You’ve got talent, Will. Show it off. Remember when I went for my brown belt in Jiu Jitsu and I was really nervous before my test? You told me I shouldn’t worry because I was just going to express my talent in something that I loved to do. I guess you just don’t practice what you preach.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll read the stupid poem.”
“Good! What’s it about anyway?”
“Nuh-uh. If you want me to read it out loud, you’ll just have to wait until everyone else hears it.”
“What-evs. I gotta go anyway. Dinnertime. Dad made fried calamari. I can’t wait.”
“Yuck! Deep-fried squid.” Willow contorted her face as if she had just tasted something awful.
“You need some culture, girl. See you tomorrow. And stop worrying. You’ll do great.”
The following day, Willow was a bundle of nerves. She could barely concentrate in any of her classes and she skipped lunch entirely. She spent the period in the library reviewing her poem over and over again, changing her mind every minute on which words to emphasize at what point.
Before Willow knew it, it was 2pm and the entire school was gathered in the auditorium. She had to sit in the front row with a group of faculty members, some of which she recognized. She sat between Miss Protts and Mr. Zingrout, her math teacher. Once everyone was seated, Principal Sabina took the podium.
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“Good afternoon,” she said in a sicky-sweet tone. Principal Gretchen Sabina always claimed she wanted to be friends with every student, but if you ever caused any trouble in her school; if you ever broke one of her many precious decrees, she would turn into a rabid dog. Her philosophy was: “As long as you follow the rules, we should not have any problems.”
“Welcome Ginkelman faculty and students. Classes have been in session for several weeks now and I felt that it would be prudent at this time to not only greet the new students, but welcome back returning faces.” A group of 8th graders sitting behind Willow huffed.
This year promises to be ... ”
Willow could barely pay attention; she was uneasy about reading on stage in front of hundreds of students. It’ll all be over soon, she told herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Protts turning toward her for some last minute instruction.
Now remember, Krimble, once I’m called up, you follow me, but wait behind the drawn curtain over there. This way, you can at least have an entrance rather than come off as a stalker, tailing me.”
“… and I am certain that you do not all wish to hear my soothing tones for the entire hour,” Principal Sabina joked. “At this time, I’d like to introduce our yearbook committee who wishes to address the 8th grade class on how they can participate in putting together the best yearbook Ginkelman Middle School has ever seen. Please welcome some of the members of the yearbook committee, led by Miss Shayla Stergus.”
Shayla walked out onto the stage wearing a huge, phony smile that Willow read as: I really don’t want to be here, but it looks good on my school transcripts. She was tailed by Snella and two other girls, who Willow recognized as Candace Strenner and Fusia Plister. Candace and Fusia were always tailing Shayla and Snella. They were almost as popular and every bit as wicked. Willow could not believe it; she was on edge enough, without having to follow this line-up of beauty queens.
After listening to Shayla speak in the most spurious tone Willow had ever heard, she turned around to spot Razzel three rows behind her, sitting between Taren and Brent, looking completely exasperated by Shayla’s speech. She could see Razzel sticking her finger down her throat, pretending to make herself gag. This made Willow feel better.
“ … so please, we want everyone to join in and take part in this time-honored tradition,” said Shayla, never losing her phony grin. “And remember, without school-spirit, a school is just another big building,” she concluded to a large round of applause from most of the assembly. Razzel expressed her school-spirit by sitting with her arms crossed, shaking her head in disbelief.
Principal Sabina took the podium once again.
“Thank you, Shayla. Now, I would like to call upon one of our most celebrated faculty members, and the head of our English Department here at Ginkelman, Miss Consetta Protts.”
As Miss Protts stood up to walk toward the stage steps, Willow followed a few steps behind her. Clutching her paper, Willow heard Miss Protts mumble, “'Celebrated? That’s just a fancy way of saying old.”
As Miss Protts took her time walking up the four steps leading to the stage, Willow’s heart jack-hammered.
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Once on stage, she tucked herself behind the curtain, only to realize she wasn’t alone. Shayla and her cronies had decided to lag behind, rather than take their seats in the auditorium with the “ordinary” students. Snella was the first to notice the newcomer.
“Well, hello, Shakespeare,” she said. “Look, Shayla, a celebrity sighting. Why, it’s the star of our English class.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Candace added as the other girls laughed.
Willow found these comments easy to ignore. Being insulted by this lot was nothing new to her and she had to focus on the task at hand. There were hundreds of students to address; the four behind the curtain with her were irrelevant. She could hear Miss Protts begin her announcement.
“Last week, I assigned my 8th grade classes to ... ”
Continuing to ignore the whispers and snickers behind her, Willow hung on Miss Protts’ every word.
“… so pay attention. This is what you are capable of when you apply yourselves. Miss Willow Krimble will now read her assignment, which earned her the highest grade I have given out in seven years.”
Willow felt her insides tense up as the applause rang in her ears. She had to leave the comfort of the concealing curtain. Clasping her poem tightly in both hands, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She took one step forward and then …
CRASH!
The auditorium roared with laughter. Willow tried to stand but realized that her prosthetic leg had come loose under her jeans and her right ankle was throbbing from the fall. As the audience noticed her fumble with her prosthetic limb, the laughter began to die down. She began to crawl back toward the curtain and heard howling laughter coming from the four girls behind it.
“Nice one, Snella,” said Shayla.
“Hey, not my fault she tripped over my foot,” replied Snella. “She should have been paying attention.”
As Willow reached the curtain, she pulled herself up and was finally able to adjust her limb into its proper place. Just as she was going to storm off stage, a fifth face appeared from the far side of the curtain.
“Will, you alright?” asked a highly concerned Razzel.
“I’ll be fine,” replied Willow, trying to fight back tears, listening to the faint murmurings of the crowd.
“What happened?” asked Razzel, taking notice of her present company.
“Your friend here’s a bit clumsy,” chimed Snella. “But I do have long legs,” she added rubbing her outer thigh. “I guess they tend to get in the way sometimes, although I’m not sure how you can miss them since they are so ... (Snella rubbed her calves with both hands) ... perfectly formed.”
The laughter from Shayla, Candace and Fusia was all Razzel could stand. She pounced onto Snella with the ferocity of a starving cougar hunting its prey. Razzel was a skilled martial artist, but when the rage took over, she just started swinging and hitting whatever wasn’t protected. It took Snella’s entire peanut gallery and Willow to pry her off just in time for Miss Protts to appear behind the stage curtain.
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“What in the name of fermented prune juice is going on back here?” she said, taking notice of Snella’s bloody nose and disheveled hair.
“She tripped Willow on purpose!” Razzel spat, panting heavily, pointing to Snella.
“Did she, now?” said Miss Protts, surveying Snella.
“Actually,” Shayla interjected before Snella could respond, “I didn’t see her do it, and I’m sure Candace and Fusia didn’t see anything either, and we were back here the entire time.” Candace and Fusia nodded in agreement, smiling sadistically. “So, Miss Protts,” Shayla pressed on, “if you didn’t see it, there’s really nothing you can do about it … is there? As far as you know, Willow here just ... tripped.” Shayla shrugged her shoulders, sneering at Willow.
Willow was humiliated, Razzel was seething and Miss Protts was frustrated.
“I don’t have time for this twaddle,” barked Miss Protts. “Burenbine, get to the nurse’s office and take care of that nose. The custodian has enough to do around here without having to mop up your blood.”
Snella took out a tissue from her purse and began cleaning herself up.
“You’ll pay for this!” she snarled at Razzel. “I’ll see that you get expelled!”
“Actually,” Miss Protts grunted, “since I didn’t actually see Fiora hit you, there is really nothing I can do about it.” She glared at Shayla. “As far as I know ...” she turned her gaze back to Snella, “… you just tripped.”
Snella turned scarlet and stomped off; Shayla ran to comfort her; Candace and Fusia followed suit.
Willow could hear Principal Sabina instructing everyone in the auditorium to “settle down while we sort through this.”
Miss Protts threw her gaze back at Willow.
“You’re up, Krimble,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if the last three minutes had never transpired.
“What? I can’t go out there now!”
Razzel grabbed Willow by her shoulders and spun her around.
“Don’t let those creepy cover girls ruin your moment, Will. I believe in you … you can do this!”
Willow looked into Razzel’s eyes, then up at Miss Protts, over her shoulder and into the anticipatory audience. She finally turned back to Razzel.
“I’m sorry, Raz, but you’re wrong … I can’t.”
Willow stormed down the steps and through the emergency exit door in the front of the auditorium. She crumpled up the printout of her poem and tossed it into the first trashcan she passed.
Willow wasn’t one for breaking school rules, but she retrieved her books from her locker and headed to the public bus stop. She stared blankly out the window for the entire ride, worried about what she might endure on Monday morning; how every student in the school would stare at her, whispering behind her back.
When Willow got home, she walked in through the side door and heard voices coming from the kitchen, but had no desire to investigate who they belonged to.
“Willow? Is that you?” Mrs. Krimble’s voice called out.
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“I’m going to my room,” replied Willow, trying to hide the dejection in her tone.
“You’re home early? Come and say ‘hi’ to your grandmother.”
Willow wiped her tears on her sleeve. The last thing she wanted was an audience. Ordinarily, Willow would be thrilled to visit with her grandmother but today … just say “hello” and get out of there.
She walked into the kitchen, trying not to limp from the pain she still felt in her right ankle, to find her mother and grandmother at the table having tea and cake. Wyatt was wolfing down his dessert, leaning over the kitchen counter.
“Hey, Squirt,” said Wyatt, his mouth full of cake. “Black Forest, my favorite.”
“Every cake is your favorite,” added Mrs. Krimble.
Grandma Trisha took one look at Willow and knew something was wrong.
“Are you okay, Willow? Your face is so flush.”
Willow kissed her grandmother on the cheek.
“I’m fine,” she responded, turning around curtly to leave the kitchen.
“Freeze, little miss,” said Mrs. Krimble, stopping Willow in her tracks. “What happened?”
Willow turned around to face her family.
“Nothing, I’m fine. Can I go now?”
“I just want to be sure that - ” but before Mrs. Krimble could finish, Willow had turned away from them and stormed out of the kitchen, grateful that she had not informed her family that she had planned on reading one of her poems to the entire school.
“She’s crazy,” said Wyatt. “Black Forest!”
Grandma Trisha stood up.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Good luck,” replied Mrs. Krimble. “She’s a sweetheart, but she never opens up to anyone.”
Without another word, Grandma Trisha marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When she reached Willow’s room, she didn’t bother knocking. She opened the door abruptly to find her granddaughter sobbing into her pillow.
“So, what happened?”
Willow quickly sat up, wiping the tears from her face.
“Nothing,” she said, her words accompanied by a heavy sniff.
Grandma Trisha walked to the edge of the bed, picked up a large stuffed cat, tossed it onto the floor and sat down beside her granddaughter.
“Talk to me. Nothing can be that bad.”
Willow’s low weeping was slowly turning into a steady stream of tears.
“Are you hurt?” asked Grandma Trisha.
“N-no.”
“Has someone died?” Grandma Trisha’s tone was peppered with sarcasm, which Willow did not appreciate at the moment.
“No.”
“Good. We just ruled out the only two things that should make you cry like that. Now, what happened?”
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Accepting the fact that her grandmother was not going to relent until Willow spoke to her …
“Grams, I … I just wanna be ...” Willow looked down at her prosthetic leg “... perfect.”
Grandma Trisha looked at her granddaughter and smiled; then she began to laugh. Willow did not like where this was headed.
“Perfect!” Grandma Trisha repeated. “Perfect? Well, I can’t think of anything more dreary and boring in this entire world than being perfect.” She stopped laughing quite suddenly. With a stern expression, she extended her right hand and made her demand: “Dictionary!”
Willow looked confused.
“All these books in here; your fantasy novels and fairy tales, you are telling me that you do not own one dictionary?”
Willow got up from her bed in a huff, opened up the top, side drawer of her desk, and pulled out a thick red book. With great apprehension, she handed it to her grandmother.
Grandma Trisha flipped through the book until she got to the P’s.
“Let’s see here, ah yes … Perfect … I’ll spare you the long detailed definition of this wretched word, but here are some synonyms and adjectives used to describe it: Accurate ... Precise ... Exact ... Correct ... Oh this is a good one - Conforming to the ideal type. Hmm ... I wonder who decides the ideal type,” she said rubbing her chin.
Willow was waiting for her grandmother to make her point so that she could continue feeling sorry for herself.
Grandma Trisha closed the book and placed it on her lap.
“Is that what my granddaughter wants to be? Accurate and precise?”
Willow responded by staring blankly at her artificial limb, unconsciously running her fingers over it.
“Willow, did I ever tell you how I fell in love with your grandfather?”
Willow turned her attention back to her grandmother.
“No,” she replied, her tone only slightly louder than a whisper.
“We met in high school. I was dating Chet Barker at the time. He was what you girls today would call ‘a hottie’. Blonde hair, blue eyes, on the football team, although don’t ask me what position he played because even back then I could care less about such a barbaric, dull-as-dishwater sport. Anyway, he was the perfect male specimen. My friends (she made quote marks with her fingers) were all envious and even my father approved, and he didn’t even like me very much. But that is another story for another day.
“I knew your grandfather from some of my classes and I always thought he was very handsome, but he was part of a different crowd. I spent my time with cheerleaders, jocks. We only associated with the elite. Your grandfather was an artist who didn’t (she made quote marks with her fingers again) ‘conform to the ideal type’. His clothes were all second-hand; he worked for his father at the gas station; he didn’t have a huge trust fund waiting for him … you get the picture.”
Willow dried her eyes and was now listening intently.
“So how did you guys get together?”
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“Patience, young one; we are getting to that. There was a school dance Junior year and any gala at the school meant all of the girls had to look their best to try and out-do one another. I looked stunning that evening. A cream-colored dress that fell just to the knee – I had amazing legs back then – and my hair was done up in a bun. I could have walked the red carpet on Oscar night and turned a few heads.” Grandma Trisha looked up towards the ceiling for a moment as if recalling a distant, memory. She then shook her head as if to shake off the mental cobwebs, often left behind by daydreams. She resumed eye contact with her audience.
“Late that evening, while Chet was off getting us drinks, his best friend, Dale Stitzel, hit on me; I’ll spare you the raunchy details. I felt I should tell Chet straight away and so I did, right in front of Dale and a group of our friends. Of course, Dale denied it; said he was just trying to compliment the way that I looked that evening.”
“Creep!”
“That’s what I said, but Chet took Dale for his word and we got into a huge shouting match. We began to draw quite a crowd, me calling Chet and Dale several words that you wouldn’t find in this dictionary.”
Willow cracked a brief smile.
“Of course that was nothing compared to what Chet and Dale began calling me in front of, what seemed to be at the time, the entire school. Everyone, including my so-called girlfriends, began laughing at me. They wouldn’t dare go against the two most popular boys in Dramden High. That’s when your grandfather, who was only there to help work the sound equipment for some extra pocket money, stepped in and told the two biggest stars of the football team that ‘they’d better apologize to the lady, or else.’ They both laughed right in his face and a split second later, your grandfather punched Dale square in the nose. Blood spattered all over Suzy Chessel’s gown – I hated her. But the events that followed made me realize your grandfather was the man for me.”
“He beat them both up in front of everyone?” asked Willow.
“Oh, no; not at all. He got his clock polished. You see, once he hit Dale, the entire football team jumped in and … well, thank goodness the chaperones were there to break it up or there may not have been anything left of him for me to eventually marry.”
Willow’s brief feeling of excitement was suddenly extinguished. Grandma Trisha pressed on.
“The next morning was Saturday and I took the bus over to his father’s gas station. He was pretty banged up and his left eye was swollen shut. I thanked him for defending me and asked him what he was thinking going up against those goons; he had to know it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
Willow could see that her grandmother’s eyes were beginning to look a bit moist. This rarely happened.
“He told me that all he wanted to do was direct the attention away from me so that people would stop laughing at me. He said he knew that by hitting Dale, he would get pounced on and then no one would be poking fun at …” Grandma Trisha swallowed hard “… ‘the prettiest girl in all of Bingrum County.’ So, I had no
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choice, but to kiss him, and by Monday everyone at school knew we were a couple.”
Willow sat up a little straighter.
“We were mocked in every hallway and classroom by anyone who wanted to remain on Chet’s good side. I stopped caring about what people, who meant nothing to me, thought. I made some new friends, some real friends. I got to know the most interesting people who I never would have met had I remained a card-carrying member of the circle of superiors. That was the first time since I had started high school that I was truly happy. Your grandfather didn’t have much and he wasn’t very popular, but he made me feel like a queen.”
Willow’s disheartened expression broke into a grin.
“Well, you know the rest of the story, don’t you? After graduation we were married, struggled financially for a bit, and then, because your grandfather refused to accept what everyone thought was in the cards for him - running that decrepit gas station for his father - we moved out east and came to New York where he became one of the greatest architects in the country.
“He never cared about the money either; he did it because he loved it and he was great at it. He had fun with every new thing he tried and he tried everything that interested him because he never cared about being … Perfect. He wanted life to be great.”
Willow looked pensive at the last thing her grandmother had said, almost confused.
“Perfect has boundaries, Willow. Perfect ends at a certain point because it is so precise and exact that it cannot go beyond its own limitations. It’s technically correct and it’s safe, but if you stop worrying about what’s perfect, then great things can happen because you are bound and shackled by nothing.”
Willow peered into her grandmother’s gaze.
“So I ask you now, Willow ... do you really wanna be perfect?” Grandma Trisha leaned across the bed until she was practically touching noses with her granddaughter. “Or do you wanna be great?”
Willow smiled.
“Smart girl.”
Next Chapter
Willow didn’t sleep too well on the previous night; she kept on replaying the prior days events in her mind. It all seemed so surreal. Her neighbor went from being lifeless on his floor to perfectly healthy a few minutes later. Then there was the incident in the pet shop. Was she making too much of it or did that guinea pig go from injured, to not having a scratch on him? Was she going crazy? What did it all mean?
Willow was still deep in thought as she and her family took their seats in the pews. She didn’t particularly enjoy church. She lost her father at such a young age and always found it difficult to “connect with God,” as the Catholic priest would phrase it. She never expressed anger or hatred toward her church, but she found it quite difficult to believe in all of the amazing miracles described in the bible when her father could not be saved from illness. At least she tried to pay attention to the homily; Wyatt often found himself being pinched by his mother for falling asleep and sometimes even snoring lightly. “What, I wasn’t sleeping, I was just blinking for a long time.”
Fifteen minutes into the mass and Willow was still mulling over her thoughts. It came time for the gospel reading and Deacon Bruce took the podium. “A reading from the Holy Gospel according to … ” Deacon Bruce’s voice was a real sedative. He read the gospel in such an uninspired tone, even Mrs. Krimble had to rub her eyes to keep from drifting off. Wyatt always referred to him as “Deacon Snooze.”
Amidst her thoughts, Willow caught words here and there, “… heal ... follow ... believe …” Deacon Bruce droned on about someone asking to be healed and “ … if you follow God ... ”
As the reading was coming to a close, Willow tried to pay attention but she kept on thinking about how Carlo Sprunco had gotten his strength back after she came in contact with him.
Alright, so he had an attack and then it passed - no big deal, but then … that guinea pig … where did his wound go? Maybe it wasn’t him. I was so rushed to get out of the pet shop to make the movie, I wasn’t looking carefully enough. I looked at the wrong guinea pig. That’s it! That has to be it. Don’t blow things out of proportion. This isn’t one of your fantasy novels.”
Everyone in the church took their seats as the parish pastor, Father Strauburn, took the podium.
“In today’s gospel … ”
Willow tried to be attentive, but it was difficult. Once she began analyzing something, she became obsessed with it, but then she heard Father Strauburn say something that snapped her out of her analytical trance, “… so you see, anyone can become a healer.”
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Willow’s ears perked up.
“Of course, you cannot put your hands over a blind person’s eyes and give them sight, not in the literal sense.”
Wyatt leaned over to his sister, “Queue the metaphors and clichés.” Mrs. Krimble shot him a chastising look.
“… you can help someone see the light in other ways than with their eyes,” Father Strauburn continued.
“Corn anyone?” Wyatt muttered to himself, shaking his head.
“We can heal others in different ways. If a cancerous child is sick, you will not be able to dispel their ailment, but by making them laugh, you can heal their hearts, thus bringing them peace.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes.
“God does not expect any of you to come up with a cure for paralysis by tomorrow, but by volunteering to take a disabled person to a movie, this is how you can become a healer.”
Wyatt let out a yawn. Willow couldn’t tell if it was real or forced in order to stress his boredom.
“This I say to all of you: Anyone here can be a healer. If you put someone before yourself in order to help them in any way, you will be a healer of the spirit.
When you reach a path in your life where you must choose between benefiting yourself or helping someone that needs it more than you, and you choose the latter, you will feel the presence of God through your actions. Leave here today and find someone who has lost their smile and aid them in finding it.”
Wyatt checked his watch and let out a sigh.
By Monday morning, Willow had stopped scrutinizing her weekend and was all set for first period: Science. This was one of her favorite classes. Willow liked subjects where things could be broken down into logical explanations, formulas. After being dropped off by her mother, she walked up the school steps where she usually waited for Razzel. Willow took a seat on the top step and decided to wait for her friend, greeting anyone she recognized.
“Hey Daryl … How was your weekend, Freddy … What’s up, Stace … Thanks Lila, I got them at Delicious Denim last week….”
The school bell signifying first period rang out. Groans and exhausted huffs immediately followed. Willow leaned over to pick up her bag when she spotted two pairs of designer shoes that she, unfortunately, recognized.
“Look, Shayla,” Snella Burinbine said with a sadistic smirk, “the school isn’t enforcing the no-pets-allowed rule today.”
“That’s good news for you, Snella,” a voice from behind replied, “or Shayla may have to actually put a leash on you and tie you to a hydrant – a gold one, of course.”
Shayla and Snella whipped around to find Razzel staring them down. Willow was relieved to see her. Willow wasn’t afraid of Shayla or Snella; she just never knew what to say; she could never conjure the quick come-backs that Razzel had a knack for.
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“Let’s get going, Snella,” said Shayla, surveying Razzel. “I haven’t had my shots yet and if she bites, we could be in serious trouble.”
Snella began laughing, repeating Shayla’s retort, “‘Haven’t had my shots yet’ - Woo!”
Razzel put her bag down and clenched her fists, but Willow grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back. Razzel grabbed her backpack and followed Willow up the stairs, shooting daggers at Shayla and Snella.
“You’ve got good timing, Raz, but you shouldn’t let them get to you. They’re just couple of snobs.”
“I’m so sick of those runway rejects!” said Razzel. “They think they can get away with saying and doing whatever they want just because they have shiny hair and picket-fence-white teeth. Well I can certainly change that with one punch.”
“Let ‘em talk, Raz. They’re just words from an empty mind. Let’s get to class before we’re late.”
The school morning had passed uneventfully. Razzel doodled in her notebook during Science class while Willow raised her hand to answer almost every question asked about the anatomy of earth worms; she had already read ahead two chapters last week.
In Math there was a pop quiz. Willow felt she had done fairly well, while Razzel was certain she had just barely scraped by.
In Italian class, however, Razzel was the one to shine. She never raised her hand, but Mrs. Roselli always called on her when no one else could answer and Razzel was correct almost every time. Students were always amazed at how the light-skinned black girl with long, wavy black hair was able to speak and write so fluently in Italian. What most of them didn’t know was Razzel’s parents met in Italy when her mother, Diane Myers, a beautiful African American college student from New York, traveled to Europe to study abroad. She was a Philosophy major with a minor in Fine Arts. It was Italy where she met Razzel’s father, Pietro Fiora. The abbreviated story is that they fell in love; boy followed girl back to the states; boy married girl; six years later, girl gets pregnant. The result: “I hate when she always freakin’ calls on me! It’s mortifying!”
“Oh, come on. I love hearing you speak Italiano, Signora Fiora.”
“Cut it out, Will.”
“You’re not so uptight when you respond to Mr. Sprunco when he speaks to you.”
“That’s different; he cracks me up. Besides, I don’t feel 25 sets of eyes on me when he’s around.”
“Well, at least it’s lunch time.”
The two friends noticed a small assembly at the cafeteria bulletin board.
“What now?” said Razzel. “Last time I saw a mob like this out here, it was the great chocolate milk shortage of last fall.” She pretended to shudder. “Ohhh - that was terrifying.”
Willow recognized Taren Swirkle and Brent Deital, who she and Razzel usually sat with at lunch.
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“What’s up, guys?” said Willow.
“Check it out …” replied Brent eagerly, “… a school talent show on December 5th. This is the first year Ginkelman has ever held one. I’m signing up straight away. Seven years of dance lessons are finally gonna pay off.”
“I’ll be there,” chimed Razzel.
“Really?” said Brent, elated.
“Absolutely! And when you’re done dancing, we could all listen to the crickets chirping together.”
Brent’s expression went from blissful to defeated. Taren laughed out loud while Willow tried to suppress her chuckle.
“Don’t listen to her, Brent,” she said, playfully slapping Razzel on the arm, “we’ll all be there to cheer you on.”
“I’m only kidding, man,” said Razzel. “I wouldn’t miss it, especially if those snobs enter. I can’t wait to see them lose at something for once in their lives.
“I wonder what they would do for the show,” said Taren, in her characteristic bubbly tone. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be fun to watch.” Taren Swirkle was oblivious to anything negative around her. Last year, Snella smacked her lunch out of her hand because she didn’t like the way Taren said “Hi.” Taren’s reply to such a vile and cruel act was, “I think she just wanted to give me ‘five’ on my hand, but I was too slow for her. It was all my fault.”
Razzel noticed Shayla and Snella pushing their way through the crowd to investigate the posted notice that had everyone in such a frenzy.
“Speak of the minions,” Razzel muttered.
Shayla glanced at the notice and then curled her upper lip at Snella as if she had just tasted something awful.
“I can’t imagine anything more pathetic,” she said.
Snella looked in the direction of the four friends behind her and noticed they were all staring at her and Shayla. Razzel in particular wore a look of great disdain.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Snella, motioning to Brent who was now writing down the sign-up information in his notebook, “it should make for some good laughs.” She and Shayla then giggled at Brent’s fervor to participate.
Willow had to grab Razzel’s wrist for the second time that day.
“Let’s eat, ” she said, gesturing to Taren and Brent. “Come on, Raz. Maybe we’ll see how far salisbury steak can fly from the rubber band on my retainer.”
Razzel unclenched her fists and smirked.
“Now yer talkin’!”
For the remainder of the school week, students could be heard expressing their enthusiasm for the talent show. “… I’m gonna sing ... ” “… I have a hilarious ventriloquist routine ... ” “… I can’t wait to do my celebrity impersonations ..."
By Thursday, Razzel would grunt at anyone who mentioned the talent show. “The next person to sing at me better have good medical insurance.”
It was the final period of the day on Thursday: English. Although Willow loved to read and write, she was always on edge in Miss Protts’ English class, but who wasn’t?
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Consetta Protts was a crotchety old woman who had been teaching for over 50 years. She was one of those teachers who hated the way the school was being run, hated dealing with students and could barely tolerate the staff. Since announcing in the beginning of the school year that this would be her final year teaching, she was exceptionally callous toward any student that dared cross her.
Most students knew better than to provoke her. Even Razzel would not dare respond to Miss Protts with her usual tone of sarcasm; she knew the consequences would be dire.
Miss Protts was never married and none of the students needed to waste any time wondering why.
“The bell rang six seconds ago, Spritzman! Why do I still hear your yap going? Take your seat, Phillips or I’ll make you stand the entire period! Spit out that gum, Rogers, or you’ll be wearing it on your nose for the remainder of the school year!”
Snella rolled her eyes, pulled out her cell phone and began texting Shayla who was sitting in the seat directly in front of her. Miss Protts immediately snatched the phone out of Snella’s hand.
“Hey, that was a gift from my father!” barked Snella, “I’d better get it back!”
Miss Protts glared at Snella for moment.
“No worries, Princess,” she said, walking around to the front of her teacher’s desk. She opened up the top drawer, pulled out a large, rusty metal stapler, placed the cell phone on her desk and proceeded to smash it four times. She pushed the remains of the former phone into her drawer, returned the stapler to its place and slammed her desk drawer shut. She looked up at Snella, who appeared horrorstricken. “You can just pick it up right after class, Your Highness.”
Shayla’s jaw dropped at her friend’s predicament while the remainder of the class fell silent. Willow gave Razzel a cautious look. Razzel returned a satisfied grin.
“Anyone else have any toys I can play with? No? Fine! Maybe we can actually learn something today!”
Miss Protts proceeded to pull out a stack of papers from her bottom desk drawer.
“Last week, while studying 17th Century poetry, I gave you all an assignment to write your own poem based on anything that was important to you in your lives - anything at all. I felt this was a simple assignment and expected to read a broad scope of poetry.
“Some of you decided to write about your pets … ” Miss Protts continued, handing papers back to their previous owners, “ … so it should come as no surprise to those people that I gave them an F! YOU MISSED THE WHOLE POINT, JORKINS!” she snapped at a student, startling him into almost falling out of his seat. “Life isn’t about how happy you feel when your constipated turtle craps in his tank!” A few students stifled a laugh.
“There were a few of you, and I mean a few, that actually understood that life is about more than just material, tangible things.” She proceeded to hand Willow back her paper, giving her an unreadable expression, as only Miss Protts could.
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Willow swallowed hard before looking down at her paper. She loved to write, but Miss Protts was tough to please. At the beginning of the semester, Miss Protts announced that she never gave anyone an A. “An A implies that you are perfect and nobody is perfect; there is always room for improvement.”
When Willow finally looked down at her paper, she was bewildered. There was no grade – just a note in red ink that read, “See me after class.” Willow became unnerved. What could it mean?
For the remainder of the period, Miss Protts gave an overview of the next book they would need to read and explained the new assignment.
“Re-write the ending in three pages or more. Change it to whatever you think will fit according to the way you feel about the characters. JORKINS!” The student jumped up once again. “Let’s leave your turtle out of it this time.”
As soon as the bell rang, Willow turned around to look at Razzel.
“I need to stay. She wants to see me about my poem.”
Razzel just shrugged her shoulders and flipped her poem around so Willow could see the big red B- on it.
“Not bad, Raz,” said Willow.”
“For this class,” replied Razzel, “it’s pretty damn good. I’ll take it. Thanks for all your help, Will. What did you get?”
“I don’t know yet. That’s what she wants to see me about.” Willow held up her paper for Razzel to see.
“KRIMBLE!” Both Willow and Razzel flinched at the bellow coming from the front of the classroom. “What’s taking so long? Front and center!” Miss Protts shouted while packing up her bag for the day.
Willow and Razzel quickly gathered their belongings and hurried to the front of the class as the remainder of the students filed out; Snella and Shayla still looking scandalized over the cell phone incident.
“Need something, Fiora?” Miss Protts barked at Razzel. Razzel shook her head. “Then why am I still looking at you?”
Razzel gave Willow an I’ll meet you outside look and quickly exited the classroom. No one was left but Willow and Miss Protts.
“Hell of a poem, Krimble; not bad at all. A bit sappy for my taste, but I see potential in you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed Fiora’s writing improving. No doubt you’ve been helping her along.”
“I - ”
“Oh, it’s fine, Krimble. I don’t have a problem with students working together as long as you’re not writing it for her.”
“I - ”
“Listen up, Krimble, because they don’t pay me extra for repeating myself. There’s the school assembly tomorrow at two o’clock so Principal Sabina can welcome new students and brag about what a great job she thinks she’s doing with this school.” Miss Protts rolled her eyes. “She’s under the delusion that the heads of each department want to share their curriculum for the year and what’s more, she actually thinks the students will give a rat’s rump.”
Willow stood silently with her mouth half open. What did any of this have to do with her poem?
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“So, I had a thought,” Miss Protts continued, “rather than having my blood pressure go through the roof at the sight of hundreds of blank stares gazing up at me, I can introduce you and you can share your poem with the rest of the school. Who knows, since it will be a student speaking, maybe they’ll actually pay attention; maybe they’ll actually learn something. What do you say, Krimble?”
“I - ”
“Great! I thought you might like the idea. You might want to work on that stutter though.”
Miss Protts picked up her bag and headed toward the door, leaving Willow petrified at the thought of having to speak in front of the entire school.
“Oh, and Krimble ... ” Miss Protts peaked her head back into the classroom, “ … you got an A-.”
Willow smiled.
“Are you crazy!” shouted Razzel from the other end of the phone. “I already told you this afternoon, you have to read that poem in front of everyone. You’ve been writing for years, Will. This is a great opportunity for you.”
“What if people laugh at me?” said Willow, lying on her bed, gazing up at the paint-chipped ceiling.
“Boo freakin’ hoo. ‘What if people laugh at me?’” Razzel impersonated Willow in a childish tone. “You’ve got talent, Will. Show it off. Remember when I went for my brown belt in Jiu Jitsu and I was really nervous before my test? You told me I shouldn’t worry because I was just going to express my talent in something that I loved to do. I guess you just don’t practice what you preach.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll read the stupid poem.”
“Good! What’s it about anyway?”
“Nuh-uh. If you want me to read it out loud, you’ll just have to wait until everyone else hears it.”
“What-evs. I gotta go anyway. Dinnertime. Dad made fried calamari. I can’t wait.”
“Yuck! Deep-fried squid.” Willow contorted her face as if she had just tasted something awful.
“You need some culture, girl. See you tomorrow. And stop worrying. You’ll do great.”
The following day, Willow was a bundle of nerves. She could barely concentrate in any of her classes and she skipped lunch entirely. She spent the period in the library reviewing her poem over and over again, changing her mind every minute on which words to emphasize at what point.
Before Willow knew it, it was 2pm and the entire school was gathered in the auditorium. She had to sit in the front row with a group of faculty members, some of which she recognized. She sat between Miss Protts and Mr. Zingrout, her math teacher. Once everyone was seated, Principal Sabina took the podium.
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“Good afternoon,” she said in a sicky-sweet tone. Principal Gretchen Sabina always claimed she wanted to be friends with every student, but if you ever caused any trouble in her school; if you ever broke one of her many precious decrees, she would turn into a rabid dog. Her philosophy was: “As long as you follow the rules, we should not have any problems.”
“Welcome Ginkelman faculty and students. Classes have been in session for several weeks now and I felt that it would be prudent at this time to not only greet the new students, but welcome back returning faces.” A group of 8th graders sitting behind Willow huffed.
This year promises to be ... ”
Willow could barely pay attention; she was uneasy about reading on stage in front of hundreds of students. It’ll all be over soon, she told herself. Her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Protts turning toward her for some last minute instruction.
Now remember, Krimble, once I’m called up, you follow me, but wait behind the drawn curtain over there. This way, you can at least have an entrance rather than come off as a stalker, tailing me.”
“… and I am certain that you do not all wish to hear my soothing tones for the entire hour,” Principal Sabina joked. “At this time, I’d like to introduce our yearbook committee who wishes to address the 8th grade class on how they can participate in putting together the best yearbook Ginkelman Middle School has ever seen. Please welcome some of the members of the yearbook committee, led by Miss Shayla Stergus.”
Shayla walked out onto the stage wearing a huge, phony smile that Willow read as: I really don’t want to be here, but it looks good on my school transcripts. She was tailed by Snella and two other girls, who Willow recognized as Candace Strenner and Fusia Plister. Candace and Fusia were always tailing Shayla and Snella. They were almost as popular and every bit as wicked. Willow could not believe it; she was on edge enough, without having to follow this line-up of beauty queens.
After listening to Shayla speak in the most spurious tone Willow had ever heard, she turned around to spot Razzel three rows behind her, sitting between Taren and Brent, looking completely exasperated by Shayla’s speech. She could see Razzel sticking her finger down her throat, pretending to make herself gag. This made Willow feel better.
“ … so please, we want everyone to join in and take part in this time-honored tradition,” said Shayla, never losing her phony grin. “And remember, without school-spirit, a school is just another big building,” she concluded to a large round of applause from most of the assembly. Razzel expressed her school-spirit by sitting with her arms crossed, shaking her head in disbelief.
Principal Sabina took the podium once again.
“Thank you, Shayla. Now, I would like to call upon one of our most celebrated faculty members, and the head of our English Department here at Ginkelman, Miss Consetta Protts.”
As Miss Protts stood up to walk toward the stage steps, Willow followed a few steps behind her. Clutching her paper, Willow heard Miss Protts mumble, “'Celebrated? That’s just a fancy way of saying old.”
As Miss Protts took her time walking up the four steps leading to the stage, Willow’s heart jack-hammered.
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Once on stage, she tucked herself behind the curtain, only to realize she wasn’t alone. Shayla and her cronies had decided to lag behind, rather than take their seats in the auditorium with the “ordinary” students. Snella was the first to notice the newcomer.
“Well, hello, Shakespeare,” she said. “Look, Shayla, a celebrity sighting. Why, it’s the star of our English class.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Candace added as the other girls laughed.
Willow found these comments easy to ignore. Being insulted by this lot was nothing new to her and she had to focus on the task at hand. There were hundreds of students to address; the four behind the curtain with her were irrelevant. She could hear Miss Protts begin her announcement.
“Last week, I assigned my 8th grade classes to ... ”
Continuing to ignore the whispers and snickers behind her, Willow hung on Miss Protts’ every word.
“… so pay attention. This is what you are capable of when you apply yourselves. Miss Willow Krimble will now read her assignment, which earned her the highest grade I have given out in seven years.”
Willow felt her insides tense up as the applause rang in her ears. She had to leave the comfort of the concealing curtain. Clasping her poem tightly in both hands, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She took one step forward and then …
CRASH!
The auditorium roared with laughter. Willow tried to stand but realized that her prosthetic leg had come loose under her jeans and her right ankle was throbbing from the fall. As the audience noticed her fumble with her prosthetic limb, the laughter began to die down. She began to crawl back toward the curtain and heard howling laughter coming from the four girls behind it.
“Nice one, Snella,” said Shayla.
“Hey, not my fault she tripped over my foot,” replied Snella. “She should have been paying attention.”
As Willow reached the curtain, she pulled herself up and was finally able to adjust her limb into its proper place. Just as she was going to storm off stage, a fifth face appeared from the far side of the curtain.
“Will, you alright?” asked a highly concerned Razzel.
“I’ll be fine,” replied Willow, trying to fight back tears, listening to the faint murmurings of the crowd.
“What happened?” asked Razzel, taking notice of her present company.
“Your friend here’s a bit clumsy,” chimed Snella. “But I do have long legs,” she added rubbing her outer thigh. “I guess they tend to get in the way sometimes, although I’m not sure how you can miss them since they are so ... (Snella rubbed her calves with both hands) ... perfectly formed.”
The laughter from Shayla, Candace and Fusia was all Razzel could stand. She pounced onto Snella with the ferocity of a starving cougar hunting its prey. Razzel was a skilled martial artist, but when the rage took over, she just started swinging and hitting whatever wasn’t protected. It took Snella’s entire peanut gallery and Willow to pry her off just in time for Miss Protts to appear behind the stage curtain.
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“What in the name of fermented prune juice is going on back here?” she said, taking notice of Snella’s bloody nose and disheveled hair.
“She tripped Willow on purpose!” Razzel spat, panting heavily, pointing to Snella.
“Did she, now?” said Miss Protts, surveying Snella.
“Actually,” Shayla interjected before Snella could respond, “I didn’t see her do it, and I’m sure Candace and Fusia didn’t see anything either, and we were back here the entire time.” Candace and Fusia nodded in agreement, smiling sadistically. “So, Miss Protts,” Shayla pressed on, “if you didn’t see it, there’s really nothing you can do about it … is there? As far as you know, Willow here just ... tripped.” Shayla shrugged her shoulders, sneering at Willow.
Willow was humiliated, Razzel was seething and Miss Protts was frustrated.
“I don’t have time for this twaddle,” barked Miss Protts. “Burenbine, get to the nurse’s office and take care of that nose. The custodian has enough to do around here without having to mop up your blood.”
Snella took out a tissue from her purse and began cleaning herself up.
“You’ll pay for this!” she snarled at Razzel. “I’ll see that you get expelled!”
“Actually,” Miss Protts grunted, “since I didn’t actually see Fiora hit you, there is really nothing I can do about it.” She glared at Shayla. “As far as I know ...” she turned her gaze back to Snella, “… you just tripped.”
Snella turned scarlet and stomped off; Shayla ran to comfort her; Candace and Fusia followed suit.
Willow could hear Principal Sabina instructing everyone in the auditorium to “settle down while we sort through this.”
Miss Protts threw her gaze back at Willow.
“You’re up, Krimble,” she said in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if the last three minutes had never transpired.
“What? I can’t go out there now!”
Razzel grabbed Willow by her shoulders and spun her around.
“Don’t let those creepy cover girls ruin your moment, Will. I believe in you … you can do this!”
Willow looked into Razzel’s eyes, then up at Miss Protts, over her shoulder and into the anticipatory audience. She finally turned back to Razzel.
“I’m sorry, Raz, but you’re wrong … I can’t.”
Willow stormed down the steps and through the emergency exit door in the front of the auditorium. She crumpled up the printout of her poem and tossed it into the first trashcan she passed.
Willow wasn’t one for breaking school rules, but she retrieved her books from her locker and headed to the public bus stop. She stared blankly out the window for the entire ride, worried about what she might endure on Monday morning; how every student in the school would stare at her, whispering behind her back.
When Willow got home, she walked in through the side door and heard voices coming from the kitchen, but had no desire to investigate who they belonged to.
“Willow? Is that you?” Mrs. Krimble’s voice called out.
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“I’m going to my room,” replied Willow, trying to hide the dejection in her tone.
“You’re home early? Come and say ‘hi’ to your grandmother.”
Willow wiped her tears on her sleeve. The last thing she wanted was an audience. Ordinarily, Willow would be thrilled to visit with her grandmother but today … just say “hello” and get out of there.
She walked into the kitchen, trying not to limp from the pain she still felt in her right ankle, to find her mother and grandmother at the table having tea and cake. Wyatt was wolfing down his dessert, leaning over the kitchen counter.
“Hey, Squirt,” said Wyatt, his mouth full of cake. “Black Forest, my favorite.”
“Every cake is your favorite,” added Mrs. Krimble.
Grandma Trisha took one look at Willow and knew something was wrong.
“Are you okay, Willow? Your face is so flush.”
Willow kissed her grandmother on the cheek.
“I’m fine,” she responded, turning around curtly to leave the kitchen.
“Freeze, little miss,” said Mrs. Krimble, stopping Willow in her tracks. “What happened?”
Willow turned around to face her family.
“Nothing, I’m fine. Can I go now?”
“I just want to be sure that - ” but before Mrs. Krimble could finish, Willow had turned away from them and stormed out of the kitchen, grateful that she had not informed her family that she had planned on reading one of her poems to the entire school.
“She’s crazy,” said Wyatt. “Black Forest!”
Grandma Trisha stood up.
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Good luck,” replied Mrs. Krimble. “She’s a sweetheart, but she never opens up to anyone.”
Without another word, Grandma Trisha marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. When she reached Willow’s room, she didn’t bother knocking. She opened the door abruptly to find her granddaughter sobbing into her pillow.
“So, what happened?”
Willow quickly sat up, wiping the tears from her face.
“Nothing,” she said, her words accompanied by a heavy sniff.
Grandma Trisha walked to the edge of the bed, picked up a large stuffed cat, tossed it onto the floor and sat down beside her granddaughter.
“Talk to me. Nothing can be that bad.”
Willow’s low weeping was slowly turning into a steady stream of tears.
“Are you hurt?” asked Grandma Trisha.
“N-no.”
“Has someone died?” Grandma Trisha’s tone was peppered with sarcasm, which Willow did not appreciate at the moment.
“No.”
“Good. We just ruled out the only two things that should make you cry like that. Now, what happened?”
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Accepting the fact that her grandmother was not going to relent until Willow spoke to her …
“Grams, I … I just wanna be ...” Willow looked down at her prosthetic leg “... perfect.”
Grandma Trisha looked at her granddaughter and smiled; then she began to laugh. Willow did not like where this was headed.
“Perfect!” Grandma Trisha repeated. “Perfect? Well, I can’t think of anything more dreary and boring in this entire world than being perfect.” She stopped laughing quite suddenly. With a stern expression, she extended her right hand and made her demand: “Dictionary!”
Willow looked confused.
“All these books in here; your fantasy novels and fairy tales, you are telling me that you do not own one dictionary?”
Willow got up from her bed in a huff, opened up the top, side drawer of her desk, and pulled out a thick red book. With great apprehension, she handed it to her grandmother.
Grandma Trisha flipped through the book until she got to the P’s.
“Let’s see here, ah yes … Perfect … I’ll spare you the long detailed definition of this wretched word, but here are some synonyms and adjectives used to describe it: Accurate ... Precise ... Exact ... Correct ... Oh this is a good one - Conforming to the ideal type. Hmm ... I wonder who decides the ideal type,” she said rubbing her chin.
Willow was waiting for her grandmother to make her point so that she could continue feeling sorry for herself.
Grandma Trisha closed the book and placed it on her lap.
“Is that what my granddaughter wants to be? Accurate and precise?”
Willow responded by staring blankly at her artificial limb, unconsciously running her fingers over it.
“Willow, did I ever tell you how I fell in love with your grandfather?”
Willow turned her attention back to her grandmother.
“No,” she replied, her tone only slightly louder than a whisper.
“We met in high school. I was dating Chet Barker at the time. He was what you girls today would call ‘a hottie’. Blonde hair, blue eyes, on the football team, although don’t ask me what position he played because even back then I could care less about such a barbaric, dull-as-dishwater sport. Anyway, he was the perfect male specimen. My friends (she made quote marks with her fingers) were all envious and even my father approved, and he didn’t even like me very much. But that is another story for another day.
“I knew your grandfather from some of my classes and I always thought he was very handsome, but he was part of a different crowd. I spent my time with cheerleaders, jocks. We only associated with the elite. Your grandfather was an artist who didn’t (she made quote marks with her fingers again) ‘conform to the ideal type’. His clothes were all second-hand; he worked for his father at the gas station; he didn’t have a huge trust fund waiting for him … you get the picture.”
Willow dried her eyes and was now listening intently.
“So how did you guys get together?”
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“Patience, young one; we are getting to that. There was a school dance Junior year and any gala at the school meant all of the girls had to look their best to try and out-do one another. I looked stunning that evening. A cream-colored dress that fell just to the knee – I had amazing legs back then – and my hair was done up in a bun. I could have walked the red carpet on Oscar night and turned a few heads.” Grandma Trisha looked up towards the ceiling for a moment as if recalling a distant, memory. She then shook her head as if to shake off the mental cobwebs, often left behind by daydreams. She resumed eye contact with her audience.
“Late that evening, while Chet was off getting us drinks, his best friend, Dale Stitzel, hit on me; I’ll spare you the raunchy details. I felt I should tell Chet straight away and so I did, right in front of Dale and a group of our friends. Of course, Dale denied it; said he was just trying to compliment the way that I looked that evening.”
“Creep!”
“That’s what I said, but Chet took Dale for his word and we got into a huge shouting match. We began to draw quite a crowd, me calling Chet and Dale several words that you wouldn’t find in this dictionary.”
Willow cracked a brief smile.
“Of course that was nothing compared to what Chet and Dale began calling me in front of, what seemed to be at the time, the entire school. Everyone, including my so-called girlfriends, began laughing at me. They wouldn’t dare go against the two most popular boys in Dramden High. That’s when your grandfather, who was only there to help work the sound equipment for some extra pocket money, stepped in and told the two biggest stars of the football team that ‘they’d better apologize to the lady, or else.’ They both laughed right in his face and a split second later, your grandfather punched Dale square in the nose. Blood spattered all over Suzy Chessel’s gown – I hated her. But the events that followed made me realize your grandfather was the man for me.”
“He beat them both up in front of everyone?” asked Willow.
“Oh, no; not at all. He got his clock polished. You see, once he hit Dale, the entire football team jumped in and … well, thank goodness the chaperones were there to break it up or there may not have been anything left of him for me to eventually marry.”
Willow’s brief feeling of excitement was suddenly extinguished. Grandma Trisha pressed on.
“The next morning was Saturday and I took the bus over to his father’s gas station. He was pretty banged up and his left eye was swollen shut. I thanked him for defending me and asked him what he was thinking going up against those goons; he had to know it wouldn’t be a fair fight.”
Willow could see that her grandmother’s eyes were beginning to look a bit moist. This rarely happened.
“He told me that all he wanted to do was direct the attention away from me so that people would stop laughing at me. He said he knew that by hitting Dale, he would get pounced on and then no one would be poking fun at …” Grandma Trisha swallowed hard “… ‘the prettiest girl in all of Bingrum County.’ So, I had no
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choice, but to kiss him, and by Monday everyone at school knew we were a couple.”
Willow sat up a little straighter.
“We were mocked in every hallway and classroom by anyone who wanted to remain on Chet’s good side. I stopped caring about what people, who meant nothing to me, thought. I made some new friends, some real friends. I got to know the most interesting people who I never would have met had I remained a card-carrying member of the circle of superiors. That was the first time since I had started high school that I was truly happy. Your grandfather didn’t have much and he wasn’t very popular, but he made me feel like a queen.”
Willow’s disheartened expression broke into a grin.
“Well, you know the rest of the story, don’t you? After graduation we were married, struggled financially for a bit, and then, because your grandfather refused to accept what everyone thought was in the cards for him - running that decrepit gas station for his father - we moved out east and came to New York where he became one of the greatest architects in the country.
“He never cared about the money either; he did it because he loved it and he was great at it. He had fun with every new thing he tried and he tried everything that interested him because he never cared about being … Perfect. He wanted life to be great.”
Willow looked pensive at the last thing her grandmother had said, almost confused.
“Perfect has boundaries, Willow. Perfect ends at a certain point because it is so precise and exact that it cannot go beyond its own limitations. It’s technically correct and it’s safe, but if you stop worrying about what’s perfect, then great things can happen because you are bound and shackled by nothing.”
Willow peered into her grandmother’s gaze.
“So I ask you now, Willow ... do you really wanna be perfect?” Grandma Trisha leaned across the bed until she was practically touching noses with her granddaughter. “Or do you wanna be great?”
Willow smiled.
“Smart girl.”
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