earthmann

Jamie Schmidt turned to me, holding the yellow crayon in her hand, “Here, shove it up your butt.” Never in my life had such a proposition been presented me, not even had such an idea ever occurred to me. Stick the crayon into my butt? It was not until the end of the day while I waited in line with the other bus riders that the seriousness of it all sunk in.
Indignant, I dropped my backpack, marking my place in the single-file line.
“Ms. Criswell”, I said, my head craned back to meet her shoe leather P.E. teacher face, “Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“She did? Jamie’s not even here, Johnny”
Indeed, she had left with the other Kool kid bike riders/ walkers.
“She told me in music class.”
“That was four hours ago.”
The girl I love told me to stick a thick, from-the-eight-pack crayon in my butt and all I get is a lecture on timely tattling?
Ms. Criswell promised to talk to her about it, but I never really believed she would or did. I suspected Ms. Criswell party to the deep conspiracy against my well-being ever since she made my permanent square dance partner Michelle Kraft, who furiously picked her nose when she thought nobody was looking.
As I resumed my place in line for the long bus ride home, I resolved to not get bothered by all of this. I could turn the other cheek. After all, I was an anointed man of God, and had been for nearly a month.