Phil stood shakily on Valerie's palm, his new turquoise high-tops balancing precariously in the valley between her life and heart line. Three black shiny rectangles suddenly loomed toward him, getting bigger and bigger every millisecond. Valerie's black polished fingertips gently grasped his neck and began to stroke his teeny blond tuft tenderly, which prompted Phil to duck and cover his head with panicky crossed arms.
Valerie leaned her head in toward Phil and whispered in his ear.
"Don't be afraid, Phil. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you. As a matter of fact, I'll protect you. If anyone knows how bitchy these girls really are, it's me. Trust me, I know how to handle them. Even Dawn and her evil minions."
A powerful strawberry gum breeze nearly knocked Phil over, but he was determined to remain standing. A Monster.com article he had read advised that in an office setting, standing made the seated person feel more vulnerable, giving the standing person the advantage of portraying authority. So maybe it would work here.
The article also suggested speaking in a moderately loud voice and conveying your intentions early in the conversation. So Phil piped up as loud as he could "Hey, Poser Goth Chick, let's get something straight right now. I don't need any protection, either by a girl or from a girl. I can take care of myself."
Valerie sneezed and automatically drew her right hand up to cover her mouth. This caused Phil to slip into the valley created by the her two deepest palm lines, and slide like an Olympic luge sledder past the end of her life line and right off the edge of her hand onto the floor.
Phil let out an involuntary yelp that was barely audible to most of the class above the teacher's droning lecture on the nucleus. But Dawn heard it, and from her seat across the aisle, she turned and saw Phil land on the dusty speckled linoleum. Like a hawk gliding in to snatch a mouse, she slid her foot across the aisle, used some kind of girl's soccer move to trap him and then kicked him under her chair.
Phil was disoriented after the long fall, squirming on his back catching his reflection in the silver chair leg. While attempting to stand up, he noticed that his roots were already showing and made a mental note to pick up a new bottle of L'Oreal Pure Platinum so he could do a touch up later after he finished his homework.
Suddenly, a big pink fist grabbed him and he was thrust into darkness. A second later, he was released from the soft, sticky fist and dropped onto a heart scrawled in glittery purple with some writing under it. He was trying to read what it said but it was upside down. Or did he have a concussion, he wondered? Then came a thunderous crash and total darkness again.
This must be what it feels like to be locked in a trunk, he mused. Then he cursed himself for his constant daydreaming about stupid things. There was no time to waste and going ADD right now could mean the difference between life and death. He had seen this happen to a guy on The Sopranos. He had to get out of here fast, or he could run out of oxygen.
Phil could discern that he was lying on a spiral notebook by a sliver of light coming from where the desk met the desktop. The depressing fact was, there was no way even a hundred of him could open the desk up from in here, even with little state-of-the-art tools.
He would just have to wait to be rescued when someone, either the teacher or that phony Goth girl, came to look for him. But would they ever find him? The second girl's hand had treated him in a very rough, efficient manner which did not appeal to him at all. Hers was a hand that snatched up whatever it wanted and glowed with competitive superiority when it held its prey. A hand like that has no regard for anyone else. He could tell more about a person by their hands than most people.
He had to get out of here. As much as he had initially disliked the girl with the black fingernails, he would have eaten tofu to be camped out in her palm right now. Outside the desk, he could hear the muted sound of metal chairs scraping the floor and raised voices but he could not make out any actual words. He perched on the the metal spiral of the notebook as close to the light sliver as possible, straining to hear what was going on out there from his ass-pinching makeshift sofa. One of the coils was giving him the wedgie of a lifetime but he refused to move so he wouldn't miss anything.
He knew from experience that pounding on anything with his fists would yield nothing because the sound his arms made when flailing was so faint that no one would hear it. But he banged on the roof of the desk anyway, yelling at the same time. He often did pointless things, like praying to be a normal height, but this was the first time his life was at stake and there wasn't anything else he could think of to save himself.
Phil did not have a girlfriend, a cell phone or a two-digit inseam, but he had faith. When you're three inches tall, having faith is a necessity.
Somehow, he knew, he would come of of this ok. Maybe even better off.
And there was the bell!
THAT he could hear through the desk. He could hear rumbling and fumbling and chairs scraping the floor. The girls would be collecting their books and going to their next class. He started singing his favorite song to calm his nerves as he waited to be rescued.
""Jesus walks. Jesus walks with me with me with me. Jesus walks..."
But his rescue seemed to have been delayed. Just as Phil was deciding what to do next, the top of the desk flipped open, the big pink hand grabbed him and stuffed him into a Blackwatch plaid pocket and held him tightly there in the stifled, wool-scented dark.
"I told you, I did NOT see him. There. See? Nothing in there. Now can I go to science lab?
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