first person

When I signed up to study ecology, I had visions of visiting exotic biomes. I daydreamed of swimming through Caribbean reefs and discovering a new species of pufferfish or finding a violet poison dart frog in Amazonia. The reality is that you have to go where the money will take you. So there I was, knee-deep in the effluent from Grimesworth Dye Works in a freezing polluted stream, sifting out the red water mites to take them back to the lab and test them for mutated bacteria. This dominated my life, regardless of the season. I was paying my dues for my PhD.

The girl in the flat opposite drifted onto my balcony. I didn’t see or hear her footfall; hands still clutched about the rail, the gasping sob as she settled, exhaled. So the girl tapped the glass. Twice. And I answered.

“Hello.” She whispered. “Can I come in?”

“I said no.”

“C’mon,” I whined. “We’re both adults. Let’s do the presents now.”

“No!” cried Carol. “I told you, it’s only fun if you follow protocol.”

“There’s Christmas protocol?” I asked in disbelief.

I am a force to be reckoned with at my school. I have confronted six bullies. These bullies have had knives, guns, clubs, and one had an attack hawk (It was “Bring a Pet to Class Day.”) I’ve beaten them all, and I look forward to beating more. My method is simple: I inflate really big and just roll on the jerks. I, Kate the Balloon Girl, am capable of that. I have struck terror into many a bully and made the hallways safer. I have lessened the fear and filled many self-respecting good students with a sense of security long overdue.

I also hate gym class.