The only way you would stay within the confines of this juvenile prison any longer is if Ms. J. suddenly showed up and forced you to motorboat her firm, supple breasts. But this is real life, so something like that would never happen.
Knowing this, you quickly make your way toward the nearest exit on your right. At the end of the dim, dreary hallway are two glass doors through which the glorious light of the outside world shines. The trees, though technically still part of school grounds, blow gently with the warm late-summer breeze. Squirrels frolic in the joy of their freedom, and the morning sun smiles at you. Its rays burst out beyond the houses of the neighborhood as if reaching out to welcome a long-lost son. You run towards the light. I'm coming!
But all of a sudden a shoe slams down in front of you. You look up from the black high-heeled shoe, gazing up the slender golden-tanned leg, and pretend not to take in the up-skirt view of the woman towering over you with her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.
Staring down at you, she blows a stray lock of hair from her face and shakes her head at you, as if you were the one who decided not to wear underwear with a mini-skirt and stand over a shrunken guy.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," you answer, wondering if your eyes are crossed as you try to look at both her eyes and at the view.
"What?" she asks, cupping her ear and bending down closer to you.
"Nothing!" you repeat louder.
"Well, that certainly appears to be the case!" she snorts. "Why are you not in class?"
"I'm not a student here."
"What?"
"I'm not a student here!"
She frowns again and stares at you.
"So you're a trespasser?" she asks. "What's your business here? Have you come to spy on teenage girls, you pervert?"
"What? No!" you answer. "Is...is not fazing you at all that I'm shrunk?"
"It is very fazing to me that you're shrunk," she replies. "It seems almost as if you've purposely come here fazed like that to do...fazing things."
"...What?"
"Come along now," she says, bending down beside you. "Westwood High does not allow perverts to roam its halls."
She reaches toward you and you watch her hand open before you, her long, manicured nails and slender fingers giving way to her thin, white palm.
"Wait! You can't just--" you start to say, only to be ignored and pushed into the woman's hand. She stands back up and walks away with you, holding you very awkwardly against the cold palm of her hand.
A moment later, she drops you onto the top of a dark, wooden desk, from which you can see your least favorite principal of Westwood High, Mr. Hackett.
"I found this suspicious pervert in the hallway," the woman says.
"Ah, I remember you," Mr. Hackett says to you, leaning back in his chair. "You graduated from here the spring before last. Mediocre grades, strong case of senioritis, fantastically unspectacular in sports. Yes--your sister is Jenna, and your brother is Bronson. I remember you."
He turns in his chair, stroking his mustache.
"Yes," he repeats. "You..."
He stares at the wall, and both you and the woman wait for him to continue. He doesn't.
"Mr. Hackett?" she asks.
He stirs suddenly, startled from his deep thought.
"Hrm?" he says, looking around with wide eyes. "What now?"
"What should I do with this pervert here?" she asks.
You glare at her.
"Ah, I was just trying to remember the name of this pervert here," Mr. Hackett says. "His time here at Westwood High wasn't very memorable."
"I'm not a pervert!" you say.
"What?" Mr. Hackett and the woman ask in unison.
"Oh for fuck's sake!" you mutter under your breath.
"Sir, we do not tolerate foul language here at Westwood High," Mr. Hackett announces, standing suddenly upright from his chair. "Ms. Carroll, please put this pervert here in detention!"
"I'm not even--" you start to argue, stumbling over your words.
"Make sure he is thoroughly disciplined, Ms. Carroll," Mr. Hackett says.
"Of course," she answers, picking you back up.
"And, Ms. Carroll?" Mr. Hackett says as she starts to leave.
"Yes, Mr. Hackett?"
"I love your outfit today," he tells her, stroking his mustache approvingly.
"Really!" she says, blushing. "So kind of you to notice!"
"Hrm," Mr. Hackett says. "Now, please escort that...disgusting pervert to detention."
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