Our Dream




The graduates were all out in the center of the gym floor on folding chairs. Someone had smuggled a beach ball in under their gown and it was being tossed back and forth like a volleyball. Just like every year.

I was in the front row of graduates, trying to remember my speech. I have no idea what I was going to give a speech about, but it dominated my thoughts.

So I was caught by surprise when Electra was called up to the stage. I mean Jennifer. I looked up to see her crossing the stage to where the Mayor was handing out the diplomas.

She was on five-foot long chopsticks she was using as stilts. I thought her smile was going to be visible on satellite weather maps.

Then the people around me started to boo. And hiss. And hold up signs saying ‘Just who does she think she is?’ and ‘How dare she pretend she’s a student!’

The protest spread out to the bleachers. Everyone was angry at a sylph getting a diploma.

I didn’t see Chip, but some of the jocks he ran with were chanting that Jennifer should be Naked. ‘Naked sylph! Naked Sylph! Naked Sylph!’

These were the knuckledraggers that bothered Christmas that first day.

I stood up and looked around. Where was Chris? Where was Chip? They’d both be swinging chairs at heads by this point.

I went up on stage and took the diploma from the Mayor (who’d turned into Mayor McCheese at some point).

I walked over to where a frightened sylph stood, shaking in her stilts.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I asked, waving at the crowd. “This is not going to happen!”

“They’ll think I’m an uppity sylph, demanding to be treated like a real person!” she cried.

“Yeah, some people, sure,” I said. “NO ONE who knows you, though, and no one who loves you. Speaking of which…”

I looked to the corners of the gym and snapped my fingers. The boys locker room door opened and Chip ran out in his football uniform. He started punching the protesters. He paused to give a thumbs-up to the stage and went on knocking heads.

Chrissy came out of the girls locker room holding a debate stick in a two-handed grip like a samurai sword. She swung, knocking Chip’s friends into the bleachers.

“See?” I said. “This is not a rational objection. So stop thinking about it.”

Electra screamed, a wail of terror and embarrassment and dismay. The crowd screamed back. I screamed at the crowd.

I woke up and realized I still heard Electra. I turned on the light. She came out of her bedroom, crying.

I got up, put on some pants, and found my school backpack. She was still crying, but watched me, puzzled, as I got a notebook and a pen.

I sat down on the bed and picked her up, putting her on my shoulder. I found a clean sheet of paper.

“Dear Miss Amelia,” I said as I wrote.

“What, what are you, do, do, doing?” she stammered.

“You said earlier that I wouldn’t understand. You’re probably right. I’m not a sylph.

“I figure you can write a letter to Miss Amelia. Explain what you’re afraid of. How you think people will think you’re bring un-sylph-like because several people love you enough to work on your behalf, even though you’re a pet.”

She grabbed a lock of my hair to lean over and read as I wrote. ‘My sylph has an opportunity to earn her high school diploma, even though she sylphed before completing her senior year.’

“And,” I went on, “you can explain to her how this is even more scary than the day you looked up from your underwear to see a giant class clown reaching down for you.

“And how it’s more embarrassing than waking up to find your name was Electra.

“And you can ask her if it’s worth the suffering to be treated like a real human being for long enough to get a diploma. Under your real name. The one that was stolen from you by whatever makes sylphs.

“And whatever her answer is, we’ll use that to tell Chip and Chrissy and Mr. Peacock and Mrs. Burton and Mr. Bower.”

I finished writing down the teachers’ requirements. I felt her shivering on my shoulder. “I’ll let you phrase the next part. Be sure to use the word ‘uppity,’ because as an African American, Amelia will instantly understand your reservations.”

I sat with pen poised over the paper. She shook next to my ear, not saying anything.

“Or, you could invite Amelia to your graduation. Either one.”

We sat in stone silence for a minute or two. I couldn’t see the clock. I just waited, pen poised for her first words.

She was still, no shivering at all. Finally, she rose from her knees to stand beneath my ear, holding the lobe with both hands.

I felt her lips brush my skin there, heard the smack of a kiss. “Promise me, Conrad, you’ll only use your powers for good.”

“But all the best comics are going to be in Hell,” I said. I was writing. Our expected date of graduation was 18 May, barring more than ten snow days, and the school was about a mile north of the studio she’d been interviewed in.

We hadn’t yet asked about tickets, but I was sure we could wrangle a couple for very, very important guests.



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Index

33. Is It Rational?

35. The Project