605: Kid Logic

Rebecca

And she pulled me aside and said, you know, last night I lost a tooth and I woke up while the tooth fairy was putting the money under my pillow. And guess who the tooth fairy was? I said, oh, my god, who was it? I have to know. And she said, my dad. My dad is the tooth fairy.

And I remember running home after school and telling my mom, Mom, I know who the tooth fairy is and declaring it as if I had grown up, that I knew who the tooth fairy was. And she said, oh, well, who is the tooth fairy? And I turned to her and I said, Rachel's dad is the tooth fairy. Ronnie Loberfeld is the tooth fairy. And she said, I can't believe you know. It's totally secret. You can't let anyone else know. But you're right, Ronnie is the tooth fairy. And he works really hard and it's a secret so you can't let anyone else know. He is the tooth fairy, but you can't let anyone else know. And from that day on, Ronnie Loberfeld was the tooth fairy. And all of my notes under my pillow were signed, Love, Ronnie Loberfeld.

Rebecca

I think he did something in finance. He was either an accountant or a stockbroker. He worked next to a Stop and Shop in Massachusetts, in Newton. Had dark hair. Wore a suit. And I definitely had images of his driving his Volvo around the Boston area and delivering the tooth fairy treats.

I remember wondering what it was like for Rachel to know that her dad was the tooth fairy and definitely being a little envious that her dad had this special job and this special power and that he had this whole other interesting life, where my dad just came home from work and that was it.

Rebecca

I tried to act cool. You know, it's like if you're starstruck but you don't want them to know that you're starstruck.

Rebecca

Exactly. You downplay it. You try not to mention it, but you definitely check them out twice and look at them when they walk away. Like, oh, my god, you're the tooth fairy.

Rebecca

I knew enough to play it cool. I said, hey, how you doing? What's for dinner? How am I getting home tonight? Are my parents going to pick me up? Have they called?

Alison Gopnik

Children understand that their parents, for instance, are powerful in all sorts of ways that make them very different from children. Now from a child's point of view, knowing where those powers begin and end is pretty tricky. I mean, think about all the things that your parents can do that you can't do. And think about the fact that there isn't any obvious explanation about why your father can use a Visa card, for instance, which is something that you can't do. The power to be a tooth fairy isn't all that much more impressive.

Eileen Goldman

And she was about four years old and her very first flight. And as the plane was airborne, she turned to the woman next to her and said, when do we get smaller? That had been her experience at airports watching airplanes take off. They do get smaller.

Alison Gopnik

Because it turns out that babies are very interested in gravity and how gravity works. The fact that things fall down and not up is not obvious to babies. And it turns out another thing they're very interested in is human beings and how they work. We are actually the lab rats. They're actually doing experiments on us to see how we tick.

So when you play drop the spoon, you get two for the price of one. You get an experiment about gravity. You get a little physics tutorial. And you get a psychology tutorial. You can see about how that person will do something over and over again.

Alison Gopnik

There's a wonderful experiment about this, actually, that Paul Harris in England did, where he got children to imagine that something was in a box. So he would say, OK, now here's this box. We're going to open it up. We're going to close it. Now let's imagine that there's a puppy in this box, or else let's imagine that there's a monster in the box. And he asked the children, is there really a monster in the box? Is there really a puppy in the box? They said no. They were just imagining it.

Alison Gopnik

So they weren't going to take any chances, just in case wishing actually could make monsters happen. They didn't want to take any chances about what was going on in that box. But by the time the children are six or seven, like grownups, they've understood that just wishing for things isn't going to actually make them happen.

Girl

Maybe she gives it to the people without teeth.

Girl

Old people.

Boy

I really think she just likes to collect teeth and make things out of them.

Boy

Lots of stuff. Makes a tooth house, tooth trophy, and a tooth desk.

Boy

100. 100.

Girl

Because I don't-- because no one doesn't have brick teeth.

Gianofer Fields

We lived in a duplex. The duplexes directly to the left and the right of us were aunts and uncles. Across the street from us, all aunts and uncles. So there was no such thing as walking out and seeing a stranger. I just thought we all looked alike. We all had common ancestries.

Well, when I became mobile, when I got my first tricycle, I could go a little bit further. So I ventured down the street. And I looked and I saw this couple sitting there, these two people. But they were people that I had never seen before. I had never seen anything like that because they were white people. And because I had never seen white people, I assumed that they were ghosts.

So I waved, like, I wonder if I wave, what kind of people are they? What do they do? Do they talk? So I waved, and I remember hearing the man going [COUGHING] And I thought, wow, that must be the way they talk.

It was like a scientific discovery. I discovered the first ghost people, and they talked to me. I communicated. I waved. They waved. I said hello, and they said hello in their language. [COUGHING]

Jack Hitt

Well, it all began at Christmas two years ago, when my daughter was four years old. And it was the first time that she had ever asked about what did this holiday mean. And so I explained to her that this was celebrating the birth of Jesus. And she wanted to know more about that. And we went out and bought a kid's Bible and had these readings at night. She loved them, wanted to know everything about Jesus.

So we read a lot about his birth and about his teaching, and she would ask constantly what that phrase was. And I would explain to her that it was "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." And we would talk about those old words and what that all meant, you know?

And then one day, we were driving past a big church, and out front was an enormous crucifix. She said, "Who is that?" And I guess I'd never really told that part of the story. So I had this sort of "Yeah, oh, well, that's Jesus. And I forgot to tell you the ending. Yeah, well, he ran afoul of the Roman government." This message that he had was so radical and unnerving to the prevailing authorities of the time that they had to kill him. They came to the conclusion that he would have to die. That message was too troublesome.

It was about a month later after that Christmas. We'd gone through the whole story of what Christmas meant, and it was mid-January. And her preschool celebrates the same holidays as the local schools. So Martin Luther King Day was off. So I knocked off work that day, and I decided we'd play and I'd take her out to lunch. And we were sitting in there, and right on the table where we happened to plop down was the art section of the local newspaper. And there, big as life, was a huge drawing by a 10-year-old kid in the local schools of Martin Luther King.

And she said, "Who's that?" And I said, "Well, as it happens, that's Martin Luther King. And he's why you're not in school today. So we're celebrating his birthday. This is the day we celebrate his life." And she said, "So who was he?" And I said, "Well, he was a preacher." And she looks up at me and goes, "For Jesus?" And I said, "Yeah. Yeah, actually, he was. But there was another thing that he was really famous for, which is that he had a message."

And you're trying to say this to a four-year-old. This is the first time they ever hear anything, so you're just very careful about how you phrase everything. So I said, "Well, yeah, he was a preacher and he had a message." She said, "What was his message?" And I said, "Well, he said that you should treat everybody the same no matter what they look like."

And she thought about that for a minute. And she said, "Well, that's what Jesus said." And I said, "Yeah, I guess it is. I never thought of it that way, but yeah." And that is sort of like, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." And she thought for a minute and looked up at me and said, "Did they kill him too?"

Michael Chabon

I had known him as a bulldozer, as a samurai, as an android programmed to kill, as Plastic Man and Titanium Man and Matter Eater Lad, as a Buick Electra, as a peterbilt truck, and even for a week as the Mackinaw Bridge. But it was as a werewolf that Timothy Stokes finally went too far.

I wasn't there when it happened. I was down in the ravine at the edge of the schoolyard, founding a capital for an empire of ants. I had just begun to describe to myself and to the ants the complicated rites sacred to the god whose worship I was imposing on them when I heard the first screams from the playground.

The girls screamed at Timothy the same way every time he came after them, in unison, and with a trill that sounded almost like delight, as if they were watching the family cat trot past with something bloody in its jaws. I scrambled up the side of the ravine and emerged as Timothy, shoulders hunched, arms outstretched, growled realistically and declared that he was hungry for the throats of puny humans.

Timothy said this or something like it every time he turned into a werewolf, and I would not have been too concerned if, in the course of his last transformation he hadn't actually gone and bitten Virginia Bease on the neck. It was common knowledge around school that Virginia's parents had since written a letter to the principal, and that the next time Timothy Stokes hurt somebody he was going to be expelled.

Timothy was, in our teacher Mrs. Gladfelter's words, "one strike away from an out." And there was a widespread, unarticulated hope among his classmates, their parents, and all of the teachers at Copeland Fork Elementary that one day soon, he would provide the authorities with the excuse they needed to pack him off to special school.

I stood there a while above my little city, watching Timothy pursue a snarling, lupine course along the hopscotch crosses. I knew that someone ought to do something to calm him down, but I was the only one in our school who could have any reason to want to save Timothy Stokes from expulsion. And I hated him with all my heart.

"I've been cursed for 300 years," he declaimed. He was wearing a standard uniform of white dungarees and a plain white undershirt, even though it was a chilly afternoon in October and all the rest of us had long since been bundled up for autumn in corduroy and down. "I have been cursed to stalk the night through all eternity," he went on. "I've been searching for prey as lovely as you!"

He lunged toward the nearest wall of the cage of girls around him. The girls peeled away from him, as though sprayed with a hose, bumped shoulders, clung shrieking to each other's sleeves. Some of them were singing the song we sang about Timothy Stokes. "Timothy Stokes, Timothy Stokes, you're going to the home for crazy folks." And the one singing the loudest was Virginia Bease herself, in her furry black coat and her bright red tights.

Virginia had blond hair, and she was the only girl in the fifth grade with pierced ears and painted fingernails. And Timothy Stokes was in love with her. I knew this, because the Stokeses lived next door to us and I was privy to all kinds of secrets about Timothy that had absolutely no desire to know.

I forbade myself, with an almost religious severity, to show Timothy any kindness or regard. I would never let him sit beside me at lunch or in class. And if he tried to talk to me on the playground, I ignored him. It was bad enough that I had to live next door to him.

It was toward Virginia that Timothy now advanced, a rattling growl in his throat. She drew back behind her girlfriends, and their screaming now grew less melodious, less purely formal. Timothy crouched down on all fours. He rolled his wild white eyes and took a last look around him. That was when he saw me, halfway across the yellow distance of the soccer field. He was looking at me, I thought, as though he hoped I might have something I wanted to tell him.

Instantly, I dropped flat on my belly, my heart pounding the way it did when I was spotted trying to spy on a baseball game or a birthday party. I slid down into the ravine backward. At first, I could hear the girls shouting for Mrs. Gladfelter. And then I heard Mrs. Gladfelter herself sounding very angry. And the bell sounded the end of recess and everything got very quiet, but I just stayed there in the ravine.

I told myself that I didn't feel sorry at all for stupid old Timothy Stokes. But then I would remember the confused look in his eyes as I had abandoned him to his fate, to all the unimaginable things that would be done to him in the fabulous corridors of the special school. I kept recalling something that I had heard Timothy's mother say to mine just a couple of days earlier.

"You know," Althea Stokes had told my mother, in that big, sad, donkey voice of hers, "Your little Paul is Timothy's only friend." I decided to spend the afternoon in the ravine. The sun started down behind the embankment, and the moon, rising early, emerged from the rooftops of the houses somebody was putting up in front of the school. The moon, I noticed, was not quite full.

I didn't hear the scrape of footsteps until they were just above my head. "Paul," said Mrs. Gladfelter, leaning over the lip of the ravine, hands against her thighs. "Paul Covell, what on earth are you doing out here?" "Nothing," I said. "I didn't hear the bell." "Paul," she said. "Now, listen to me Paul. I need your help."

"With what?" I didn't think she looked angry, but her face was upside down and it was hard to tell. "With Timothy, Paul. I guess he's just very wound up right now. He's pretending he's a werewolf today, and even though that's fine and we all know how Timothy is sometimes, we have serious things to discuss with him, and we'd like him to stop pretending for just a little while."

"What if he isn't pretending?" I said. "What if he really is a werewolf?" "Maybe he is, Paul, but if you would just come inside and talk to him for a little bit, I think we might be able to persuade him to change back into Timothy. You're his friend, Paul. I asked him if he'd like to talk to you and he said yes." "I'm not his friend, Mrs. Gladfelter. I swear to God, I can't do anything."

"Paul, Timothy is in trouble. He needs your help, and I need your help too. Now, if you come right this minute and get up out of that dirt, then I'll forget that you didn't come in from recess. If you don't come back inside, I'll have to speak to your mother."

She held out her hand. "Now, come on, Paul. Please." So I took her hand and let her pull me out of the ravine and across the deserted playground, aware that in doing so I was merely proving the unspoken corollary that my mother had left hanging the other morning in the air between her and Mrs. Stokes.

There was a song about me too, I'm afraid, a popular little number that went, "What's that smello? Paul Covello. He's a big, fat, hippo jell-o. He's a snoop. He smells like poop. He smells like tomato beef alphabet soup." Timothy Stokes, I knew, as I followed Mrs. Gladfelter down the long, silent hallway to the office, hating him more and more with each step, was my only friend.

Timothy was sitting in a corner of the office, trapped in an orange vinyl arm chair. There was a Roman numeral three scratched into his left cheek, and his brilliant white shirt and trousers were patterned with a camouflage of grass, and dirt, and asphalt.

"Well, now, Timothy," Mrs. Gladfelter took me by the shoulders and maneuvered me around her. "Look who I found." "Hey, Timothy," I said. Timothy didn't look up. Mrs. Gladfelter gave me a gentle push toward him in the small of my back. "Why don't you sit down, Paul?" "No!" I didn't want to be left alone with Timothy. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I was afraid that somebody would come into the office and see us sitting there, two matching rejects in matching orange chairs.

"That's enough now, Paul," said Mr. Buterbaugh, the principal, is friendly smile looking more false than usual. "Sit down."

"It's all right," said Mrs. Gladfelter. "You see what you can do about helping Timothy turn back into Timothy. We're just going to give you a little privacy." She followed Mr. Buterbaugh into his office and then poked her head back around the door. "I'm going to leave this door open in case you need us, all right?"

There were three chairs next to Timothy's. I took the farthest and showed him my back, so that anyone passing by the windows of the office would not be able to conclude that he and I were engaged in any sort of conversation at all. "Are you expelled?" I said. There was no reply. "Are you, Timothy?"

Again, he said nothing. And I couldn't stop myself from turning around to look at him. "Timothy, are you expelled?" "I'm not Timothy, professor," said Timothy, gravely but not without a certain air of satisfaction. "I'm afraid your precious antidote didn't work."

"Come on, Timothy," I said. "Cut it out. The moon's not even full today." Now he turned toward me. "Where were you?" he said. "I was looking for you." "I was in the ditch." "With the ants?" I nodded.

"I heard you talking to them before." "So?" "So are you Ant-Man?" "No, dummy." "Why not?" "Because I'm not anybody. You're not anybody either." We fell silent for a while and just sat there, not looking at each other, kicking at the legs of our chairs. I could hear Mrs. Gladfelter and Mr. Buterbaugh talking softly in his office. Mr. Buterbaugh called her "Elizabeth."

The telephone rang. A light flashed twice on the secretary's phone, then held steady. "Thanks for calling back, Dr. Schachter," I heard Mr. Buterbaugh say, "Yes, I'm afraid so." "I went to see Dr. Schachter a couple of times," I said. He had micronauts and the fembots. "He has Stretch Armstrong too," said Timothy.

"I know." "Why did you go see him?" Timothy said. "Did your mother make you?" "Yeah," I said. "How come?" "I don't know. She said I was having problems with my anger. I don't know. I guess I was mad about my dad and things."

"He had to go to jail," Timothy said, "Your dad." "Just for one night." "How come?" "He had too much to drink," I said. "Did you visit him in jail?" Timothy said. "No, stupid. God, you belong in special school, Timothy. I hope they make you eat special food and wear a special helmet or something."

I heard the distant slam of the school's front door, and then a pair of hard shoes knocking along the hall. "Here comes your mother," I said. "What kind of special helmet?" said Timothy. "Ant-Man wears a helmet."

Mrs. Stokes entered the office. She was a tall, thin woman, much older than my mother, with long, gray hair and red, veiny hands. Every morning, she made Timothy pancakes for his breakfast, which sounded OK until you found out that she put things in them like carrots and leftover pieces of corn. "Oh, hello, Paul," she said, in her Eeyore voice.

"Mrs. Stokes," said Mrs. Gladfelter, coming out of the principal's office. "It's been kind of a long afternoon for Timothy, I'm afraid." "How is Virginia?" said Mrs. Stokes. She still hadn't looked at Timothy. "Oh, she'll be fine," Mr. Buterbaugh said. "Just a little shaken up. We sent her home early. Of course," he added, "Her parents are going to want to speak to you."

"Of course," said Mrs. Stokes. "I'm ready to do whatever you think would be best for Timothy." "I'm not Timothy," said Timothy. "Oh please, Timmy, stop this nonsense for once." "I'm cursed." He leaned over and brought his face very close to mine. "Tell them about the curse, professor."

I looked at Timothy, and for the first time saw that a thin, dark down of wolfish hair had grown upon his cheek. Then I looked at Mr. Buterbaugh and found that he was watching me with an air of earnest expectancy, as though he honestly thought there might be an eternal black magical curse on Timothy and was more than willing to listen to anything I might have to say on the subject.

I shrugged. "Are you going to make him go to special school?" I said. "All right, Paul. Thank you," said Mrs. Gladfelter. "You may go back to class now." "See you later, Timothy," I said. He didn't answer me. He had started to growl again. As I followed the secretary out of the office, I looked back and saw Mr. Buterbaugh, and Mrs. Gladfelter, and poor old Mrs. Stokes standing in a hopeless circle around Timothy.

I thought for a second, and then I turned back toward them and raised an imaginary rifle to my shoulder. "This is a dart gun," I announced. Everyone looked at me, but I was talking to Timothy now. I was almost, but not quite embarrassed. "It's filled with darts of my special antidote. And I made it stronger than it used to be, and it's going to work this time. And also, there's a tranquilizer mixed in."

Timothy looked up and bared his teeth at me. And I took aim right between his eyes. I jerked my hands twice and went "Foop, foop!" Timothy's head snapped back, and his eyelids fluttered. He shook himself all over. He swallowed once, then he held his hands out before him as if wondering at their hairless pallor.

"It seems to have worked," he said, his voice cool, and reasonable, and fine. Anyone could see he was still playing his endless game, but all the grown-ups, Mr. Buterbaugh in particular, looked very pleased with both of us. "Thank you very much, Paul," he said. "I'm not Paul," I said. Everybody laughed but Timothy Stokes.

Karen

Yeah.

Howie Chackowicz

And Jonathan [? is cute. ?]

Karen

Jonathan is very, very adorable.

Karen

Keith, definitely, love interest. Barry Seller, the big one, the big one.

Howie Chackowicz

Lauren Wilter?

Karen

Yes, yes, yes.

Karen

Aw.

Howie Chackowicz

You see?

Karen

I didn't even know that. I thought I was just responsible for tormenting you. I didn't realize that there was a crush involved. Maybe at the time I knew, but I had no clue, actually, that you liked me, when I think back on it now.

Howie Chackowicz

One time in the field, Keith told me to tackle you. He said if you tackle her, she'll like you, and then you'll be popular.

Karen

That is so funny.

Howie Chackowicz

This is the thing.

Karen

You know what? That's very good advice, I think.

Howie Chackowicz

It's very bad advice. I don't want to break your leg. Basically, what happened was, I was standing off to the sidelines. I wasn't often picked to play. This was a coed game, and it seemed very fun. And Keith said, "I'm going to throw Karen the ball." And he you know he couldn't pronounce his R's. He goes, "You tackle her, Howard. Tackle her. Tackle her hard, and you'll be popular. And then everyone will like you.

I'm like, "OK, I'm going to do it." And I remember you were running, the sun was shining off, and your hair's bouncing, and you caught the ball, and I just-- I don't know what came over me. I just remember thinking that's what I had to do, was I had to tackle you. And I tackled you really hard.

You're on the ground and you're holding your leg. Now, any kind of logic would have dictated that that's not the way to get the girl you like.

Karen

Yeah, but a lot of times the way young kids react or show affection is through physical-- like I was telling you before that I wrestled with Barry, because you just want to be close.

Howie Chackowicz

Now, the last dance was "Stairway to Heaven."

Karen

Mhm.

Howie Chackowicz

Right. Now, I went to the dance to dance with you.

Karen

Aw.

Howie Chackowicz

But I couldn't, because as I was walking, a line of people walked by and blocked me, and then there was a split second, but then you were in the arms of a grade seven.

Karen

Really? What was a grade seven doing in there?

Howie Chackowicz

They crashed our grade six graduation dance.

Karen

Who was it?

Howie Chackowicz

I don't know who he was. He was tall and thin. He had longish hair, and he came through the back door of the gym. You don't remember the last dance?

Karen

No.

Howie Chackowicz

You kissed this gentleman.

Karen

Did I? Like a peck or a make-out kiss? I don't think I was making out in grade six.

Howie Chackowicz

No, by adult standards, it was a peck. I'd say by grade six standards, you got laid.

Karen

Well, my most vivid memory of you is sitting in class, and the teacher asking us to pull out our homework, and you open up your desk and the paper overflowing out of that desk, and you rummaging frantically through the desk, trying to find what homework we were asked to take out and not being able to find it, and our teacher walking up to your desk, and everyone knowing what was coming, because it probably happened two days before, and the teacher just lacing into you, and dumping the contents of your desk on the floor.

Howie Chackowicz

Now, I mean, when that happened, did I seem cool, like a bad boy?

Karen

No, everyone felt very, very sad for you.

Jodi Mace

When I was a kid, and I would see the school crossing signs, and there's a picture of the little kids walking, and then it would say "School Xing" And I thought that the "Xing" was a word. And I pronounced it "zing."

Jodi Mace

Well, I was in my 20s, and I was walking into work, and about 10 geese walked in front of me on the sidewalk. And so I just turned to my coworker and casually said, "It looks like they should have a xing sign there for the geese." There was a long, awkward silence. And I thought that he was thinking, "You know, that really is a good idea." But instead, he finally said, "You know, 'xing' isn't in a word."

Jodi Mace

You know, it should be a word. And it should be xing. You don't want a kid to walk slowly across the crossing. If he's smart, he's going to xing.

Christy Kruger

In my head, a unicorn wasn't really any different than a zebra.

Christy Kruger

I mean, in terms of believability, I think the unicorn's really ahead of the dinosaur.

Alex Blumberg

What do you mean?

Christy Kruger

Well, I mean when you think about a dinosaur, like, from a kid's perspective, a dinosaur is one of these really large, monstrous animals roaming the earth. And then you have a unicorn, which is basically just a horse with a horn.

Christy Kruger

It was about a group of five to seven people, standing around the keg, just talking. And somehow, a discussion of endangered species came up, in which I posed the question "Is the unicorn endangered or extinct?" And basically, there was a big gap of silence.

Christy Kruger

And then everybody laughed. And then that laughter was followed by more silence when they realized I wasn't laughing. And I was like, "Yeah. I-- oh god. Unicorns aren't real? Oh. Oh no!"

Robin

It was like Monday, chicken, Tuesday, chicken, Wednesday, chicken, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, chicken. Chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken every night of my life until I left for college.

At the end of the first week of college, when everyone's desperately trying to fit in and it's important that you act cool, and sophisticated, and whatever, everyone begins complaining about the food that we're being served. What was the hard stuff in the sloppy Joe? What was that mystery meat? What animal did it come from?

And I'm looking at these people like they are crazy. The variety we were getting here, every night, every night there's a different meal. I mean, one night it's mac and cheese, one night it's mystery meat, one night it's sloppy Joe. One night it's-- I was like, how can you critic-- I mean, it's a testament to what great chefs they must be that they can make a different meal every single night of the week.

And they just kind of-- they kind of stared, and they're like "What?" And I'm like, "What what?" What's running through my head is, wait a minute. These people are implying that they had variation in their meal plan for their entire life. It's mind-bending. I mean, I don't care what I learned throughout college. This is the revelation that has stuck with me. This is what I've learned. All of a sudden, like holy god!

Harriet Lerner

What was inside them-- and we both had exactly the same gift-- were these real ugly metal tissue holders painted black with these corny red and yellow roses. They were painted with these cheesy looking red and yellow roses. And I looked at my tissue box and I started to cry.

And I looked at my big sister, Susan, and I thought, of course, she was going to cry too. And she looked like maybe she was going to cry, but then she put on a big smile. And then she told me that the boxes were painted by trained monkeys.

Harriet Lerner

And I'm going through some papers, or maybe I was snooping through Susan's papers. And I found a composition, and it had her name on it. And she had written it in high school, and it was called the Tissue Box Story. So I sat down on the floor of Susan's bedroom to read this composition.

And Susan told the story just as I told it, except that she wrote how she felt when she saw me crying, and how she then looked at my parents and saw that my mother was about to cry too, and how she looked at the tissue boxes and then she remembered that my father had a friend who made them, and she knew how much my parents hated taking charity.

And suddenly, even though she was about to cry, she forced herself to smile, and she pretended those boxes were painted by trained monkeys. And then, of course, I didn't know any of this. But the funny thing she wrote in her composition is that she just rushed upstairs and started crying all over her pillow.

And she wasn't really sad about the gift, really, is what she said in the composition. She wasn't sure why she was crying except that it was like she had volunteered to be a grown up before she was even ready for it.

Up until that moment, I had never thought to question my sister's story. I had never subjected it to the scrutiny of a grown up mind. I mean, I was 20. I don't know. I had this tissue box that was painted by trained monkeys, and then it wasn't painted by trained monkeys, really.

Harriet Lerner

And really, it's just that I can still picture this tissue box and how much I loved it, this tissue box painted by trained monkeys.

Torey Malatia

I've been cursed for 300 years.