I was standing on the staircase by the library with my friend and her beaux, killing time before class. I suppose my friend and I were being rather inconsiderate in our spatial awareness, as we seemed to be standing on the same stair, blocking any passers-by. I did not realise this, however, until a young boy who must have been about six years old came trotting up to us, books in hand, and muttered “excuse me” to my feet. Said friend and I separated, clearing space for the small boy to continue up the stairs. If I had thought about it at the time I may have wondered why he was heading up the stairs in the first place as the elementary school is strictly the bottom half of the building, leaving the middle and high schoolers to dominate the upper level. This detail, however, was unimportant.
Just as the child came level with my friend and I- that is to say, as soon as his foot touched down on the same stair that we were both standing on- he fell. I’m talking ker-freakin-splat. Out of nowhere! I had to fight to stifle my laughter as I was positive that the poor boy was close to tears. At this point my friend bent down and helped him collect his books and sent him merrily on his way. However, two steps later, he was on the floor again. Splat. I know it is not right to laugh at other’s misfortune, and a small child’s at that, but I could not stifle the giggle that escaped my lips then. This must have been what alerted him to my presence. He gathered his books on his own this time, but did not get up. Instead he sat on his stair and turned to directly face me, staring me down. Finally I offered “Would you like some help?” in what I thought was charity (and a little bit of guilt from having laughed at him). His response however, was an expectant “yes.”
I ascended the two steps between us and bent down to help this little kid up. I gathered his three thin books in my own arms and waited as he steadily rose to his feet once more. I moved to hand his books back to him, but before I could the little rascal was bounding up the remainder of the staircase, not a slip or a wobble to his step (‘from two tumbles to this swift escape?’ I thought here). Following him up two flights of stairs with his books in my hand I could not help but wander what had just happened. Finally we reached the top, I handed the boy back his books, and he scurried away.
I returned to my friends at the bottom of the stairs, now all snickering at me. I looked at them, a group of four or so people, laughing openly now at the puzzled expression on my face, and revealed my concern. “Guys,” I said, “I think that boy just made me his bitch.”
I guess there is a first time for everything.
