Willow walked to Principal Flutie's office, books held protectively across her chest. She knew he was supposed to be friendly, but there was something about him that made her nervous. Perhaps it was his tendency to make sudden noises with his mouth in the form of speech. She felt most comfortable around quiet people, and hoped someday to meet some of them somewhere.

Principal Flutie was frowning worriedly at some papers on his desk. He looked up and his mouth flattened noncommittally. "Yes?" he said. "What's wrong now? If someone took your lunch money, I can't help you. I get up to twenty students a day coming in about it, and I'm running out of change."

"Oh, no--it's not that," said Willow. "It's my locker. It won't open."

"Did you pull on it?"

"Yes," said Willow, trying to be appeasing.

"And it still didn't open?"

"No," said Willow, shaking her head. "And I pulled really hard."

"It must be stuck," said Principal Flutie.

Willow bit her tongue.

Principal Flutie frowned at Willow, as if trying to solve her face, and then sighed. "Although this is technically a problem for the janitor--sorry; sorry; I mean the custodial staff--I want to prove that I'm here for you, whatever your problem, within certain reasonable limits that are more legal than personal--if you understand what I'm saying, not that it matters if you do. The point is, I want to help." He pulled a paper and pen and thrust them across the desk at Willow. "Read this, fill it out and sign it."

Willow felt off balance. "What is it?"

"A release form. It states that I have permission to open your locker, you weren't being coerced, if I find something illegal you won't sue me, et cetera."

"Oh," said Willow, staring. It was small type, and filled the whole page.

"Okay..."

"And press hard," said Flutie. "You get the pink copy." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"This is your locker?" said Flutie, kneeling down and squinting into the grille.

"That's what they told me," said Willow. "I believed them until today."

"Hmmm..." said Flutie. "And you have the correct combination?"

"I heard it click. It should be ready to open any time now. I can even sort of feel that it wants to."

Flutie pulled the latch. It didn't move. He pulled again. It didn't move. He looked both ways to be sure no one was watching, and he rolled up his sleeves and he pulled with both hands, grunting with the strain, his mouth rolled into one deep doughy grimace. Willow could even see the veins at his temples popping out, even though she didn't really want to. The locker didn't budge. Flutie gasped and collapsed for a moment, then took a deep breath, stood up and collected himself.

"Well!" he said.

"Do you want me to get the janit--the custodian for help?"

"I don't see why we should get him involved," said Flutie, frowning at the whole wall full of lockers. He jabbed at Willow's locker with his foot. "What's in there? Anything irreplacable?"

"Not much," Willow admitted. "I carry everything around with me most of the time anyway."

"Hmm..." Flutie idly grabbed the latch of the locker above hers, and it sprang open. "What?" said Willow. "Are you going to tunnel through the top with the jaws of life?"

"You must be joking," said Flutie. "That would cost money. No, I have a different solution." He banged the floor of the empty locker so suddenly that Willow jumped, and said, "As of right now, this is your new locker. I'll have the combination sent to your home room so you can start using it tomorrow. In the meantime, just..." he gestured vaguely. "...keep doing what you're doing now."

"Carrying everything?"

"Exactly. That. And of course, don't tell anybody anything about this. Ever. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an unimportant meeting to go to."

"Thanks, Principal Flutie!" said Willow. As she watched him leave, she remembered something. Sliding her pinky through the slits in her old locker, she pulled free the photo of herself and Giles, and pressed it between the pages of "Principles of Trigonometry." Oh, well, she thought. The teen years are a time for change. Maybe this one would turn out for the better.

THE END

David Ellis Dickerson - Cruciver@aol.com

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