Tall Timmy & the Top Hat

Timmy wasn’t just short—he was the shortest seventh grader in his class.

In his school.

In his town, even.

He had to stand on his tippy toes to reach the faucet in the restroom. He had to suck in his breath and reach for his lunch tray until his back cracked. He had to find small windows of space in the horde of classmates during dismissal, just to spot his mom’s car. She frequently circled the pick-up line, as if she were a fixture on the worst carousel ever.

Today was different, though. Today, Timmy found a top hat.

That will make me seem taller, at least, he thought.

Only, when he put the hat on his head, he didn’t just seem taller—he grew taller!

Today, Timmy looked his classmates in their eyes. He saw what he was putting on his tray at lunch before it was too late. He even washed his hands with soap he couldn’t normally reach.

When the dismissal bell rang with its throaty baritone, Timmy spotted his moms car immediately. He flagged her down before she had to exit and make her second lap around. But as he grinned in satisfaction, the top hat unfurled its black ribbon wings and flew off of Timmy’s head, into the sky, and beyond reach or retrieval.

The hem of Timmy’s pants legs brushed his shin as they fell back to his ankles. His shirt loosened the grip it held beneath Timmy’s arms and around his abdomen. He gave a defeated sigh and sunk into the passenger seat of his mom’s sedan.

“How was your day, Timmy,” she asked.

“Timmy clenched his jaw.

“It was the worst day of my life,” he replied.

🎩