Ira Glass

Every morning, she made Timothy pancakes for his breakfast, which sounded okay, 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. Butterbaugh 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.