Ira Glass

He's a big fat hippo jello.

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 armchair.

There was a Roman numeral III 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 and matching orange chairs.

That's enough now, Paul, said Mr. Buterbaugh.

The principal, his 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.