(Un)Pleasant Dreams
Greetings from ten thousand feet!
The whole world has tuned in to watch me make this climb. There are satellites and cameras everywhere, and the crowd down below stretches all the way to Utah. I’ve got about eight billion eyes on me as I ascend this vertical cliff face like the boss that I am.
I don’t know what I was so afraid of. The way my hands and feet cling to the rock, even Spider-Man’s jealous. I’m like one big piece of double-stick tape.
“Way to go, Khatchadorian!” I hear from the crowd. Is that Sergeant Fish down there? And I’m pretty sure Jeanne Galletta’s sitting in front of her TV back at home, watching me and thinking, “Jared who?”
I stop just long enough to take an energy bar from the falcon that was trained to bring me snacks, since no one else has the nerve to climb this high. For a few seconds, I hang on with my toes while I scarf down the bar for a quick boost (not that I need it). Then I turn my attention to the last thirty yards of this climb.
This is it. The trickiest part yet. Somehow, I have to make my way under, over, and around this shelf of rock before I can stand at the top and take in the view. No problem, though. I grab a handhold, swing my legs around, execute a perfect twisting flip—
“OHHHHH!” the crowd screams as I fly through the air. And then “AHHHH!” as my fingers lock on to the ledge at the very tippy-top of this mountain. All I have to do now is flex my freakishly large biceps and pull myself up onto flat ground. But then—
“Well, well, well,” someone says. “Look who it is.”
“That was impressive,” another voice says. “Too bad it was all for nothing.”
I look up, still hanging there by my fingers. And that’s when I come face-to-face (-to-face) with the Petaluma Sisterhood, Ida P. Stricker and Charlotte P. Stonecase.
“Let me up!” I yell.
“Not so fast,” Stricker says. “Did you finish your math?”
“Or your book report?” Stonecase says.
“What report?” I say. “What book?”
“He didn’t do his homework,” Stonecase says, grinning like a goblin.
“He never did,” Stricker says, and they both laugh so loud, it echoes off the Rocky Mountains.
Then they kneel down and start peeling my fingers off the edge of that cliff, one after the other.
“This little cockroach went to market,” Stricker says.
“Stop it!” I yell.
“This little cockroach stayed home,” Stonecase says.
“I’m going to fall!” I tell them desperately.
“This little cockroach had roast beef—”
“No I didn’t! Not even close!”
“—and this little cockroach had none.”
“HELP!” I scream. I’m dangling by one pointer, a pinkie, and two thumbs by now. But not for long.
“And this little cockroach went, ‘Wee, wee, wee,’ all the way home.”
Pointer! Pinkie! Thumb! Thumb! One by one, they rip my fingers off my perfectly chosen handhold.
“AUUUUUGHHHHHHH!!!!” I say.
I’m falling… falling… falling back to earth, and the last thing I hear before I hit the ground is Mrs. Stricker’s voice.
“Oh, and one more thing,” she yells after me…
