After five years, he just happened to be walking down her street? Mrs. Demiser had tortured Philbin every day during seventh grade. Now, he finally worked through enough of his courage to get a summer job, and it takes him right past her house? "Gotta be quick" Philbin thought. Memories of his seventh-grade year returned to haunt him.
He swiftened his pace but before he made it to the corner, a familiar sneering jeer sounded behind him. "Well well, if it isn't Farty Philbin, the smelly kid from my seventh-grade class. Apparently, nothing has changed; I could smell you from the end of the block!" Philbin flushed but kept his gaze forward; he didn't need to respond. The worst thing he could do is turn around and give her attention.
Taking intentional breaths, he managed to compose himself. The light was yellow; it was almost time to cross. Suddenly a wet, slimy object slapped him in the back of the head. He turned around feeling his neck and slipped on the banana peel that had just hit him. He smacked his head on the sidewalk, and Mrs. Demiser cackled a most awful cackle, with spit and phlegm harmonizing.
Philbin wanted to get up and slap her across the face with the banana peel, but he knew his job was more important. So he turned back around to cross the street, but to his dismay, the light had changed again, and he would have to wait another entire cycle to cross the street. The cacophonous cackling crescendo'd, and Philbin couldn't continue his calm. He turned down the street to cross at another light, even if it meant taking longer to arrive at work. He'd have to find a new route to use from now on. . .
He swiftened his pace but before he made it to the corner, a familiar sneering jeer sounded behind him. "Well well, if it isn't Farty Philbin, the smelly kid from my seventh-grade class. Apparently, nothing has changed; I could smell you from the end of the block!" Philbin flushed but kept his gaze forward; he didn't need to respond. The worst thing he could do is turn around and give her attention.
Taking intentional breaths, he managed to compose himself. The light was yellow; it was almost time to cross. Suddenly a wet, slimy object slapped him in the back of the head. He turned around feeling his neck and slipped on the banana peel that had just hit him. He smacked his head on the sidewalk, and Mrs. Demiser cackled a most awful cackle, with spit and phlegm harmonizing.
Philbin wanted to get up and slap her across the face with the banana peel, but he knew his job was more important. So he turned back around to cross the street, but to his dismay, the light had changed again, and he would have to wait another entire cycle to cross the street. The cacophonous cackling crescendo'd, and Philbin couldn't continue his calm. He turned down the street to cross at another light, even if it meant taking longer to arrive at work. He'd have to find a new route to use from now on. . .
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