Me: It’s time for class! This tree is great for sitting under, but I love my fiction writing class. My professor is really great. She looks like a writer. All we do is write and talk about writing. Man, I can’t wait.

Steve the Wasp: Hey man, don’t go.

Me: Oh, don’t be sad. I wish I could stay, wasp. But I need to get up. I have people’s writing to read and talk about. No, seriously, stop flying up my shirt, I have to go. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.


OK.


Don’t move, me. Not an inch. Not one. I’m sure he’ll leave. You’re leaving, right, wasp? You’re not. That’s fine. I can grow roots and absorb moisture and nutrients from the ground below me. It’s possible — this cottonwood behind me did it somehow, yeah?


I feel you on my back, wasp. Every five seconds or so, scuttling along the bare skin underneath the tail of my T-shirt and stopping again, teasing me into insanity and desperate, desperate fear. I feel as if you’re no longer my friend. That is, I know you want me to stay longer, but forced coercion is no grounds for a friendship, you know. Every second of this sharply decreases the likelihood of us hanging out again. Do you hear me? You don’t care. You’re a wasp.


Wiggle my fingers. Bend my elbow slightly — slightly! — okay good. Put shoulder joints in motion. Yes. This is good. Lift both my arms. I can move my arms! Arts and Science is within sight from where I am. Perhaps I can claw at the earth and bring the class _to me_ with infinite strength. I can’t. Damn you, wasp. You are so small — how did you obtain such divine power over me?

Wait, I’m in public. Everyone can see me sitting here, face constrained, obviously intently focused on what appears to be absolutely nothing. I look like a fool. People are noticing, like that girl who’s been watching me from afar, trying futilely to figure out my motivations. You see, wasp? You’re making a scene. People are starting to get uncomfortable. I would call them over to help if I didn’t think you’d be smugly satisfied with that.

Hmm. No. No way. Impossible. Maybe? In my head I measure the speed of my right hand flinging open my shirt and my left hand sweeping away at my lower back and my legs bolting upright and my eyes exploding from my head. I bet I can do it. I bet I can, wasp. Here goes.


Here goes.

I’m going to do it.


I am. I’m not kidding.


Here goes.


OK I’m not. No way. You’re terrifying. I admit you my respect, wasp, but not victory. I can still sit here. And I am a well-trained American. I can go an entire day without significant physical movement. Man, but I really do like that creative writing class. Do I like it as much as my back? Probably. Really, what do people even use backs for? Certainly the least useful part of the body. Showers will be much easier without it, yeah? Yeah. You have nothing on me wasp.


I am still un-stung. Time is running out, though. I will pay you $5, wasp. You’ll be the richest wasp in the world. I will clean your gray hive-thing. I will advocate wasp rights. Leave. Please god, leave. This is your last chance.


I’m going to have to do it. I measure the speed of my hands again in my head. Here goes, wasp. I didn’t want it to end like this. Mostly because you’ll probably sting me like the worthless flying insect you are.


Here goes.


I’m not kidding.


Here goes.