(Palm Sunday: II/IV) Jigsawing

Jane has her tongue poked deep into her cheek. She’s sifting through the pile of shards looking for the next piece of the story.

“Jane,” Martin says.

“Sh!” Jane says. “Jigsawing!”

“We could just ask Sid to tell us,” Martin points out. “He’s standing right there.

“Sh!!” Jane says, louder. “JIGSAWING!”

Then, to underline her point, she says, “Blee!”

A cold wind blows.

The vast bulk of Ii Ma shifts.

And Sid sighs.

He relaxes, just a bit.

Sid says, gently, “Walk in like you own the place.”

“I don’t even think that’s from the same history,” Martin says.

Jane hesitates for a moment. “Well,” she says. “The edges sort of match up, here and here.”

“That’s because they’re 0-length points,” Martin says. “All 0-length points match up.”

“Don’t get philosophical!” Jane says, and Martin gulps both a giggle and his objections down.

Now it’s said that a boy can’t have a magical friend forever, and that’s true.

What’s really cool when you’re seven is kind of weird when you’re ten. And when you’re twelve, it starts to get embarrassing.

You’ll be playing basketball and your friends will be totally pounding your game and you’ll realize that Derek is about to make a basket and you’ll say, “Sid.”

And the game will grind to a screeching halt.

Everyone will look at the guy standing over there, with the feather in his hair and the wheel of knives, and there will be a quick and feverish consultation on the rules.

“(a),” will say officious Lester Pargon, the only kid you know who can talk in bullet points, “That has to be against the rules. And (b) what is that?”

And you might say, “It’s a Sid.”

And they’ll look at you.

“That’s so weird,” they’ll say.

And after that you don’t call your magical friend any more. Not if you’re a boy, anyway, or, at least, not if you’re Max.

“Wow,” says Jane. “I’d really suck at basketball if I couldn’t summon magical friends.”

“You dosuck at basketball,” Martin says.

There’s a pause.

“Is this about the winged unicorn again?” Jane says.

“It’s traveling,” Martin says, in ancient frustration.