I brought my tyrannosaurus to school the next day.
He had a hard time on the sidewalk, kept knocking over trash cans that I had to set back up, so I told him to walk in the street and watch out for cars. I held his leash in my hand and he followed beside me, making the ground shake with each step. He looked like he wanted to eat that mean dog that always barked at me in the yard on the corner, so I reminded him I had a stegosaurus sandwich in my lunch box for him, and that he could wait to eat until later.
Past the corner we crossed the street, and then we were at the high school. My elementary school was on the other side. The sidewalk ran all along the front of the high school, and then I cut across a field, and I’d be safe at my classroom. Almost there.
But first I had to get past the high school.
Teenagers were the worst. The scariest creatures on the planet. I gripped my tyrannosaurus’ leash a little tighter and kept walking.
Packs of teenagers stood around, waiting for school to start, talking, laughing, looking at their phones. I kept my head down and tried to steer past them without them noticing me.
A tall, skinny boy with a white earbud wire dangling down from one ear and into his pocket stepped right in front of me. “Hey, kid, where you going?”
His friends laughed.
“School,” I said.
“Schoo-wuhl,” he said, and his friends laughed again. My face got hot.
Tyrannosaurus was still feeling hungry.
I craned my neck back until I could see my tyrannosaurus’ huge head far above me, his ten inch long teeth dripping slobber. I shook my head no.
“What are you looking at?” the teenager said, glancing up.
I didn’t answer. I darted around him and kept running until I got to the field, my tyrannosaurus thundering on behind me, almost so loud I couldn’t hear the teenagers laughing.
That teenager was lucky. If I hadn’t run, he would have been breakfast.
I tied my tyrannosaurus to the flag pole, gave him a pat on the side and told him to be good. I’d see him again when it was time to walk home.