Chapter Eight - The Principal Strings

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Principal Strings

BLUSTER’S NAME ECHOED over the loudspeaker:
“Bluster. Please come to the office.”
He hated how his name sounded in all caps.

The hallway was long.
Longer than usual.
And quieter, too.
Even his bounce felt quieter.

He passed the art wall.
The math stars.
The lost-and-found that still smelled like old peanut butter.

Inside the office, it was warm.
Too warm.
Like the air had been sitting still all day.

Principal Strings sat behind a desk
that looked like it could float away
if it wasn’t weighed down by paperclips and coffee rings.

“Have a seat, Bluster,” she said.

He did.
The chair squeaked like it was nervous, too.

“Tell me,” she said,
folding her hands like a secret.
“Why do you act so big?”

Bluster blinked.

No one had asked him that before.
Usually, they just told him to stop.
Or shushed.
Or sighed.

“I dunno,” he said.

“Big laughs. Big noise. Big jumps,” she said,
counting them on her fingers.

“Do you feel big?”

Bluster didn’t answer.
Because he wasn’t sure.

Sometimes he felt big.
Like when he made everyone laugh.
Or when he bounced the highest.

But sometimes, sometimes he felt so small he had to puff himself up just to fit in the room.

Principal Strings didn’t press.
She just nodded, like maybe
she’d once been a balloon, too.

“Being loud isn’t always the same as being heard,” she said.
“Sometimes, the quietest kids say the strongest things.”

She handed him a paper.

It wasn’t a punishment.

It was a story prompt:
Write about a time you felt really, really big.
And what happened next.

Bluster took the paper.
It felt heavy.
But maybe the good kind of heavy.

He walked back to class without bouncing.
Not because he was in trouble.

But because he had something to think about.