When I return the children to their classroom, Mr. Pattinson is waiting for them, dressed in a pair of long athletic pants that appeared to be too large for him. He'd pinned them at the waistband and now stood leaning against his desk, scowling, with his arms folded over his beefy chest. The children walk in with their eyes downcast and take their seats in silence.

"You lost?" he asks them.

One little girl sniffs her tears away.

"They fought, valiantly. They performed exactly as I asked them to. You should be proud and reward them," I said.

"There is no medal for last place."

"They do not request medals, Pattinson. They wish only to earn your respect."

"And ice cream," said the wild-haired girl I so admired.

I conceded the point. "And ice cream."

Pattinson opens his mouth, but before he can spew whatever nonsense he plans to say, I tell the children, "I will be commanding your gym class beginning next week. If Pattinson fails to provide for you, I will stand in his stead. There will be ice cream." The children stare up at me with bright, hopeful eyes. Pattinson glares. I bow from the waist and bid them good day.

Stepping into the hall, I spot Ms. Williams. Her cheeks are flushed from her time in the sun. Several strands of hair have worked loose and frame her delicate face.

"He'll never forgive you," she says.

"I do not require his worship."

She chuckles. "Do you require ice cream? You're welcome to come join us."

Before I can answer, she turns and strolls back into her room. Her lovely hips sway from side to side—a pendulum that hypnotizes me and pulls me along in her wake.

When I step through the door, my little band of followers leap from their seats. Jumping up and down, cheering, they surround me.

"You did it!"

"We won!"

"We beat them!"

Other children join them. They encircle me. One presses a small, Styrofoam cup of ice cream into my hand. Another plants a gold star sticker on the front of my shirt. The tiniest boy in the room holds up an eraser that smells like sour apples. "Jenny said you helped us win. I never won anything before, so I want you to have this for helping us."

So many gifts and praises are heaped upon me that I grow giddy with power. Without meaning to, I cause the lights to flicker. The children, drunk with victory and sugar, shriek and race around the room. Two of them crash into each other and fall to the floor, where they both lay stunned, staring at the ceiling.

Ms. Williams claps her hands three times and most of the boys and girls freeze and repeat the gesture. She claps twice more and the remaining children quiet. A single clap sees the room fall into silence. In a soft voice that carries a smile, she asks them all to return to their seats.

I will the lights back to life.

"There," she says. "You see? It was nothing to get excited about. Now, who would like to raise their hand and tell me their favorite part of field day?"

"I liked when Mr. Pattypants ripped his pants and everybody saw his crazy unders," Matthew declares.

Giggles erupt throughout the room.

Ms. Williams repeats the clapping ritual and the children fall silent again. "Now, who would like to raise their hand and tell me their favorite part?"

I catch my high priest's eye.

He winks at me.

Could my fondness for this tiny agent of chaos grow any greater? I think not.

Once several children have shared their reminiscences, Ms. Williams asks her class to open their journals and write or draw a picture about the experience. While they work, she returns to my side. I breathe deeply of her fake-strawberry scent. Combined with the surge of power from the sudden influx of offerings, the pleasurable fragrance has me near swooning.

"Do you have to get back to the gym?" she asks.

"I don't believe Mr. Breuller welcomes my presence there. I will remain at your side if you have no objection."

She looks up at me. Her dusky lashes flutter. "I have no objection." The backs of her knuckles brush against the backs of mine and then she walks away, leaving me to sink into a nearby wooden rocking chair where I wrestle with my desire until lunchtime.

***

"Do a trick," Matthew demands from his seat in the cafeteria.

Bently and Masen hear him and take up the cry.

All of the children at their table gaze up at me.

Matthew hands me the apple from his tray. An excess of power on top of power pulses in my veins. I cast a glance at the guardian to make sure her attention is directed elsewhere and then toss the fruit into the air where it transforms into a small red bird that begins fluttering frantically around the room, just over the children's heads. Several of them scream and crawl under the table. Matthew and Masen fall into one another's arms, laughing and slapping each other on the back. The guardian mutters a word that I don't think is technically allowed in school. Several of those seated close to her gasp.

"What the devil is going on in here?" the principal barks from the doorway.

I stride over to where Ms. Williams is standing and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll take care of this." Near the conveyor belt that carries away dirty trays, a set of metal double doors opens onto a narrow parking area. I push them open and draw an entire flock of the birds into the room. As one, formed like a flying arrow, they shoot straight toward the principal, who runs away holding her thick arms over her head. At my silent command, the birds circle back into the cafeteria, gather up their new member who was formerly an apple, and zoom out the door. I close the door and turn to face the guardian. Children are racing in every direction, hiding behind the stage curtains, and cowering under the tables. Matthew, Bentley, Mason, and Jenny are jumping up and down on their seats. "See?" I shout over the din. "Everything is fine now."

So great is her gratitude that she simply sinks down onto a seat, speechless, with tears in her eyes. A single drop escapes and rolls down her smooth, round cheek.

I approach her and kneel, take her hands in mine. "Tell me how else I can please you. I'll do anything."

She sniffs and makes a sound somewhere between a sob and a bark of laughter. "I just can't even cope with this day."

A flicker of confusion troubles my joyful spirit. "Are you not happy?"

A boy slithers between us on his belly, hissing like a snake.

"I'm a tad overwhelmed. I've never seen them so out of control. I've never had so many weird things happen at once."

"Out of control?" I survey the room full of happy, active children.

One of them grabs a handful of green beans and shouts, "Food fight!"

The guardian shoots to her feet. "No! Don't you dare! Put the beans down, this instant! You will sit down and stop this nonsense!"

The child's face falls. She lets the beans plop back onto her plate.

All the other children stare at their teacher.

I rise to stand at her side. "They should not be made to sit in quiet rows on this, their day of victory." I am careful to speak quietly enough that none of the children can hear me.

She turns her extraordinary eyes toward me. "They're going to destroy the building. They're going to hurt themselves."

Her concern is genuine. It rolls off of her in powerful waves.

"Then let us take them to the playground. Give them this day to run free, and they will love you forever."

For a moment, I see the objection hovering on her perfect lips. Then she sighs and nods. Turning toward her wards once more, she tells them that if they clean up after themselves and line up nicely at the door, she will take them outside to play. In an instant, every food tray is on the conveyor belt, every scrap of garbage is in the trash can, and the entire class is standing single file at the door with their eyes straight ahead.

With Ms. Williams at the front of the line and me in the back, we march the group out to the playground and set them free. They're like a pack of chimpanzees in heat, climbing and jumping, swinging and calling to one another. Laughter, contagious and boundless, rises up from every one of them. Matthew moves among them, whispering and pointing toward us, and many of those he speaks with come to the guardian and me bearing gifts of pretty stones, unusually shaped sticks, bright yellow dandelions with sticky milk dripping from the stems and, in one case, a piece of an eggshell.

I'm breathless with joy.

Ms. Williams' eyes sparkle.

"See? Eternal love," I say to her.

She gazes up at me. "Thank you. You took what could have been disastrous and turned it into something wonderful."

The offering of her thanks is nice, but the warmth of feeling in her eyes is the best gift I've been given since returning to physical form.