“What do I do?” Jane asked Chip, as they munched on their peanut butter and Froot Loops sandwiches the next day.

“As far as I can tell, nothing. Nothing you do is going to make Megan own-up to what she did. She doesn’t care what you or the world says. This is what she does, push people down and take credit for what they’ve accomplished. It was going to happen to one of us eventually; I’m just sorry it had to be you.”

“You don’t understand. I really liked this one. I can’t just let it go! Plus, she needs to learn that what she does is wrong!”

“People like Megan don’t change. They don’t have any feelings, for goodness’s sake. They don’t know what they do is wrong, and frankly, my dear, they don’t care. I say it again: Nothing you say or do will make any difference to her, so you need to give it up.”

Jane sulked silently, trying to think of a solution to her problem, while simultaneously and silently seething at Chip’s unhelpfulness and insensitivity. What did he know? He was a boy.

Then again, she realized, he was also a writer, and he understood what her poems meant to her. Also, he cared about her and her pain was his pain. It doesn’t look like it, she thought bitterly, as he sat happily crunching on the sweet sandwich she had invented. Maybe he was right. It wasn’t remarkable; it wasn’t even her best. As hard is it might be, she resolved to let it go.

Jane found that it was very hard. Periodically, she saw Megan and her adoring fans in the halls, at lunch, and every time she saw that plastic grin and too much mascara, she felt like charging up to her and making a scene, chewing her out in from of all her friends. She knew better, though. Megan had the tongue of a demon that was disguised as an angel, the ability to strike you down without a moment to reply. Catching you unaware with a snappy insult was her forte and it was not something you wanted to find yourself tangoing with, so she kept her distance.

Once upon a time, a few days later, though, it wasn’t so easy when Megan and her crew came waltzing up to the half-wall. Jane’s friends hushed and, she was sure, Megan received plenty of mean looks, only to throw back a wink and a giggle.

“Jane, I wondered if you saw my poem in B.E.C. One of my friends told me you would be able to help me.”

“I did,” she replied, retuning the syrupy sweet smile. “How can I help?”

“Well, I just wanted to know what you thought of it.”

For only a moment, her smile faltered, but she took a deep breath and answered, “I liked it. It’s an interesting concept, comparing life to the Yellow Brick Road. How did you think of it?”

Megan tilted her head and a look of malice entered her eyes, while the sugary sweet smile remained. “From the movie, of course.”

“Of course,” peeped the girls surrounding her, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m curious to talk to you about this as well. Do you think L. Frank Baum modeled his story after life and its unexpected challenges, or just wrote it for the sake of a great story?”

Megan stared at Jane, with poison in her eyes. Jane knew that this was over Megan’s head, that literature was not her element. She couldn’t wait to hear how Megan would recover. “I think that the whole story has to do with life.”

“I was hoping you do! So then, do you think that it has any religious context? Could the Wicked Witch of the West symbolize Satan? Could Glinda the Good Witch perhaps represent God? Sit down! Let’s talk about it!” she exclaimed. In that moment, Jane thought she detected a glint of awe in Megan’s eyes. She wondered what it could possibly suggest. Whatever it was, it probably meant something important for the both of them.

“No… thanks. I’d better be going,” and with that, she and her posse departed, but Jane was sure that the smile Megan had left her with had been genuine.