Cinderfella

"Ms. P," he says, "the weirdest thing just happened to me." I prepare to be underwhelmed.

But in a tone full of wishing-it-true--hesitant, and not quite believing--he tells of being pulled out of class and offered a free prom ticket.

"She said to come see her tomorrow, but I don't know who she is." As luck would have it, I do; my colleague raises money all year to patch the gaps between need to and would like to and can. This time, it's his turn. I walk him down to get the rest of the scoop, and as we hook him up with a tuxedo discount, I watch him do the math. He works, I know, but I think he hands over his check. I resolve that he not be disappointed: at this point, I would be, too.

"Listen," I say, as we walk out with the coupon, "Go home and figure out what you have and what you need, and between us, we'll make it happen." No way is he getting this close and not going. He thanks me simply, and, he means it.

Tonight he'll be wearing his father's suit: best case scenario, according to me. He's content, and he's going, and nobody's out a dime-- maybe he'll be the one kid who's not let down. But I woulda, and I woulda been happy to do it. Fairy godmother's a sweet gig.