Free A Kick-Ass Fairy: A Memoir by Linda Zercoe

investments using $2,000 in Monopoly money. I was up to close to $20,000 by the end of the semester and kicking myself for not being willing to risk real money.
    The investment class was such a gas that I began taking classes that were prerequisites for the business school—Economics with the legendary Mr. Elzinger, Calculus, Accounting 101 and 102, and Rhetoric.
    The day I got my senses back, sitting on that bench, I suddenly realized I would have to rush to Rhetoric—and I was speaking. I ran, seeing all the colors in a blur through teary eyes as I made my way to class.
    My persuasive speech that day was on “The Necessity of Seatbelts on School Buses.” This topic was important to me—given that I had miraculously not died after flying out of a moving school bus window at the age of seven. But as I stuttered and umm-ed my way through the argument and supporting data, I paused and noticed most of the class was asleep anyway. So I relaxed.
    Later that same spring I was one of the students accepted into the McIntire School of Commerce, the university’s undergraduate business school, from an ocean of applicants. Now I knew I was accepted not because I was already a nurse or a widow. I was actually qualified.
    The following fall, moving between classes in the storied old Monroe Hall, I was walking lighter but still felt out of place, being seven or eight years older than the other students. None of them seemed to notice a difference in our ages, although my body language, among other things, indicated I was not dating material.
    Over time I became more confident and more assertive, and let my male side run free. In the classroom, the environment fostered competitive teamwork, and I was there to win. The professors welcomed interaction with the students and preferred to be called Mr. or Ms. rather than Professor or Doctor. All classes were geared toward working in groups, giving presentations, and analyzing different business-case scenarios, which seemed impossible at first but then became solvable.
    As Kim moved from toddlerhood to preschool she became more and more feminine. She wanted her straight, long hair done up with curls, bows, jeweled barrettes, and ribbons. She insisted on wearing dresses, of which she had quite a supply from Grandma, Dave’s mother—the Polly Flinders smocked kind with embroidery, ruffles, and petticoats. Her patent leather Mary Janes completed the look. She twirled around the house pretending to be Angelina Ballerina, holding her sparkle wand, making magic with every step.
    On weekends she had her little friends over. With my help they took blankets and made a house within the bunk beds, where they played with My Little Pony or Thumbelina or Rainbow Bright for hours. She was a normal, well-adjusted, beautiful little girl of sugar, spice, and everything nice.
    I bought a Sony Betamax shortly after we moved in, and we had movie night as, one by one, the classic children’s movies were released on video. Kim started ballet classes, began to read alone with gusto, and created imaginary friends. As time went on, she learned to eat cereal out of the box and watch Saturday morning television while I caught up on some sleep.
    When she was old enough, I finally gave in, and we got a kitten—an adorable little black-and-white one that she carried around constantly, swaddled in dish towels when she wasn’t trying to feed it with a fake doll bottle. One weekend, while I was washing my bedroom windows on the second floor of the townhouse, I could hear Kim and Rhyannon, her friend who lived next door, burst into uproarious laughter, the kind that makes you laugh even though you don’t know what’s funny.
    I climbed back in the window and walked toward the girls.
    “What’s so funny?”
    I saw Kim throwing her new kitten down the flight of stairs where it smacked into the wall on the bottom landing. This was what the two four-year-olds were laughing about. I sent Rhyannon home after picking up the