Dali

I once had an action figure named Superman Stan. He was my idol; at least, he was as close to an idol as I had. I use to fly him around in the backyard, his yellow cape flowing in the wind. I took him everywhere. Of course, when your Superman Stan is a limited edition, hard-to-find collectible, everyone wants it. Only three were made with the waterproof, yellow cape. One had been stolen, and then melted by accident. Another was accidently sold too early, and never found again. And one, the last one, the only one anyone knew about, was mine. My Superman Stan.
“Sweet!” a boy said as I whipped out Superman Stan from my backpack. A girl whistled when she saw him. I sat at a table at some local daycare center. I was eight. I grinned as they all stared.
“Whoa,” another boy said, “is that the rare one, with the yellow cape?” he asked. I smiled as I flew him around, his cape waving in the air. Everyone cheered for Superman Stan. I handed the figure to one of the boys next to me. I know, not a good idea. I was eight, and you know when someone is that young, trust isn’t exactly something you think about. I got up and went to use the bathroom. When I came back, the boy, to my surprise at least, was gone. Superman Stan was gone too. The girl I was sitting next to looked at me, and then pointed at the front door. I started for it. The boy was probably gone already, but I wanted to see if I could catch him. I ducked low, so the front desk would cover me as I slipped outside. The daycare lady didn’t even see me. The boy’s parents, whom I recognized from the day before, were talking to her. I walked outside, and saw the boy in the backseat, flying Superman Stan everywhere. I was furious. I stomped over to the car. The boy saw me and rolled his window down.
“Can I help you?” he asked snobbishly. I probably had the angriest look on my face. I held my hand out.
“Give me my Superman Stan!” I nearly shouted. He just stared at me with his little smile.
“I’m going to play with him for a while, Dolly boy,” he said. My jaw dropped. I hated it when people made fun of my last name like that. I didn’t play with dolls. He held Superman Stan up to my face, his hand sticking out the window. Now, as a child, I had a very strange way of reacting to people baiting me. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t try to snatch it from him. That almost never works. Instead, I stared at him for a moment, and then it happened. “Well, don’t you want him bac-,” he almost finished his sentence. I grabbed his wrist, and yanked him forward. His head hit the door, and he slumped, unconscious. I smiled, taking the figure out of his hand, and pushing his hand back into the car. That’s when his parents came.
“Aw, he must be really tired,” his mother said. They waved at me as they climbed into their car and left. I smiled.
“My Superman Stan,” I said. I walked back inside.