English, Mind Like a Mouse, & Tears
Everybody’s lips move behind me, annunciating the words they’re reading. They bring them alive in their imagination; lift the characters from the page.
Except, maybe, Jim. His mind is small like a mouse, and as fast. It scurries around inside his tiny frame, jumping from one subject to another.
Indeed, you could be staring out the window, and he taps you on your shoulder. Did you read the book? Replying will only provoke more questions, but if you don’t, you seem rude, and he tells the teacher.
School has just started, and my mind has already drifted off the page and outside, where robberies occur, and Canadians fry bacon. I wonder what everyone else is thinking. I wonder if they’re pondering the meaning of life, or if they’ve moved from that and onto death. Ashley’s grandma died. Maybe she’s missing her. Or maybe she’s pushed all her feelings down to her toes, and pretended like she doesn’t care. Pretended like she forgot. Pretended like she did, but she did not. I wonder.
The teacher just opened up the blinds, and the light blinds me. Some like it cozy, she says. Everybody else tells her they like it light. I don’t really mind. I like it light, but not blinding. Sometimes. I like the clouds, and curling up into warm blankets in the winter. In the summer, it isn’t so fun.
I turn and see Ashley still working on her book. Is your mind straying, Ashley? I ask, inside my head. I wouldn’t dare speak without raising my hand, even though the teacher’s good about it.
There are a few raindrops on the window, too many to count, but I’ll try anyway.
Some of them are smeared, some still perfect little beads, like pearls. There are more than fifty, spread across the window, and a little more, probably, on the other one. But the teacher won’t open that one. Too distracting, she says.
I look down at my arm and see a scratch. I don’t remember getting it, but I know that I have it, and I’ll remember when I first discovered that I had it.
An old scar, too, from the time when I made cookies and burnt myself on the oven. I burnt myself on the oven, last night, too. I made cookies.
I ran my hand over my arm, and felt bumps. Chicken skin? But I’m not scared. I’m scared of a lot of things, but I’m not scared now.
Death doesn’t scare me. I wonder if it scares Jim, or Ashley, or the cheerleader wearing glasses behind me named Shay. Shay’s nice. I tease her about being a cheerleader, but she’s really good. I put my lunch in her locker, and she didn’t have time to get back to me, until I found her practicing her kicks, and tugged on her sleeve, and made her go back and get it for me. My lunch bag is green, and I don’t want to lose it. I like it. It doesn’t scare me, like the leaning tower of Pisa.
Ashley’s done reading her book, but Hamilton is still working. Annunciating. I see her page, because she’s got the book turned towards me, talking to Shay.
The teacher passes out a worksheet, saying the words aren’t too hard. They’re all Spanish. If I remembered correctly, I’m in English.
Evan just turned in his homework. I guess he was late. He likes saying my name. E-va, he says, in a choppy, musical, robotic voice. I smile and say Schmitty!
When he passed by me, I looked up, my eyebrows furrowed. It was only because I didn’t know who he was. He doesn’t scare me. I like him. But not like that. I don’t think I like anyone like that. Except, maybe, the boy who passes me every so often in the halls. And when I see him, my stomach seems to explode in a billion butterflies, but I’m all right. I’m fine. I don’t mind. I’ll just continue to live my life.
Somebody sneezes in the back row, and a wave of twitters and giggles crash and move towards the front of the room. Go wash your hands. No! Defensive reply.
The tree looks so lonely, even though its twin accompanies it. If you shook it, it would cry little raindrops, from the fall last night.
But I only cry tears from my own eyes.
