Forever Or A Long, Long Time

I’m the tallest fourth grader, which means I never get to stand in front. My shoulders are squished between two of the boys and I’m on tippy-toes but I still can’t see into the glass tank. The girls and boys in the front say “eww” and others say “ooh.” Some say “so cute!” and some say “yuck!”
I want to know which I think, but I can only glimpse a tiny bit of Pringles’s white fur. Pringles the Mouse is our class pet. It was my turn to take her home for the weekend last Friday, but Ms. K said I would have to wait because Pringles was very pregnant and and Ms. K didn’t want my person to have to deal with mouse babies over the weekend, in case that was when it happened. But now it’s the next Thursday. We’ve been waiting for the baby mice for four days already.
After a few minutes, there are more “ewws” and “yucks” than “oohs” and “cutes,” so Ms. K says, “If you’re in the front row sit down. Let the tall kids take the front for a minute.”
Ms. K might be the best person ever made. She makes me feel like my heart is glowing, like it’s the sun. She makes me feel like my brain is as sweet as cotton candy. Sometimes I hate her, though. I’m bad like that.
The shorter kids sit down and I move up and press my nose against the glass of the tank. Inside, Pringles is curled up sitting on what looks like a grown-up’s slimy purple thumb.
“Purple?” I say.
“Ms. K, Flora’s standing too close,” a boy-Brian-yells.
“Tell her to back up, Ms. K,” Lisa says. I don’t know why they talk about me like that. It’s almost like they think if they said “Flora, back up,” it would sound like another language to me.
I back up a few inches, without Ms. K telling me to. I can still see Pringles. She’s sniffing like crazy, running her nose and whiskers all over the slimy thumb. She’s using her arms to rub her own furry belly and moving her over nose and arms quick-quick-quicker than she ever does.
Then there’s another one. Another awful slimy purple thing being pushed and pulled from beneath her.
“Another mouse baby!” Lisa yells, and the girls who were sitting run up to try to see around the tall kids and everyone’s yelling and whooping and it’s all “cutes” and “yucks”. I can’t decide which I think it is: cute or gross. It’s sort of both, I guess. It’s very loud in the classroom until Ms. K says “shh.”
We’re like soldiers when she says “shh.” We’re quiet. We stand straight. We stop what we’re doing and look at her.
“That’s enough,” she whispers. “If we want these babies to stay safe and turn into good I mice, we have to let Pringles care for them in peace. Return to your desks and open your religion books.”
It’s May already. Ms. K has been training us since September to listen to her. It’s like Ms. K is more interesting than purple slimy cute-and-gross mouse babies in the corner of the classroom even though we see Ms. K every day and we’ve never seen them before.
Ms. K is part genius because this stuff always works. We’re calm. We have glossy religion books on our desks with shiny pictures of a white Jesus hugging a trillion white kids even though my person says there’s no way Jesus or the kids he hugged were white. We’ve almost forgotten about the mice when Ms. K says, “Are there any questions?”
Every single hand goes up. Except mine. I’m working on hand-raising. That’s what my last report card said.
Flora has some excellent points but she needs to work on raising her hand.
“David?” Ms. K calls on the boy next to me.
“What will we name them?” he asks. “Hmm, that’s a homework good question,” Ms. K says. “How about this? For your religion tonight, I’d like you to each write a list of four mouse names. We’ll work together tomorrow to choose the best ones.” Everyone nods fast-fast. That’s the best homework ever.
“Any other questions?” Ms. K says.
“Will they live in the cage with Pringles forever?” Sue asks. Ms. K shakes her head. “Mouse mothers are different from human mothers,” she says. “Human mothers like to love their babies forever. But mice have instincts, which mean they need to live on their own soon after they’re born. They’ll stay in the cage for four weeks, then we’ll work on finding new homes for them. Some of the other teachers are interested in one of these mice as a class pet, too.”
Human mothers love their babies forever.
I feel the eyes of everyone on my braids. Everyone knows my human mother situation. I can’t stand all the eyes. “What about the other mice?” I shout. I don’t raise my hand.
“Which ones, Flora?” Ms. K asks. “And raise your hand.”
I raise it this time but I don’t wait for her to call on me before I talk. “The ones
without. Ms. K freezes, her mouth half open. I’ve never seen the look on her face before.
“Without what, Flora?” she asks.
I can’t say it. I know the words. I know exactly what I’m trying to say. But the most important words are too heavy. They sink to the bottom of my stomach and I’ll never get them out.
“What about the mice like me?” I ask, instead.
After another frozen second, Ms. K’s hand lands on the top of my head. “Flora, you are our one and only,” she says.
I shake my head. I’m not a one and only. I’m always forgetting how Ms. K doesn’t really know Julian, so she doesn’t know about me and Julian. And besides, there are other kids like us, in the way I’m talking about. We used to know a lot of them.
I’m sure Ms. K is going to ask me what I’m talking about. I’m sure she’s going to squat by my desk and address my question in a way that makes me feel special but that the entire class can hear and be interested in. I’m sure Ms. K is the person who can tell me where mice come from if they don’t have a mother.
But she doesn’t.
She lets out a series of commands and before I can even think, our books are open, and she’s talking about Jesus.
She didn’t answer my question.
The rest of the day, I hate her.