Free This Is Not Your City by Caitlin Horrocks Page B

the windowsill, it was gone. The children denied knowing anything. She made them drag their chairs against the wall and sit still while she searched. The box was in Donald’s desk, the cardboard top open, the rat nestled inside.
    â€œYou stole my rat,” Eril said, holding the box in front of Donald’s face.
    â€œThe class’s rat.”
    â€œWhatever. You’ve got a dead rat in your desk.”
    â€œI wanted to tell Binx goodbye.”
    â€œYou have to ask the teacher if you can do something like that. Maybe Binx died of something catching.”
    There was a general shifting of bodies and thunking of chairs as the students moved away from Donald and Binx and Eril.
    â€œThe word is contagious, ” Donald said.
    â€œYou’re staying inside for the funeral. Then you’re staying after. We’ll sit here until the snails come out.”
    â€œFine,” Donald said. Eril felt victorious, that the boy with the enormous vocabulary was reduced to “fine” in the face of her authority. Her discipline was flailing but final.
    After Binx had been eulogized and buried, Donald’s face at the classroom window, after a multiplication quiz and a map review, the other children packed their backpacks and went home. Eril turned off the lights and closed the shades. Donald’s face was lit by the lights inside the aquarium, shining through the algae-clouded water. They sat together, close to the tank, and Eril knew she must look the same way, green and unearthly. They waited for what felt like a very long time and Eril looked behind her, realized she couldn’t make out the face of the wall clock. She wondered how Donald got home, who picked him up, if there was a bus he caught, if he walked.
    Hating children left her breathless. It made her feel powerless, to hate someone so small, thin, fragile people who could not even tie shoes correctly, who ate pudding snacks and played
kickball and whose handwriting was clumsy, unpracticed. Who fumbled with their snow pants and seemed unable to navigate even the most basic challenges life would provide. Who, even so, would not respect her and would not listen. It took her outside of herself. Ms. Larcom was someone helpless, petty, venal. She was cruel and incompetent. She was not Eril, could not be. Could not : modal verb, negative certainty.
    â€œDonald, if you need to get home—” she said, splitting the silence, the soft gurgle of the water filters. “If there’s a bus you need to catch—”
    â€œShhhh...,” Donald said, and put his index finger to his lips. It was like all his gestures, studied, precise, like human behavior learned from pictures instead of from actual humans. It made her want to hit him.
    â€œI’m not saying I don’t think you need punishment. I’m just saying—”
    â€œShhhh, please.”
    â€œDonald, I’m saying you can go.”
    â€œThe snails won’t come out unless you’re quiet.”
    â€œI don’t care if the snails come out.”
    â€œIf the snails don’t come out, we can’t leave.” He looked at her, stricken but instructional, explaining a truth that she’d conveniently forgotten. He put one hand on his hip and the other he used to scold her, wagging his finger in the air in front of her face. In the green light he looked underwater, the pale hand floating in front of her.
    â€œDonald, I’m sorry. Forget about the snails. You can go.”
    â€œBe quiet, please.”
    â€œI’m trying to apologize.”
    â€œPlease, Ms. Larcom.”
    â€œI’m sorry about Binx. I’m sorry about everything.”
    â€œShush, Ms. Larcom.”
    â€œIs there something I can do for you, Donald? Do you need a ride home? Tell me what you want me to do.”
    â€œBe quiet, please,” Donald said, almost moaning. “Just please be quiet, or we’ll never get to leave.”

World Champion Cow of the