Toad Mr. James
Of course Ms. James turned Mr. James into a toad. The one she brings in that awful Tuesday my skirt flips up, the kids start calling me Little Mr. James again, the chocolate Mom sent Mr. James melts in my bag. The toad sits in its glass castle, and I just know it’s him because nothing bothers him, because of that freckled back I recognize from Sunday afternoons by the pool.
Ms. James points at me. “Stand up. Tell the class about string theory.”
“String what, ma’am?”
“Have you learned nothing in the fourth grade?” An inhaler goes off. “String theory. The theory that says everything is made of tiny, invisible strings. Sometimes, a string that belongs in one place gets tangled up with another string. They make a complete mess of their own worlds. Yes?”
Toad Mr. James jumps, hands sticking to the glass. He wants out. He can’t.
This goes on all day. You, summarize Madame Bovary. You, explain vivisection. You, how did Trotsky die. I regret having meat loaf for lunch.
After school, I dip my hands into that glass house, pick him up, and run. I just know who will be so happy to see him.
Behind the story
On the way.
