kids were staring at him. They looked like they wanted to say things…
You heard her, Christopher.
Come on.
We don’t have all day.
…but they couldn’t because their mouths were sewn shut.
Christopher searched for his friends, but Special Ed was asleep at his desk. The M&M’s had their heads down, too. Christopher looked back as Ms. Lasko bent her finger, beckoning him to the front of the class. There was dirt under her fingernails. A silver key hung from a little noose around her neck. Christopher’s heart started to pound. He knew what had happened.
I fell asleep. Oh, God. I’m dreaming.
“Christopher, if you don’t come to the board right now, everyone in this auditorium will have no choice but to eat you alive,” Ms. Lasko said in a calm voice.
Get to the street.
Christopher turned. All of the exits were guarded by teachers. Standing with their eyes and mouths sewn shut. There was no way out.
“Christopher, you come right now!” Ms. Lasko hissed.
Christopher didn’t want to walk to her. He wanted to get out of here. So, he moved away from the blackboard. But every time he moved away, he somehow moved closer. Everything was opposite day. He stopped. He breathed calmly.
He took a step away from the blackboard.
And his feet took one step closer.
“No!” he cried.
He took another two steps away.
And he moved two steps closer.
He stopped. And thought. “Okay. It’s opposite day. If I move closer to the blackboard, then I’ll move away.”
So, he took two steps toward the blackboard.
And he moved four steps toward it.
It didn’t matter what he did.
He kept walking to the front of the auditorium.
“Help me! Please!” Christopher shouted.
Christopher looked at all of the kids for help. Their mouths were sewn shut, but their eyes smiled at him. Christopher moved down the aisle. Every row he passed looked up at him and hissed.
Don’t mess up the test.
Don’t blow the curve.
Christopher walked up to the blackboard where Ms. Lasko stood, her thick eye makeup the right color. But somehow wrong. Everything was wrong. She didn’t smell like her usual cigarettes. She smelled like burning skin. Ms. Lasko smiled and held up a perfect piece of white chalk. It was in the shape of a finger.
“Take it, Christopher,” she said, rubbing her dirty fingernails over his brown hair.
She handed him the chalk.
“Now, write on the board, Christopher.”
“What do you want me to write?” he asked.
“You know what to write,” she said.
The chalk screeched on the blackboard as Christopher began.
I WILL NOT FALL ASLEEP IN CLASS.
He turned to Ms. Lasko. She pulled out a pair of scissors.
“That’s not what you’re supposed to write, Christopher.”
“What do you want me to write?” he asked.
“You know what to write,” she said calmly.
Christopher turned to see Ms. Lasko walk to the front row of students. She knelt down in front of Jenny Hertzog, picked up the scissors, and quietly snipped away the thread covering her mouth. Jenny loosened her jaw. She began to salivate. Like little babies do when they are starting to grow teeth. Little baby teeth.
I AM SORRY I FELL ASLEEP IN CLASS.
“That’s not what you’re supposed to write, Christopher,” Ms. Lasko said.
“Ms. Lasko, please. I don’t know what you want me to write,” he begged.
“Yes, you do. The bell is going to ring for lunch period. Would someone like to help Christopher at the board?”
All the kids raised their hands and opened their mouths to say “Me! Me! Me!” But no words came. Just the sound of babies crying to be fed their mother’s milk.
Mother’s milk is blood without the red corpuscles.
Milk is blood. The babies want your blood.
“Thank you, children. You. You in the red hoodie. Why don’t you help him?” Ms. Lasko said.
A raised hand came out of a little red sleeve. Christopher couldn’t see the kid’s face. All he saw was Ms. Lasko moving down the front row, cutting all of the children’s mouths free. Snip. Snip. Snip. The babies were howling for blood.
Christopher turned back to the board. Desperate. The chalk shook in his hand. He knew he could never write anything about the tree house or the nice man or the training or the imaginary world. So, he started to write furiously. Anything he could think of.
I’M SORRY YOU DRINK YOURSELF TO SLEEP, MS. LASKO.
“THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU WRITE, CHRISTOPHER!” she hissed.
Ms. Lasko moved to Brady Collins. Snip. Snip. Snip.
I’M SORRY FOR MS. LASKO’S BABY. IN HEAVEN.
“That’s not where my baby is,” Ms. Lasko said in a baby voice. “HELP CHRISTOPHER WRITE WHAT HE NEEDS TO WRITE!”