Kindergarten. We sit in a big circle on the floor. The teacher passes around a mouse. It is a very small mouse. It fits in the palm of thirty-one five-year-olds. Until it gets to me. I don’t know that I am about to do what I am about to do. There is no prior thought or plan. I am sitting cross-legged, quietly, obediently as usual. And then the mouse lands in my hand. My turn. Its little feet are scratchy. It twists its tiny whiskered nose at me and blinks its little red eyes. And then its tail. The mouse slithers its tail across my fingers and I scream.
It takes a long time for the teacher and the janitor to locate the mouse. Everyone is mad at me for flinging it so far.