Rodent by Lisa J. Lawrence Page A

“Would you be interested in representing our class?”
    I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Represent the class? For a school event?
    “You would be our class leader, but I’ll ask for other student volunteers to help. You wouldn’t be doing it alone.” He waits for me to respond.
    I open my mouth again and eventually choke out, “Are you sure?” After minutes of silence, that’s the best I can do. Great show of confidence, Isabelle . Still, what is the man thinking? “I’ve never done anything like that,” I say in a rumble of panic.
    “No problem. The other class leader volunteered with set-up last year. You’ll be in good hands.” He leans back in his chair and smiles, like it’s all settled.
    “But—” I don’t know what else to say to him. I should say no—no time, barely keeping up with homework, my job. The crazy, drunk mother. I should say all these things, but I can’t stop staring at him with my mouth hanging open.
    “Isabelle,” he says, “you’ll be good at this. You just don’t know it yet.”
    I close my mouth. No one has ever said those words— you’ll be good at this —to me before. “Okay.”
    He gives a firm nod and starts to shuffle things around on his desk again. We’re done here. As I wander toward the library for my spare, a watery dread seeps through me—that familiar “run and hide.” But then something overpowers it, dries it up: a slow, creeping warmth.
    * * *
    At the beginning of English on Monday, Mr. Drummond announces that I’ll be the class leader for Words on the Wall. Twenty-five heads swivel and stare at me, like some kind of horror movie. I was hoping he’d be a bit more subtle about it, maybe printing it in a newsletter that nobody reads.
    “If anyone else is interested in volunteering for the committee, please stay after class today,” he says. A rush of relief. I was afraid he was going to ask for a show of hands right then. What if nobody else volunteered? It would be like that dream where you go to school naked and everyone stares.
    It’s hard for me to concentrate during class. At the end I take a long time gathering my stuff, reloading my bag. Examining the end of my pen. I don’t want to be standing at the front of the room as the entire class files out past me. The last kid picked for dodgeball.
    When I finally swing my bag onto my back and look up, I exhale. Two bodies are beside Mr. Drummond’s desk. Will ( Will? ) and that split-end girl. Mr. Drummond and his delegation of freaks.
    As I walk toward the front of the class, Celeste shifts in the doorway. I turn to stare before I can stop myself. She looks at me—not Mr. Drummond—and opens her mouth to say something. No mean smile. She takes a step toward me, then sees Mr. Drummond join his (sad) group of volunteers and turns away. She’s gone.
    I don’t know why, but I have the impulse to follow her and ask what she was going to say. Then my brain kicks in. Am I stupid? Follow Celeste to Ainsley and Pole Dancer?
    Mr. Drummond waves us over. “Ah, the stout in heart! Isabelle, I trust you know Will and Amanda.” Amanda, that’s her name. I attempt a smile. “There’s a meeting at lunchtime today with the volunteers from Ms. Furbank’s class. Do you know where her room is?”
    Will nods, and Amanda and I shake our heads.
    “Just three doors that way.” He points. “Let me know tomorrow what you decide for theme and materials and such.” We all nod. I guess we’re done. Will and Amanda wander off to their next classes. I go to my hiding hole in the library and finish my story about the bullied girl who loses it, trying to get my mind off the butterflies in my stomach.
    When the lunch bell rings, I find Ms. Furbank’s classroom. A few bodies are already gathered around her desk.
    “You must be Isabelle,” Ms. Furbank says, her reddish hair in a messy bun. Are those real chopsticks stuck through it? Light freckles dust her cheeks. “Come and meet everybody.” She steers