Testing

We’re hunched over our desks, filling in test bubbles about The Crucible for tenth-grade English and stinking up the classroom because it’s boiling hot and we’re adolescents and our school has no AC, so Ms. B opens the windows, thank God, even though there aren’t any screens.

Jimmy fake-sneezes, then grabs tissues from Ms. B’s desk, but he’s really peeking at Angela’s answers, ‘cause he doesn’t know the definition of theocracy. The rest of us know; Ms. B reminded us during review, but Jimmy was distracted sketching Zoe who he thinks is cute.

The tune “Ring Around the Rosie” drifts through the open window, and suddenly we wanna run outside to buy Snow Cones or Choco Tacos, but we stay seated because we don’t have any money. Plus we feel sorry for Ms. B who reads depressing stuff like The Crucible where John Proctor and Goodie Nurse get hanged.

Even though he hasn’t finished the essay section on loose-leaf paper, William throws his pencil overhead, catches it, then throws it again, pointy part up. The pencil tip sticks to a ceiling tile, dangling like an icicle from a tree.

“Get back to work!” Ms. B snaps at us, as she drags over a chair, stepping up to reveal her buff legs while knocking down the pencil with a ruler.

The pencil clatters to the floor, just as a grey bird flies through the window. Shrieking, we shout, “Holy Crap! It’s like that scene from The Crucible!” Jimmy lunges toward the bird, chasing it around the perimeter, bellowing, “Get outta here!”

Ms. B’s yelling, “Settle down! Get back to work!” when the classroom door opens; the school’s resource officer bursts in, hand on his gun holster, hollering, “Police. What’s going on here?” followed by Principal Stone.

Everyone —including Ms. B—gasps. We’re all thinking what Jimmy yells, “Holy shit!”

Then silence. Even Jimmy’s mouth is shut. We hear fading tunes from the ice cream truck, but we’re not thinking about frozen treats anymore. The bird sails across the room to perch atop the classroom’s American flag. Our eyes zip from the bird, to Ms. B, to the principal, to the officer’s gun.

Finally, Principal Stone breaks the hush, “What’s the meaning of this ruckus? You’re disrupting the whole school!” We answer for Ms. B, saying it’s our fault —or really the bird’s.

The officer snarls, “Quiet!” And Ms. B, flushed and sweaty, not just because of the temperature, admits she opened the window, and the bird flew in, interrupting the test. “Everyone’s safe. But yes‑yes‑yes, we were a bit unruly; I apologize.”

Then, as if those Salem girls cast a witchy spell, the bird launches from the flag, swooping out the window just as the bell rings, so the principal and officer tell Ms. B to meet them after school to discuss further, and we turn in our unfinished tests, mumbling “Sorry,” hoping Ms. B doesn’t get fired for opening the damn window.

BIO: Liz deBeer authored Farewell to Emptiness, a novelette-in-flash (Thirty West). Her flash has appeared in Citron Review, BULL, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres, DIHP, Literary Garage, and others. A volunteer reader for Flash Fiction Magazine, Liz is a teacher and writer with Project Write Now. Her website: http://www.ldebeerwriter.com and Substack on resilience: A Lizard's Tale.

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