On her first day at Lawndale High School, she decided to get everything out in the open, so she wore her ankh. Forever after that, students who didn’t remember her name called her the Ankh Girl, which she didn’t mind too much, or various rude nicknames revolving around the word witch, which she didn’t like at all. She preferred being called Scarlett, her real name, but few bothered and almost no one ever spelled it right (two t’s, not one).
Her aunt dropped her off in front of Lawndale High School at 7:20 a.m. on a Tuesday in September, reminding her with a smile that the word “sophomore” was Greek for “wise fool.” After checking in at the main office (and correcting the spelling of her name on almost every school official document in her file), Scarlett was put in a group with five other new students and taken on a tour by the principal, Angela Li, a talkative Asian woman with an excess of school spirit that indicated Ms. Li actually believed what she was ranting on about. This was potentially bad, but Scarlett decided she could live with it. She wanted little more at this point than to fade into the background to study her new environment and its inhabitants in peace.
In minutes, she had categorized all five of her fellow new students: a self-centered Cuteness Queen with long orange-red hair, a brunette Self-Outcast Brain who was clearly the Cuteness Queen’s dour older sister, a tall Anal Retentive Manager fond of propriety and drab clothing, a shaggy-haired Extreme Skateboarder in baggy pants and sunglasses, and a pleasant but unexciting Closet Trekkie. The Brain and the Extreme Skateboarder seemed to have issues with fitting in. Scarlett soon lost interest in all of them, though she suspected the polar-opposite sisters would provide colorful entertainment in the future. In this, she was quickly proven correct. (The temptation to call the Brain’s sister “Pinky” was terrible.)
She also suspected the principal, the living embodiment of George Orwell’s Big Brother, would lock horns with the Brain and Extreme Skateboarder, and again she was proven correct as both were deposited into a self-esteem class in less than a week’s time. The Brain figured a way out of it, of course, aided by another outcast, a leggy Art Chick who took nothing seriously. Scarlett could tell the Brain and the Art Chick would be a dyad for life, each half of a whole, and counted them lucky.
For her part, Scarlett went to classes, went to lunch, went to more classes, and so on, falling into the rhythm of her new life. It was not so different from her old life back in the western suburbs of Chicago, before her aunt was downsized and decided, as did Scarlett, that a move to the east coast was called for. Her aunt was gainfully employed in online sales again, working on her laptop at all hours anyplace in the apartment, even on the toilet. For her part, Scarlett did her homework, listened to every sort of music, made a tiny circle of semi-close friends, played with her hair when she thought no one else was looking, and stayed out of the limelight.
She was asked a lot of questions, of course, which she always answered in her soft, Midwestern voice. Yes, she was a pagan, a Wiccan to be specific, but no, she wasn’t a Satanist, it wasn’t like that at all. Yes, she knew spells, but no, she couldn’t make people fall in love or put hexes on teachers, sorry about that. Yes, she knew about Goths, but no, she didn’t think of herself as a Goth, though she dressed almost entirely in dark tones from her long black V-neck sweater to her high-heeled, narrow-toed boots, with a gray tee and brown ankle-length skirt to round out her ensemble. Yes, she was named Scarlett because of her hair, which was a shoulder-length waterfall of the reddest blood-red anyone ever remembered seeing, parted in the middle with one long thin strand swinging over her face. No, her parents were no longer alive; her unmarried paternal aunt was her sole guardian.
Everything went well until the October day Scarlett walked into the high-school science classroom between periods, hoping to get a clarification on a literature assignment from another student. The student she sought was talking with someone else, and while waiting Scarlett idly looked into the glass tank full of white mice newly returned from a student research project. One of them caught her attention: a mouse curled into a ball in a corner, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
A girl standing near Scarlett noticed the object of her gaze and walked over. It was the Brain.
“That one looks ill,” said Scarlett, pointing.
“I almost wish it were,” said the Brain. “It was conditioned to fear everything in its environment.”
Scarlett’s face crinkled into a look of disgust. “That’s awful.”
“That’s what happens when a cheerleader kidnaps your lab mouse in the belief that you’re trying to steal her boyfriend, then gives the mouse to her psychopathic little brother for a few days before you can bribe her to give the mouse back,” said the Brain. “Long story.”
“A little kid tortured it?”
“To put it kindly.”
Scarlett stared at the shivering ball of white fur. “What’ll happen to it?” she finally asked—but the Brain had already left class to find the Art Chick. Her literature assignment forgotten, Scarlett steeled herself and went to the science teacher, a divorced and bitter middle-aged woman named Janet Barch.
“Oh, he’s useless for research now,” snapped Ms. Barch, fists on her hips as she surveyed the mouse tank. “Just like a man. No spine at all. If I had a hungry boa constrictor, I’d solve two problems at once, but I don’t, so I’ll have to—”
“Can I have him?”
“Can you have him?” Barch repeated in astonishment. “Why would you want a worthless thing like that?”
“Why would you?” Scarlett replied.
Ten minutes later and late for her next class, Scarlett tucked the mouse into her locker. The mouse now shivered on a pile of shredded tissues inside a Tupperware container with holes punched in the lid. A selection of food pellets lay against his back in the event he recovered from his trauma sufficiently to eat. At days’ end, Scarlett took the mouse home to her aunt’s apartment and badgered her aunt into driving her to a pet store to get a proper cage for it. The cage and all its crawl-tube accessories cost $74.89, but her aunt had just made a major online sale and was in the mood to splurge.
Fresh wood shavings and a colorful plastic cage did not seem to improve the mouse’s demeanor. Scarlett forgot about her homework and tried for hours to get the mouse to stop shivering and respond instead to its surroundings. She began to wonder if it had been poisoned or suffered internal injuries. As she checked the Internet on her laptop for possible cures, she thought bad thoughts about rotten kids who tormented helpless creatures. When the Internet proved unhelpful, she tried a couple of spells to no avail, and she even tried prayer with the same result.
At 11 p.m. and feeling desperate, Scarlett went into her closet where her altar was hidden (but only from company, as her aunt didn’t mind if she was a Wiccan), and she took down her boxes and bags of herbs. She was out of her depth here and knew it, but something had to be done. After sorting through what she had, she picked out five herbs in particular and dropped them into the cage in front of the mouse’s nose.
The mouse immediately uncurled and sneezed violently, emitting tiny squeaks as it did. When it stopped, it looked around with a dazed air.
“Is that better?” Scarlett said.
“What an awful dream I’ve had,” said the mouse in a thin, clear voice. “It was horrible, just horrible.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Scarlett. She knew immediately that reality had changed, but she was flexible about the boundaries of reality and went with the flow. “Hope this is better.”
“There was this grinning blond kid,” the mouse went on, “and he . . . whoa.” The mouse looked directly up at Scarlett, its nose and whiskers twitching. “Oh, man,” it groaned. “I blew it.”
“Guess so,” said Scarlett in her soft voice, as if she had talked with mice every day of her life. “Why don’t you have some dinner? You look starved.”
The mouse stared at her a moment longer. “This doesn’t smell or sound like a house I’ve been in before,” it said.
“It isn’t. You’re at my aunt’s apartment, in my room.” She pointed to the nearby water bottle and dish of pellets. “Go drink and eat. We’ll talk later.” She had wanted to keep talking, but the mouse was in bad shape and she wasn’t willing to see it die just for the thrill of an interspecies chat. After a last long look, the mouse did as it was told. Scarlett watched it lick at the water nozzle, turning its head to peer at her now and then, while she in turn pondered on what exactly was going on and what she should do about it.
She contained herself until the mouse had eaten its second food pellet. “So,” she said, “are you supposed to be my familiar?”
“Your familiar?” The mouse snorted lightly. “I don’t think we’re that familiar yet.” After a moment, it added in a contrite voice, “Just kidding. No, I’m not a familiar, if you mean like a magical animal for a wizard or something.” After another moment, it said, “Thank you. I really am grateful for . . . well, everything.”
“You’re welcome. I was thinking that I knew a few people who said they had familiars and talked with them, but I always figured they were exaggerating. Sort of like people who live alone say they can talk with their miniature dogs and understand everything they say, but they really don’t.”
The mouse finished off another pellet and licked its pink nose with a tiny pink tongue. “I’m inclined to agree,” it said. “As far as I know, I’m the only real-life talking animal around here. Humans excluded.” It gave her a concerned look. “Maybe we should talk about this. I’d not like to be put on television or anything, if you don’t mind. I know there’s a lot of money to be made, but I’m not very good with travel, and crowds make me nervous. Plus, I’m more than a little concerned that someone will want to take me apart to see how I work, sort of like those frogs that got dissected in science lab a few weeks ago, and—”
“No,” she said. “That won’t happen.”
“Easy for you to say. I bet every one of those frogs said the same thing, too.”
“It won’t,” said Scarlett.
The mouse subsided and ate one more food pellet.
“I’m Scarlett,” she said.
“I can tell,” said the mouse, looking up. “What’s your name, though?”
She smiled through her red bangs. “Cute. Rude, but cute.”
“I shouldn’t do that,” said the mouse in a lower tone. “All I need is to tick you off to win a one-way trip down the toilet bowl.”
“Say what you want. I don’t mind. What’s your name?”
“Uh, let me get back to you on that, if that’s okay. I’m a little careful with my name. Everyone should be.” The mouse picked up another food pellet and nibbled at it. “It’s not Algernon, I can tell you that,” it added between nibbles. “And don’t say Stuart Little or Reepicheep, either. Ugh.”
Why it wouldn’t give its name was certainly queer. It was just a mouse. A talking mouse with an unusual amount of literary knowledge, yes, but still a mouse. Maybe it was afraid of being cursed. She shrugged, still smiling though the unreality of the situation was beginning to tug at her. “So, where are you from? If you’re not from around here, that is.”
“I’m not, in a way, but in a—” The mouse put down the food pellet, appearing to think and chew at the same time. “Look,” it said after it swallowed, “I’d like nothing more than to pretend this whole conversation never happened. It’s just that I woke up from this awful dream and was so disoriented that—”
“It wasn’t a dream,” she said. “I rescued you today from a classroom where you got used in an experiment. Someone told me a mean kid kidnapped and tortured you. You were rolled up in a ball doing nothing but shaking. The science teacher was going to get rid of you, I think.”
“Oh,” said the mouse after an appropriate pause. “Oh. So, that wasn’t a drea—” The mouse shivered all over and rubbed its eyes. “Oh, man. Wish you hadn’t told me. Oh, man.”
“Finish your food,” she said gently. “You need your strength.”
“Right.” The mouse looked down, appearing weary. “Scarlett,” it said, “I’m rather tense, and I owe you a tremendous apology. I’m not myself lately—ha, ha.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, no, I am worried about it. I’m not usually like this.” It rubbed its eyes again. “Perhaps I should get some sleep, and with any luck you’ll wake up tomorrow and forget this ever happened.”
“Sleep would do you good. I need to do my homework, anyway.”
“What time is it?” The mouse peered at a radio/CD clock-alarm near the cage. “Hey, you’d better hurry. It’s late.”
“I’ll be fine.” On impulse, Scarlett started to reach for the trapdoor on top of the cage, meaning to open it and pet the mouse. She stopped herself almost immediately, though it took all her willpower to do so. It might not like to be petted if it was this intelligent. “You get some sleep. We’ll talk later.”
“Perhaps,” said the mouse. It yawned and began to wash itself with its tongue and paws.
She watched for a few moments, then said on impulse, “You weren’t always a mouse, were you?”
The mouse started, looking up at her with wide, shocked eyes. It then regained its composure and looked away, continuing to wash itself but more slowly. “I’m very tired,” it said, as if to itself, then crawled off inside an opaque hutch in the cage and did not come out again for the rest of that night.
Last updated 12/23/06