Page 42 of Cackle

“Kill it!” someone says.

“No!” I yell. I don’t know why. The students look at me like I’m insane.

The spider picks up speed. It has a lot of legs. It hurries to the back wall, disappears under a bookshelf.

Kylie Hamilton is shriek-crying. Joe Alvarez is shining his phone flashlight on the floor near the bookshelf. Madison is rolling her eyes.

“Hey!” I say. They ignore me, so I whistle. A proper finger-in-mouth jet-engine whistle.

There are so many eyes on me. Wide and terrified eyes.

“Sit down,” I say. “Now.”

I take a breath.

“Can someone please escort Mr. Bersten to the nurse?”

They blink at me.

“Anyone?” I ask. “All right. Tyler.”

I point to one of the other chirpers. He’s well over six feet tall and always looks uncomfortable at his desk. I figure I’m doing him a favor.

“No,” he says.

“Why?” I ask.

He can’t answer.

“Walk Chris to the nurse. Now. Thank you.”

Chris is completely drained of color. A lattice of blue veins emerges on his forehead, also at his temples and on his neck. Tyler groans and makes sure he pushes his desk when he gets up to show he’s angry.

“You need help, man?” he asks Chris without looking at him.

Chris gives a slight shake of his head and stands slowly. He shuffles out of the classroom with his whole body bent, like a four-legged animal attempting to walk upright.

As soon as Chris and Tyler are out of the room, the bell rings and spares me from having to salvage the rest of class. If there was any salvaging it.

Probably not, considering a kid vomited up a live spider. That then crawled away.

I watch as a series of faces in varying states of shock and disgust stagger past me.

I lean back against my desk, staring at the glob of spit forming a crust on Chris Bersten’s desk.

It’s cruel to leave it for the janitor.

I dig a stack of napkins out of the top drawer of my filing cabinet.

I approach cautiously.

There’s no bile, no chunks of food. It’s not puke. Just thick spit. I fetch the trash can, wipe the desk down, throw the napkins in the trash. I get a Lysol wipe. Another. I go over the desk again and again. After, I go up to the teachers’ lounge bathroom and wash my hands until my knuckles are pink and raw.

I do this all without thinking. If I start to think, if I start to question how, or why . . . It’s a thread I don’t want to pull on.

Isn’t there some data about how many bugs we eat when we’re asleep?

He probably slept with his mouth open. A true mouth breather.