But in the darkened classroom with the
number 268, there was a little sign of life. A
small reminder of the animated day. A tiny bird,
a finch, was hopping methodically across her cage
Room 268 was a science classroom, and the teacher
who occupied it kept finches. She liked them because they were
tough, not needing all the special equipment a fish or reptile requires. She
liked the birds’ brave and curious nature, and appreciated that though they
always had something to say, they said it quietly enough.
This particular finch was hopping in and out of the single beam of yellow
illumination coming from outside. Every few hops she would stop and squint
down at the newspaper that covered the floor of her cage. Her head would
move slowly, and then off she’d go again, bouncing along, shifting position.
It looked exactly like what was truly happening. The finch was reading.
Nimbus was a zebra finch. She was a dusty gray color with black and
white bands on her tail and eyes. Her beak was the fiery orange of a sunset
she had never seen. Had she known what they were, Nimbus would have
loved sunsets. Sunsets meant evening, and evening meant she could learn
Not everyone considers their
classrooms at night. When the bell rings, the
final backpacks clear away, and the teachers
wearily lock their doors and pull cars, headlights
sweeping, from the lot, a school becomes a quiet,
lonesome place. Dull, mute corridors contrast
with the echoes of daytime shouts and chatter.
Sinks in darkened bathrooms drip quietly, and
solitary bits of trash drift listlessly over lunch
tables in the dying evening breeze. The life of
a school goes out with the sun.
Illustrated by Clara Anganuzzi
text © 2019 by Lauren Orme, art © 2019 by Clara Anganuzzi
BY LAUREN ORME
IT MIGHT BE
UNUSUAL FOR BIRDS
TO READ, BUT NOT
IN ALL SHAPES!