Little Mouse

Mia knelt under the kitchen table in her She-Ra pajamas, resting her chin in her hands. She watched a knothole in the baseboard as Mama's sewing machine purred like a giant kitten above her. The floor was cold, and the pawnshop space heater did little to fight the draft seeping in from the sweating window frame. Mia sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. The knothole was very small, but tiny teeth had worked at it over the winter until now Mia could stick her entire thumb into it, if she dared.

She scrunched up her face in concentration.

A twitching nose peeked out of the hole. A few moments later the mouse emerged, one white-tipped paw and then another, whiskers trembling as it gauged potential dangers.

The mouse sat up on its haunches and tested the air suspiciously.

"Hello, Mr. Socks," Mia whispered.

His ears twitched at the sound of her voice, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling. He dropped back onto all fours, ready to dash back into the wall.

Mia's eyes darted to the crust of bread she had left outside his home. This morning she was trying grape jelly on wheat bread. Mr. Socks preferred peanut butter, but Mia hated the new brand Mama bought from the health food store. It felt oily and gritty in her mouth and didn't taste like peanut butter at all.

Mr. Socks saw the bread and started slinking toward it, keeping his body pressed against the baseboard.

Mia held her breath. The mouse was only inches from the bread when the phone rang, sending him back into his hole in a streak of gray.

She sighed melodramatically and blew her bangs out of her eyes. Rolling over, she stared at the underside of the tabletop, crossing her eyes until the crayon drawings on the rough particleboard split into dancing, blurry doubles of sad trees and dark houses and tall, angry men.

Mama sounded anxious. It must be Daddy on the line. He always made Mama anxious. He was a large man, even for a grownup, and he frightened Mama. Mia guessed she would be frightened of him too, if he hit her like he hit Mama. But he never did. He called Mia his "little mouse."

"But you said you would take her tonight—she's looking forward to it... Yes, I do have plans... A friend... No, I swear, we're just friends... Please don't call me that, it's not true... I hate that word."

Mia tried to stop listening and started humming, but Mama's voice was rising in desperation. Outside, the afternoon coal train rumbled past on the tracks behind the apartment complex. Mia felt the vibrations from the heavy cars through the kitchen floor. The pictures shook on the wall and the glasses rattled in the cupboard like tiny chimes.

Mama had started crying now.

Mia hated when Mama cried. No matter how tightly she pressed her hands to her ears, or how loudly she hummed, she couldn't drown out the sound of Mama's voice.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," Mia whispered as she rocked back and forth.

The low rumble of the train shook the windowpanes.

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up."

The pretty vase of wildflowers jumped on the counter. Water sloshed onto the floor.

"Shut up!" Mia screamed.

The vase fell in a deafening crash. Bits of glass and wildflowers showered the room. Mama dropped the phone. It bounced on the floor and came to rest against the table leg; Mia heard Daddy shouting through the receiver.

He was saying the angry words again.

Mama bent down and carefully lifted Mia onto the table, inspecting her for damage. Mia felt scared, but she didn't cry. She had to be the strong one.