There’s quiet laughter. I drag my eyes up from the desk. Smiling faces. The kids in my class are nice, mostly. We took a pledge at the start of the year to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. That means we have to assume the best first. Even the teacher.

“Rae, do you have something to share? You were lost in thought there, what did you write about?”

I look down at the blank paper and wonder if my lips will move or if they’ll crack and crumble off my mouth. I try. “I . . .” My voice comes out dusty. I swallow and try again. “I didn’t finish.”

“That’s okay, why don’t you read us what you’ve got.” Ms. Pham smiles at me.

I breathe the gravel off my chest. “I didn’t start.”

“Oh. Okay. Why don’t you tell us what you were thinking about, then?”

“I turned into stone. And nobody noticed.”

“Oh! What an interesting idea. A statue. That would be pretty frightening, being trapped like that. What does everyone else think?”

People call out: “You’d never be able to scratch if you got itchy” and “Birds would poo on you!” There’s laughter, a bit too high and a bit too loud. The room’s buzzing, electric with approved silliness. My legs sink further into my chair.

Ms. Pham claps her hands to get everyone’s attention, to bring them down a bit. “Okay, then. Zaha, what did you come up with?”

The attention moves on.

I turn back into stone.

THREE HUNDRED FORTY-TWO heavy footsteps home. I think I like being stone. It’s better than having a sharp-toothed rat in my chest. I check the letter box. Nothing.

I step over the weeds growing through the front path and check over my shoulder to make sure that kid Oscar’s not planning another visit. He’s nowhere in sight. I’m glad. My fingers play with the key in my pocket. Splints snuffles at the front door. The front mat’s covered in leaves. I pick it up and bang it over the side of the porch into the garden, put it back down, straighten it so it lines up with the doorframe. I slide the key into the lock and check up the street again. Still empty. The front path’s covered in a slime of old leaves. Some of them have melted into stains. The porch looks good, but the garden looks straggly. Abandoned. It was always neat, once. Our house always looked well cared for from the street. I step back onto the path and look at the weeds, the dead, unwatered plants lying wrinkled and desperate. It hasn’t rained for ages.