ISSUE V

The Littlest Martyr

            You should not have taken the snails. You should have left them where you found them, clumps of brown shells clustered together under the rims of the schoolyard flowerpots. You should not have parted the long green stems of the lilies to get at them, like parting hair to check for lice. You should not have hunted for the largest one with the thickest shell, and you should not have reached with eager fingers, and you should not have pried it free of its suctioned grip on its leaf. 

            It must have been going somewhere. When snails slept they retreated into their shells and left behind a filmy cast to hold them stuck in place. If you broke them off, the cast gave out like paper, and no matter how hard you tried you could not take it back and the snail would not stick back on. It would have to come out of its shell and decide to grab on again. 

            “Whatcha get?” Ana asked. 

            You showed her—he sat in the middle of your grubby palm and rolled with your movements, but you cupped your hand so he wouldn’t fall off. 

            “Oh, he’s huge. Wanna trade?” 

            You did not trade. You wanted to build your snail a little house with sticks and mud and fill it with a bedding of small green leaves. You wanted to find fresh flowers for it to eat, the ones that were so pretty it felt guilty picking them, so that your snail would have the best. 

            You and Ana set up under the chestnut tree with its branches drooping towards the ground so it made a cave, where the girls played house. The other side of the schoolyard was the clearing of stomped-down dirt where the boys played soccer. It’s funny how you each knew where to go without anyone ever telling you, and never even thought of going anywhere else. 

            Your snail was brave and curious. You put him on your arm and laid down leaves to coax him out. You loved the way they crept out of their shells—first one beady, cautious antenna, then two, and then a whole creature was spilling out of its safety and onto your skin. He explored your arm and left shining wet traces, like tears or rainbows. You liked the icky slime of it. You like being trusted by a creature that waited so carefully before showing its head. 

            Across the yard, the boys’ soccer game was contentious. Fouls were called and rebuffed and called again, fierce debates being sparked, boys from the class taking sides and boys from the other class being called over to mediate. Kevin had gotten new cleats for his afternoon soccer club from his dad that he wasn’t allowed to wear to school. Between plays he would duck aside to clean them off with spit and balled-up paper towels. Ervis was usually the goalie but they needed him on the field today so they had pulled him into the game. His aim was off. Balls kept flying past the chestnut tree. 

            “Can’t you girls just move?” he shouted, afraid to hit you. 

            “You can’t have the whole yard!” Ana shouted back. 

            You were hunting for the best sticks, thick but not rough-barked, snapped short but not splintery. You wanted your house to have sturdy walls. Your snail kept trying to crawl away, but his silver trail betrayed him. You plucked him from his escape and put him back in his bed of leaves where you could see him. 

            Kevin wandered over, on the concrete path to keep the mud off his cleats. He crouched down beside you and squinted. “What are you doing?” 

            You should not have told him. 

            “Oh, gross! He’s getting everything all slimy.” 

            You do not know why he did it, why his face twisted up, why he was cruel. He stood and lifted his leg so high it nearly cost him his balance. If you had reached up and grabbed his heel and pushed, you would have knocked him backwards. 

            Instead you reached out to cover your snail. Your palm slid in just as his cleats came down, hard studs of plastic serrated along the sole like teeth studding the jawbone of a predator. Your index finger snapped. It healed crooked, and you had to change the way you held a pencil. You wrote slower the rest of your life. 

            That was not the worst part. 

            The worst part was the shell giving out under your fingers as it was crushed, splinters of skeleton pressed into your skin. Life welled up wet between your fingers. You were not sure what had killed it, the stomping or your protection.