Milk: The Story Continues Even Further!

We loaded 18 little milks into our plastic crate and started back for our classroom.  As we rounded the corner and prepared for our imaginary trip back through the carpet squares, James stopped. The discolored patch had disappeared.

“James,” I breathed.  “Where is it?”  We looked down the long hallway at the continuous grey blue of undisturbed carpet.  I glanced over at him.  His eyes were wide under his floppy blonde hair.  James was the kind of boy I could never have a crush on.  We had been friends for way too long.  And he was kind of gross.  He was nothing like Grant Jensen, the sixth grader who once talked to me at the drinking fountain.  But James was still ok, I guess.

“That’s weird,” James said, handing me the crate and jumping onto the place the patch should have been.  He shuffled his feet back and forth, jumped around. “Come on, let’s get back to our classroom.”  We sped down past the rows of backpacks on hooks and colorful posters.  One poster caught my eye.  It proudly declared “Welcome to 5^th grade! You fit right in!” and various names were written on puzzle pieces.  I didn’t recognize the poster. I didn’t recognize the names.  James walked up to the door of our classroom and peered in the window. He gasped and motioned me forward.  Holding the milk crate in front of me, I approached the window.  Everything was backwards. Our desks were facing the opposite wall, the whiteboard had flipped sides, Mrs. Sinclair’s desk was turned the wrong way.  Seated at her desk was a woman with Mrs. Sinclair’s kind face and short hair, but she had entirely blue skin.

Screaming, I dropped the milk crate and began to run.  James snatched up the scattered cartons and came after me.  “Molly! Did you see them, did you see them?” He panted as we rounded the corner. 

“James, they were blue.”