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Mouse loved to draw. Her bedroom walls were covered in pictures of her father and her, her and her teddy bears. Mouse spent her days playing pretend. Her bedroom, the only one on the second floor of the old home, was full of dolls, toys and stuffed animals. Each animal had a name. Her favorite was a stuffed brown bear named Mr. Bear. Mouse had a dollhouse, a toy kitchen set with pretend pots and pans and crates of plastic food. She had a tea set. Mouse loved to set her dolls and animals in a circle on her floor, on the edge of her striped rag rug, and serve them each a tiny mug of tea and a plastic doughnut. She would find a book on her shelf and read it aloud to her friends before tucking them into bed.
But sometimes Mouse didn’t play with her animals and dolls.
Sometimes she stood on her bed and pretended the floor around her was hot lava oozing from the volcano at the other end of the room. She couldn’t step on the floor for risk of death. Those days, Mouse would scramble from her bed to a desk, climbing to safety. She’d tread precariously across the top of the small white desk—the legs of it wobbling beneath her, threatening to break. Mouse wasn’t a big girl but the desk was old, fragile. It wasn’t meant to hold a six-year-old child.
But it didn’t matter because soon enough Mouse was clambering into a laundry basket full of dirty clothes on the bedroom floor. As she did, she took extra care not to step on the floor, breathing a sigh of relief when she was safely inside the basket. Because even though the basket was on the floor, it was safe. The basket couldn’t get swallowed up by lava, because it was made of titanium, and Mouse knew that titanium wouldn’t melt. She was a smart girl, smarter than any other girl her age that she knew.
Inside the laundry basket, the girl rode the waves of the volcano until the lava itself cooled and crusted over, and the land was safe enough to walk on again. Only then did she venture out of the basket and go back to playing along the edge of the rag rug with Mr. Bear and her dolls.
Sometimes Mouse thought that that, her tendency to disappear to her bedroom—quiet as a church mouse, as her father put it—and play all day, was the reason he called her Mouse.
It was hard to say.
But one thing was certain.
Mouse loved that name until the day Fake Mom arrived. And then she no longer did.
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