I killed Rosa Parks. It was unintentional, of course, filled with regret and remorse. Involuntary manslaughter, they would say. Except my jury doesn’t know the word involuntary and even the judge thinks manslaughter is a bit too grim. Still they asked, “what stanks?” My response was quite frank. Putrid perfume powdered a path across my second grade classroom. The source being a dumped lump of skeletal remains clothed in scantily scaled skin. “Rosa.”
She was an albino leopard gecko acquired just two years prior with the intention of revolutionizing second grade, one cricket at a time. You see, my kids were coming home to mommas on drugs surrounded by thugs while their Daddy’s latest altercation led to his incarceration. They wrestled out back while the grownups smoked crack, ate Cheetos for dinner and grew a bit thinner. The reptile wasn’t going to change their world forever; however it made another day worthwhile.
They kept her habitat tidy and shipshapped, filled her water daily and provided a full-course cricket buffet. They voted on her name. Rosa Parks, Soulja Boy, or Lil Wayne. I reminded my class that we had a lady lizard while praising Jesus that our new gecko wasn’t about to “supersoak that ho.”
Breaks were rough. While dusting live crickets with sprinkles of calcium supplements to feed to a reptile named Rosa was enticing for an eight year old, it just wasn’t my thing. Each day of vacation resulted in squeaks, squirms, and jeebies filled with heebies. When fall break approached this year, I thought it would be okay to throw in some extra crickets before leaving her to the comforts of an empty school building.
I was wrong.
She suffered from starvation to the point of no salvation. Despite her famishment, Rosa refused all food and endured a dreadfully dawdling and debilitating death. She was wrecked with neglect and no one is to blame but myself. I’m pretty sure I’m going to Hell for it too.
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