School & Learning
The Middle Number
Mira’s tummy hurts on school mornings. Not on Saturdays. Not on Sundays. Mom noticed that ages ago. She said it once, at the sink, in her ordinary voice. She didn’t say it wasn’t real. She said, “Your tummy knows what day it is.” Then back to the dishes. Clink, clink.
So they made the numbers. One: it barely hurts. Ten: throwing up, actually throwing up, in the bathroom. Seven and up: stay home. The numbers had worked every single morning. Because every morning the number had been a two or a nine. And a two and a nine are easy.
The oatmeal was going cold. Mira had one hand flat on her tummy under the table, the way she did every school morning now. Checking. You check first and say the number after, or you say the wrong one. While she checked, the oatmeal grew a skin. Blech.
It wasn’t a two. A two, you can almost forget. This one, she couldn’t. It wasn’t a nine either. A nine folds you in half, and she was sitting up straight. It was something in between. The in-between numbers had never come up before. Mira didn’t have a word ready.
Mom put her spoon down. Clink. That was her listening thing. Spoon down means not half listening. ALL listening. She didn’t say hurry up. She didn’t say which is it. She held her mug in both hands and waited for a number. Any number. So they could figure out the day.
The clock by the toaster said four minutes. In four minutes the school things had to start, whatever number got said: shoes, bag, door. The clock didn’t care about numbers. Tick. Tick. It just kept going, right on top of the tummy ache.
Mom: still waiting, spoon down. Mira’s hand: still on her tummy. And under her hand it felt like… about a five. There had never been a five before.
What does Mira do?
Every choice costs something. Let’s see what.
Say “about a five” and make a plan
“About a five,” said Mira. It felt strange in her mouth. A five didn’t say school. It didn’t say home. Mom didn’t say okay. She didn’t say oh dear. She nodded, slowly. The thinking nod. Not the deciding one.
“Then here’s the plan,” said Mom. “You go in. Check again at recess. If it gets to a seven, or you feel worried, or you need help before then, you tell Mrs. Okafor and she calls me.” She grabbed the pen from the bread box and wrote it on the back of Mira’s hand. Recess — check. 7 or help — Mrs. O — Mom. In pen. Very official.
By lunch Mira had looked at her hand four times. She never needed the seven plan. Not once. The number stayed about a five all morning. Some of it was even a four. She ate her sandwich with her hand flat on the table next to the chips, so she could read the plan whenever she liked.
By pickup time the pen had smudged into a blue cloud. The number had gone fuzzy too. Mira walked out of the gate still noticing her tummy a bit. But not checking it every ten minutes. The plan was never used. It was just there.
Say “maybe a seven” so the answer is clear
“Maybe a seven,” said Mira. Her spoon was still stuck in the oatmeal. She didn’t know for sure.
“Okay,” said Mom. Right away. She picked up her phone to call school. No slow nod this time. And then a funny thing happened. The moment the day was decided, Mira’s tummy let go a little. Just a little. Mira noticed.
The house was quiet all morning. The washing machine went round and round. Whirrr. Mira’s tummy settled. Mostly. One small knot didn’t, lower down. She could feel exactly where it was.
By the afternoon she was drawing at the kitchen table. A whole page. Fine. Completely fine. The knot was still there. Mira drew a small five in the corner of the page. “About a five,” she whispered to it. Just practicing. In case a five came again tomorrow.
Say “I’m fine” and go, without a number
“I’m fine,” said Mira. She jumped up and grabbed her school bag before Mom could ask for a number again. She walked to the door quite fast. Quite a lot faster than a fine person walks.
Mom looked at her one second longer than usual. She’d seen the fast walking too. But she picked her spoon back up. “Okay. Have a good day.” And she let it go, this once. The number stayed in the kitchen. Unsaid.
The tummy ache came to school too. It sat under everything all morning: under spelling, under circle time, under the milk. Twice Mira put her hand on her tummy under the desk. And twice she took it away again before anyone saw.
By lunch it had mostly gone, the way it usually did. Mira ate her sandwich. Nobody in the whole school knew there’d been a number that morning. At pickup, Mom asked, “How was your tummy?” “Fine,” said Mira. And by then, it was.