by Anna Culp
A deer came to my school today.
The big cafeteria window was open, and she hopped right inside.
She strutted down the lunch line, and all the cafeteria workers howled.
The deer just stared at them all while they wildly waved their ladles and spoons.
I thought maybe she was hungry. I held up my last tater tot. She sniffed it, but turned up her nose.
By then, my teacher, Miss Lyon, had started squeaking. My class stampeded out of the cafeteria. That was no way to welcome a deer to school.
The deer followed us into the hallway.
I thought maybe she was thirsty. I showed her how to push the water fountain. She sniffed the water, and snorted.
Miss Lyon stomped, and her squeaking got higher and higher.
The deer stretched her neck to peek across the hall at the classroom. Inside the classroom, my class buzzed with whispers.
Miss Lyon squeaked so high I only understood now. That was no way to treat a deer friend.
I gave my sorriest shrug to the deer, and dragged my feet in my slowest backward walk. Miss Lyon squeaked so high that I don’t even know what she said.
And then I thought of it: maybe the deer wanted to read. I ran to my desk as fast as I could and grabbed my favorite book. I slipped it out the door just before it slammed shut.
[narrator child peeking out the little door window]
The deer scooped up my book in her mouth, nodded, and strutted away. She hopped out the cafeteria window with my book.
I hope she returns it when she’s done.