I’m sitting on the swing set at recess when a bee lands on my nose, legs twitching, tickling like a sneeze, like tears, and inside I’m praying go away go away please god I didn’t do anything wrong, but I stay still, so still, the swing chains don’t even shiver or moan with how still I’m being, knowing it’ll go away with time, seconds, minutes, so I just close my eyes and pretend it isn’t happening, but then the other kids start screaming when they see the black and yellow on my face, and a teacher comes running with her hands up, says it’s going to be okay but her voice shakes so I don’t believe her, and now she’s armed with a rolled up magazine that proves useless because the bee flies away all on its own, it’s always been up to the bee, the bee’s whim reigns, and everyone is asking why didn’t you move didn’t call out didn’t ask for help, but what they don’t know is that I’ve already learned how to stay still enough to avoid the sharp prick of a stinger from someone who smelled like honey.
Elena Zhang is a Chinese American writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Ghost Parachute, Exposition Review, Your Impossible Voice, and Lost Balloon, among other publications, and has been selected for Best Microfiction 2024. She’s on Twitter @ezhang77
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