I spotted it crawling between my foot and my book-bag, fat and unfaltering, as if it belonged there. I squealed and recoiled. My teacher giggled. When I kept staring at the cockroach, with my legs pulled to my chest, she acquired a look of concern and asked, "Are you afraid?"
"Not afraid," I said. "Gross." (I speak very simple English with her)
"Oh, I see," she said, and then scurried from the room. A few moments later she returned with a janitors mop, soggy and gray. With the mop she chased the cockroach, giggling at herself, pushing the mop's bulgy top against the bug for a second or two at a time. Every time she released the pressure, however, the roach, unharmed except for its pride, kept walking in the same direction. It wasn't the least bit intimidated by this giggling Chinese woman and her nasty old mop.
"Out the door," I suggested. My teacher nodded, and the next time the mop was in place over the roach, she swooshed it into the hall and closed the door behind it.
Class resumed.
