Cleo, the snake, and how to be instantly popular

It’s the fifth week of school.

I’m wandering around the oval at recess,

waiting for somebody, anybody,

to ask me to join in the game of soccer

when—

“SNAKE, SNAKE!”.

We all rush to see,

and, sure enough,

it’s a one-metre long rock python

curled up at the entrance

to the boys’ toilets.

(Obviously, snakes have no sense of smell.)

Everyone’s standing back,

waiting for a teacher.

I walk through the crowd,

reach down,

and quickly grab the snake

behind the head

and lift the little fellow up,

just like my Dad taught me,

when I went digging with him

two years ago in the Outback.

I know this snake is harmless.

You wouldn’t get me going near a poisonous one!

I pick him up and

a few Kindy kids scream,

but the rest of the school goes really quiet,

except one kid who yells,

“Flush him down the dunny!”

As if I’d hurt a beautiful creature like this.

I walk slowly through the crowd,

down to the oval,

with everyone following a few metres behind.

I ask Tom, a boy in my class,

to open the gate

so I can cross the road

and let this little fellow go

in the long grass near the creek.

When I come back,

everyone’s standing still,

watching me,

as though I might lunge forward and bite them,

just like a snake.

Tom says:

“Well done, Cleo.

You want to play soccer?”

Everyone turns

and runs back to what they were doing

five minutes ago,

when I didn’t have a friend.