The Ostracized Kid

SHE WAS THERE.

George's heart nearly stopped at the sight of her. After all that had
happened and there she was: sitting motionless on her chair. He knew
most things about her. He knew that she had a bad reputation with the
kids in the neighborhood because she always forgot to buy candy for
Halloween (and her house consequently wore the banner of egged toilet
paper). He knew that her husband watched her like a hawk after what the
nighbours and friends called lamely, 'the accident'. He knew that there
was no accident. He knew that he was meant to be watching her daughter,
Lindsay.

LINDSAY! Shit. What had she been doing for the past five minutes when
he watching her mother? Her mother? What was he thinking? He was really
beginning to lose it. He was meant to be recording the movements of
Lindsay Selvon for three hours, every minute. He would do that as long
as they said he had to, otherwise he would pay the price. He was new to
Franklin. He didn't know what the price was, but he sure as hell didn't
want to find out. He couldn't have asked even if he'd wanted to, not
that he did. He was too afraid of the answers without rule number one
of the gang: don't ask questions.

He cleaned his binoculars for the umpteenth time. No amount of cleaning
could make the opposite window any clearer. He sighed, resigned to
another night where he did not do his science homework and would, at
best, see Lindsay come to the window and wave.

WHAT? As if Lindsay would come to the window. Much less was the thought
that she'd WAVE. Seeing a lanky boy spying on her through the
binoculars formerly used for star-gazing, did he really believe that
she'd wave? Of course not. He was a nasty little spy. Until he was
accepted.

He had watched all the James Bond movies. And being a real spy was
nothing like that. It didn't involve high speed car chases or beautiful
women or gadgets. It involved stake-out. No rewards. You sometimes got
praise, but that was rarely. It involved risking suspension from school
because he barely had time for homework.

"You could always do it, if you care so MUCH about it, in detention,"
the leader Zach had told him amid smans.

Detention was not a punishment for the gang. It was generally a habit.
They flushed cherry bombs down the toilet. They spray-painted the
words, 'Fuck this school' on the prinicipal's window. They skipped
class. Detention was not a habit for George. He was a good kid. His mom
had always told him how good he was. He didn't see the appeal of
cigarettes or weed. He hated losing control; he had read about the
side-effects.

"So?" said Zach. George wasn't stupid enough to say that Zach was
driving himself to the ground. He didn't want to, either. If he
admitted that out loud he would be admitting that he, George, the
one-time good kid, was driving himself into the ground too.

Lindsay wasn't going to show. She was in bed with flu. What did the
gang care? He'd got his instructions of, 'REKORD HER MOVMENTS' from a
piece of paper under the door. It was all a joke to them, until George
saw something amazing (Lindsay taking off her top) or if he did
something wrong. He would be honoured if he witnessed her undressing,
but he would be close to crucified if he did something wrong.

But her mother was coming to the window.

HOLY CRAP she was waving. Waving to George. No - was she? Who was she
waving to? She was waving in no particular direction, moving her arm
slowly so she waved to the street at all angles. George hurriedly put
down his binoculars. He didn't want her to catch him spying. But nobody
would believe her. She was in the midst of a nervous breakdown. Her
eldest son was in jail. He had always been a good boy, like George.
George was scared by the news that the one-time head boy had fallen so
far as to put a guy in critical condition at a bar brawl. It reminded
him that he was falling, and there might be no end to how far he could
fall.

It was surprising that her husband wasn't there. He always watched her
with a rapt, fiery attention, squaring his shoulders and visibly daring
people to come and have a crack at his crazy wife. He'd flatten them if
they did. However, he wasn't there.

She was blowing kisses to the fence below. George felt sorry for her
but a little relieved. If he had been watching a normal mother, he'd
have had it.

She walked out onto the balcony, her gaze fixed lovingly on the fence.
According to George's watch, sixty seconds had passed. He had to write
in for the fiftieth time, 'No movement' into his journal. He was aware
of a gust of wind, then a crack. He looked up. She was on the fence.
The spike had gone right through her heart.

Shit.