Underachieving Over Distance

He likes to ask questions. Why is the sun flat? Where does the
wetness in clothes go? Does gravity make the first half hour go quicker
than the second? Why it that? Why is this? Why, why, why.

His mother smiles in exasperation, in the kitchen, at the school gate,
on the backseat of the bus, when he points at pregnant women and
Dalmatians. She can't answer all his questions. She can hardly answer
any. In school, when the questions started flying, she would start
table engraving a boy's initials, a binding spell in Tipexing and sweet
black ink. She never understood the lines and numbers on the board. The
explanations bored her. Now she says anything to quieten down the
child.

'Where does he get it from?' The question her mother asks three times a
week. 'It can't be from his father, can it?' Her daughter flicks her
head.

He can do things with his eyes, so he keeps his head down. Walks along
the street, avoids the cracks, dog shit, but not a lamppost. 'Look
where you're going Michael, you've got to be more careful.' But he is
being careful. His looks will get him into trouble. He's been told.
That stare. Steel pins porcupine from his face.

--This is work in progress. If you would like me to finish it, please
email or vote. Thank you --