by Aaron Grunn
mother and you press this," Tom slid off the top part and pressed a large button. "Keep it on you as it has a GPS tracker that'll help me find you."
"In case they come," John said, fumbling with the object in his hand. He suddenly didn't want to go to school. Not only did it seem so pointless, but he also didn't want to face the kids since he thought of himself as even more of a freak than before.
"Right. Listen to your mother, and don't stay in public too much. Some of these men tracking you have met your father and it wouldn't take but a glance for them to know."
"Why don't I come with you if there's this much danger?"
"Don't," Tom blurted out. "Give your mother trouble. She's done a hell of a job so far, and she's right to not want to move every day or so. It would make for a horrible life."
"But she's wrong, and all it does is highlight how much of a freak I am..."
"Listen," Tom hissed, turning John so he could see him. "You're not a freak. Do you understand me? And you need to give your mother more of a break. I think she's done pretty good so far."
John felt there was a compliment somewhere in there. "Good-bye," John said and turned and walked into school. He didn't dare look back, because he was certain that he would crumble.
He stepped inside and looked at the abandoned hallways. Class was in session so there were no students. John took in a deep breath. Everything had changed, seemed different; not even the waxed floors looked like what he remembered. Was it because he'd changed, or had something about school changed?
"Hall pass."
A security guard walked over to John. He was fat, with a round middle, and he had a waddle to his walk. His face was red, with a redder pug nose in the middle, a sneer on his face. His hair, black and thick, only highlighted his facial features. John immediately didn't like him. He almost looked like an evil man.
"What?"
"Hall pass," the security guard said, his hand out.
John realized that he had never been late to class, or been in school when the hallways were empty. He, in fact, didn't know that there was a punishment or process to being late.
"I was late. I have to get to class."
"What class?"
John stared at the security guard. This felt like a prison. Was all of life just that? He told the security guard the class, and they made their way over to it.
"You're a good kid, right?" the security guard asked.
"I guess. Why?"
"I've never seen you outside of class, or late. Plus you look scared. Most the kids I see in the hallway aren't scared," the security guard said with a smile.
"Yeah."
The security guard tightened up one side of his nose; it must have been his way of enjoying being correct.
"How did you come about this job?" John asked.
"I went to this school not five years ago."
"And?"
"And then I couldn't find a job except this one," the security guard said with a smile.
"Sorry for making your job harder."
The security screwed his face up at John, then released the tension in his face. "That's all right..."
"John."
"Mike, pleased to meet you," he said.
"You ever have people chase you for reasons out of your control?" John asked.
Mike squinted his face at John, then when he could see that John was serious, he looked at the floor in front of him. "No, I cannot say that I have."
"What would you do?"
"Are these people out to hurt the chased?"
"Yes."
"Are they all powerful?"
"Yes."
"We're not talking about God, or life, are we?"
"No."
"Then run, John, run," Mike said, opened the door to John's class and leaned his body in. "I caught this vandal terrorizing the hallways with WMDs."
Mr. Johnson looked up from writing on the board. "Let him in."
John shook Mike's hand and walked in. "Take care."
"Take care, John."
John sat down and could feel his classmate's eyes studying him. In this class he had to sit in front because of the alphabetical seating arrangement. It was history, but after everything that Tom had told him, he was in no mood to hear about the progression of this great nation.
"We're on page twenty-five," said the teacher and turned to the board. "The Great Depression. Now does anyone know why it was called Great?"
John opened the book and stared at the black and white photos of long lines of people looking for jobs. What a life. And he could only hope for something in his life where something like standing in line and looking for a job would be a luxury.
"John?"
John looked up at the teacher. Mr. Johnson was a bald man with several marks on his face from accidents, assuming they were accidents, which he never talked about. He was also in very good shape, which was unusual for teachers in this school.
"Do you know why it's called the Great Depression?"
John blinked. He heard some one walk down the hallway, and he wondered if someone was coming to get him. Everything was slow motion, and the teacher's voice seemed to be coming from some other world. It was an inane question, and John had half a mind to tell off the rest of the class for not bothering to answer it. He wanted time to think, and to be alone. Why did he even bother coming to school when he knew what awaited him in the future? How would knowing this question help him? "It was the most prolonged and deepest one, in terms of its reach and unemployment."
"That's right..."
John drifted away. Nothing was what it seemed. Nothing he'd ever been told about the world was to be. He stared at the blackboard, then back at the picture. Injustice. He rolled the word around in his head. And what about the justice in what he'd to face? He took in his classmates' faces. Why did his mother think it was so important to come to school everyday? Once again John felt two parts pulling him apart: one part wanted to listen to his mother, if only to make things easier for her; the other was furious at her, for bringing him into the world, for not being logical about the situation they were in.
John raised his hand.
"Yes?"
"When FDR took on some of the establishments, was that his sense of justice at play? Or was he just taking a knock on people he didn't like?"
"Uh," Mr. Johnson sneered at John. "We're not at that stage yet. We're still in the Hoover years."
The droning began again and John stared at his book. What was with adults and their desire to avoid answering questions? Well, John did not have much time. As far as he was concerned, he felt his question was more important. But he would still meet a wall of silence.
He wondered where Tom was headed. If his uncle really thought that people were headed this way then Tom would have to be careful. John's mind rested back on the adults in his life and the way they always avoided giving him what he expected.
For the rest of the day he seethed in his own world. When school finished, he felt relieved. Now he could finally start answering the questions that he cared about.
"Hey there," Jessica swooped in front of him and tilted her head sideways. "What are you up to?"
"Heading home."
"You were going to help me with that homework, remember?"
"Oh yeah," John said. Another look at her, and he felt a rise in his blood. "Where?" he said, his voice cracking on the last word.
"We can do it at my place, if you want."
Her smile was inviting, and though John knew his mother expected him to go home and keep his head down, he was in no mood to listen to her.
"That's fine," John said.
It was cloudy, though surprisingly humid. John could smell Jessica's sweat, and he looked at her eyes as she flashed him another smile.
"You didn't say much in biology class today."
"No?" John said, then wondered when he had ever said much in biology class, or any other class for that matter.
"No. Mr. Cox asked you a question twice, and you didn't e
ven look up."
That came as a surprise to John. He hadn't heard anything from Mr. Cox.
"Something wrong?" she said.
"No. Why do you ask?"
"You seem... pensive," she said. "More so than normal."
John looked at her then up at the sky.
"Are you going to the football game?"
"No plans," John said.
"Do you want to come?"
John hesitated. His mother would never allow it. But he couldn't say that. "I don't know. I'll see."
"Well, I'll like to see you there," she said and grabbed his arm, before suddenly letting it go.
John smiled; he couldn't help it. The wind picked up and the sound of a car hit his ears. He turned, and his heart jumped when he saw Smitty driving, slowly, behind him.
"What does he want?" Jessica asked.
"Nothing, I hope," John said.
"Well, he has been bugging me all day. He won't leave me alone."
John remained silent. He couldn't afford another fight. If Jessica saw him act crazy, and beat up a whole group of guys, she would never like him.
Smitty pulled to a stop, and John saw that he was alone. He jumped out of the car.
"Hey, Jessica."
"Get away," Jessica said.
"What're you doing with this loser?" Smitty said and grabbed a hold of Jessica.
John felt his fists clenching together. He could not afford a fight. But when he saw Jessica squirm, he knew that he wasn't going to let anything happen to her. His vision slowly narrowed in on Smitty. Why did he want trouble? Especially after what happened last time?
"Leave her alone, Smitty," John said. He could hear his own voice rumble in his chest.
"Or what?"
"We both remember what happened last time. Don't we? Except this time you don't have your friends," John said. He remembered the pulsating beat of blood pumping by his ears and into his brain, and he remembered how his
