Slob

by Ellen Potter

  “Going out,” I called to Mom.

  “Where?” she called back, but I was already out the door. I took the stairs because I didn’t want to wait for the elevator. And anyway, I needed to move. I had too much energy chasing around in my body.

  I walked down to Broadway, then West End Avenue and past the school, which lately didn’t seem quite as menacing as it once had. Mr. Wooly still hated me, but he mostly ignored me. I’m guessing he didn’t want to be called back into the principal’s office anytime soon.

  I entered Riverside Park. It was loaded with people soaking up the sun that was seeping through the cold air. I headed straight for the promenade. There were few boats on the water and there were icy patches here and there, but the water was moving slowly. I took the slip of green paper out of my pocket. A gust of wind made it flap wildly in my hand, but I held on to it.

  I said a prayer. I’ve never prayed before, so I don’t know if I did it right. I prayed that the police would one day catch the man who killed my parents. But in case that didn’t happen, I prayed that karma would kick in. I prayed that the murderer would be the unluckiest man who ever lived. That he’d always be losing his wallet, missing the bus when it’s raining, pulling out his back, getting pelted by snowballs, or stepping in dog poop. I prayed that he would feel like crud five days out of the week and have intestinal gas pains for the other two days.

  I know that’s not exactly compassionate.

  But for now, it’s the best I can do.

  I folded the paper in quarters, ripped it in half, then again, and dropped it in the Hudson River. The pieces bobbed around for a moment, like they didn’t know what to do, until they were finally carried off by the wake of a passing tugboat.

  At the last minute, I sent off one more prayer. That the man who murdered my parents has someone in his life who thinks he’s a better person than he actually is.

  Ok. That really is the best I can do.