It's Friday afternoon. Time to leave this hall of concentrated adolescence drama and go home for a blissfully boyless week-end.
I close down my computer, lock my door, and leave the building.
As I descend the exterior steps, a hint of a smile attempts to disturb my countenance. I suppress it.
The boy is standing in the breezeway, looking less than hopefully towards the mostly empty parking lot. If Mom is coming to get him, it doesn't look like he really expects her for a while.
Target acquired.
I hit the bottom step with excess force, my heel making a sharp crack to alert my prey. He turns and looks at me. I could not tell you his name, he's one of so many, and besides, he's too far away for me to read what's embroidered above the pocket over his heart.
It doesn't matter. Whether I know him or not, he knows me. Everybody here knows me.
I fix him with a hard stare as I continue walking towards him, feet following my laser line of sight. He's startled at first, "who me?" his face reads, and he turns quickly to see if I'm looking at someone behind him, then quickly back when he sees there's no one else. I do not pick up the pace, just continue striding directly towards him. He stares back, unable to do anything else, caught like a deer in the headlights and he knows I am the car that won't be braking.
Finally I reach him and stop, just an armsbreadth away from him. He has no words, though his lower lip seems to tremble a bit as my arm rises, one imperious sharp nailed finger pointing directly at him, at his face, his frightened little fawn's face,
for just a moment,
before dropping the few inches lower it takes to jab my finger into his upper arm.
One word I say and nothing more.
"Poke!"
Then I turn and continue on towards my waiting car.
I hear a sigh of relief, followed by a laugh, and then a piping voice, "Have a good week-end, Ms. Mack!"
I raise a hand and execute a perfect royal wave
without turning back to look at the boy.
"Take care, George."
Loading comments...