Freaks Like Us by Susan Vaught

Author:Susan Vaught
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2012-03-20T07:00:00+00:00

TEN HOURS

My mouth hurts. My wrists burn and my knees throb and I’m somebody else as I shoot off the floor and charge forward, running faster than I think I can, than I ever have, and I slam into Mr. Watson before he can burst into the night and get away because if he’s running then he’s bad and he’s done something and maybe he hurt Sunshine and—

And I taste copper and salt and fingers dig into my ankles and of course it’s not me taking Mr. Watson to the ground.

It’s agents in suits and three police officers and Dad’s got hold of me. “Don’t, Jason. Be still, Jason.”

I wriggle for a second, wanting to get up and somehow jump on Mr. Watson and make a difference. Why is it never me who makes a difference? I pull out of Dad’s grip because I want to do something—and I don’t want him touching me.

“Why did the teacher run?” Mom’s asking nobody, because nobody’s listening to her and everybody’s staring at Mr. Watson, who’s howling and kicking and about to get himself Tasered or shot or at least punched in the face by the men trying to get him under control.

Somebody else mutters, “A room full of officers and agents and he’s dumb enough to try a stunt like that?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Mr. Watson shrieks. “It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!”

My alphabet voices echo him like satanic parrots and for a few seconds I can’t hear anything but that and for another few seconds I almost feel sorry for Mr. Watson but then Dad’s pulling me up and we’re standing and I’m shaking and there really is blood in my mouth and my tongue hurts.

Mom sees me wiping red trickles on the back of my hand and produces a handkerchief from her fatigue pocket. “Got all your teeth?” she asks in a low voice, and when I nod, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She does have her good points, like not going ape over little stuff… and not thinking I’m a homicidal maniac like Dad maybe does.

That hurts too much. Can’t think about that. I’m running out of space to store stuff I don’t want to think about.

“Mr. Watson’s weird,” I tell Mom. “I’ve told you that before, lots of times.”

“You have, but I thought—” And she stops, and she sounds guilty. I know why. Because nobody ever listens—not even our moms. All our opinions and instincts get ignored because everybody figures it’s just a taste of our crazy.

“He’s the kind of guy who’d think he could make it,” I add, because he is. Mr. Watson definitely preaches beating the odds and staying optimistic and it doesn’t surprise me that he thought he could run out of a room packed with law enforcement guys and actually make it. What surprises me is that he ran in the first place.

I mean, weird’s weird, but running from the police? That barrels out of weird and does a boar’s rush toward seriously creepy.

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