II.

The funny thing about trying to head off an attack is that sometimes there isn’t one coming. But as long as you can convince people to speculate you can get them to be afraid of anything.

When I was really little, six I think, my dad told me to get inside our neighbor’s laundry basket and stay very quiet while she carried me downstairs and out of the apartment complex. That was the last time I saw him. I remember my mom had left earlier that day with my baby brother, and that she had fussed over my hair more than usual, and that she kept looking at dad funny. I remember the smell of the detergent and fabric softener, the feeling of towels pressing down on me. I remember looking through the holes in the wicker basket, and seeing the sleek black boots of two officers walking upstairs, and the sound of my father talking with them. I remember how my neighbor jumped slightly when the shots were fired, but didn’t run, and most of all I remember not understanding. The horrible thickness that seemed to consume my mind. Have you ever tried to run away from something in your dream, but found that you could only crawl as the monsters gained on you, and you woke up, drenched in perspiration, limbs still pantomiming struggle? That’s sort of what it feels like to not understand the event that is going to shape the rest of your life.

My neighbor was a “them” I suppose. She could have been their poster child if she wanted. Her skin was an even coffee color, just like the rest of them, and her features were mundane, median in size and shape. Her hair frizzed just the slightest bit, and was blonde, which was a bit unusual, but still acceptable. At least the last time I turned on the TV it was still acceptable. I’m not certain how alike they’re going to start demanding we become. Skin color mixes and blends into an even palette, features can find averages and keep to them, but hair color, eye color, those are harder to control. She carried me down the street, her face even, her eyes solid, right past the Laundromat.

Mom was already at the camp when I was dropped off. My neighbor put the basket down at the edge of the woods, pulled the towels off of me, and waited for me to get out. I looked up. She looked down. I never quite understood what the expression on her face meant until I saw my own features, twisted and broken just as hers were, reflected in Sally’s eyes. I unraveled my legs from one another and stepped out of the basket. She replaced the towels calmly, picked up the basket, looked briefly as if she was about to tell me something that she couldn’t verbalize, and left abruptly. I stared at her as she departed and the wind trickled around my unbent limbs slowly, ruffling the grass. After a few minutes she was gone and my mom walked out of the bushes. She was smiling brokenly, and the first thing I noticed was that she wasn’t wearing her identification pin anymore. She moved delicately forward, enveloped me in her arms slowly, and sobbed.

“You’ll get in big trouble if you don’t put your pin back on Mommy.” Was the first thing I thought to say, my face pressed into her shoulder, her wool jacket scratching my face. That only made her cry harder.