1
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Alone on the street, Elliot carefully stepped from sidewalk square to sidewalk square, slowly, carefully placing each foot on the ground in an awkward dance. Struggling with a heavy backpack, he lost his balance, leaning to the left with arms outstretched as one foot was still in the air. He jerked the other way, hopping sideways, looking behind himself. The cold wind howled around him, and he knew he wouldn’t make it home before dark. There was no rushing this careful journey.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a—
A dog’s collar jingled from up a driveway, and Elliot slipped out of his trance. He swung his backpack around, clutching it in front of him. A black Labrador raced from behind a row off shrubs, barking and growling as it charged. Elliot raised his backpack, turning away from the jumping dog.
“Get down!” he screamed. “Get down! Get off me!” The dog growled and lunged.
“Samson!” a man bellowed. The dog jumped up one more time, then retreated up the driveway, where the man gave the dog a swat. “Sorry about that, kid. He doesn’t bite.”
Elliot’s right foot was partially stepping on a crack. He closed his eyes.
“Hey, kid,” the man called. “Samson didn’t getcha, did he?”
Elliot slid his offending foot forward, following it with his left foot. Then once again, he carefully placed his right foot on the next square.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.
Step on a crack…
* * *
“We’re a bit late today, aren’t we,” asked Elliot’s father. He sipped his coffee and then set the mug next to his plate. “I worry about you, you know.”
Elliot took off his coat and hung it on the peg next to the door, sliding the loop beneath the label and inch over the hook. He hung his backpack on the peg next to the door and then slipped out of his shoes, slid them against the wall with his feet. He ducked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and lathered his hands.
“Elliot,” his dad called. “Can we talk for a minute. Please.”
Clean and safe.
Clean and safe.
Elliot rinsed the soap off and lathered up again. The soap stung his cracked hands as he worked the soap between each finger, both sides of his hands, his wrists, and almost up to his elbows. His rinsed his hands like a surgeon, the water rolled down his arms to the elbows. The hot water stung his cold hands, and then the warmth somehow felt good. It was as if he was washing the coldness off his red flesh.
“Elliott,” his dad called again, “come on.”
One more time, Elliott lathered his hands, finger by finger, left hand then right hand, quickly, but methodically. After a few moments, he was interrupted by his dad’s hand resting on his shoulder.
“You’re hands are clean now,” his dad whispered. “Now stop, buddy. Stop.” Elliott let the hot water wash away the last of the suds, watching the water swirl down the drain.
“I have something that we need to talk about.”
Elliott turned away. “Not now.”
“OK, fine,” his dad relented. “Then tomorrow morning? Tomorrow at dinner? Just tell me when.”
“Tomorrow. After school.”
“Good,” said his dad. “Then our appointment is set.” He messed up Elliott’s hair, forcing him into a headlock. “I love you, you know. I want the best for you.”
“I love you, too, dad,” Elliot replied. “Now let me go.”
* * *
“Hey, El.” She smiled.
“Hey,” he replied.
She plopped down next to him and slid her lunch bag across the table. “Sticky today,” she observed. She studied his face for a moment. “Is that what’s on your mind.”
“No, not really,” he said as he wiped his hands up and down his shirt. “This whole school is disgusting. I wish they’d keep it clean.”
“It would never be clean enough for you,” she said. “Not if they scrubbed it for a thousand years!”
“Shut up, Ann.”
“Oh, come on,” she retorted with a playful smile. “You know it’s true. I’m not trying to give you a hard time.”
“Well, it’s not that, anyway.”
“OK, then what’s the problem today?”
Elliot frowned and stared down at his sandwich. “My dad wants to talk to me.”
“So talk to him.”
“You don’t get how serious this is.”
“El,” she reasoned. “Your mom died. It’s hard on him. And it’s hard on you. You have each other. Talk to him.” She started to eat her sandwich.
He looked down, then away. Tears welled up in his eyes. “He wants us to move.”
“Oh.” She put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move. “Why? Why does he want you guys to go? For work? Because the house reminds him too much of your mom?”
“I don’t know! I guess for all of that--I don’t know.” His jaw clenched. “I just don’t want to leave.”
“Is he sure? I mean, is he just checking with you to see if you even want to go?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”
“Well, I don’t want you to go either. Who else is going to drive me crazy?” she smiled. “So do you want to—“ The bell rang, and the crowd swelled around them. “Oh, I gotta finish some stuff before next class! I work so well under pressure.” She grabbed her bag and turned to leave.
“I hope you have a very productive five minutes,” he said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Me, too! Always do, you know.”
Elliot slung his own backpack over his shoulder. Keeping as much distance from the people walking beside him as possible, he tossed the rest of his lunch into a garbage can and funneled with the crowd out of the cafeteria.
All around him, kids were joking, pushing, laughing, talking, and even kissing. They looked happy, angry, upset, and in love. Gum on the floor, step around a Bandaid, wrappers. Paper and more paper. Wadded Kleenex near his right shoe. He couldn’t see the perfect rows of closed locker doors behind the commotion.
Finally, down the math hallway, he came to locker 524. It looked like all the other lockers, except for the remains of some now-blackened gum just to the right of the latch. His hands began to work the combination lock almost automatically.
10-26-17.
Nothing. The hallway was beginning to clear.
Oh, come on. 10-26-17.
With the click of a mechanism, the locker door opened. Math, history, science, tech—the books in a row on the floor of the locker. No English book. He looked on the top shelf. Kevin’s books. No English book at all. Come, on. Come, on.
His mind swirled with worry. Where was the book? Did Kevin lose the book? The he put the book in the locker this morning? Is the book at home? A thousand questions at once.
He had to get to class. No more tardies, or his grade would suffer. Have to check the books.
Math, history, science, English, tech.
Math, history, science, English, tech.
Math, history, science, English, tech.
Math, history, science—
