 |
| (visual by IntangibleArts via this license) |
dispatch fifteen
Sucker Fuckers by Benjamin Parris
debuted 1 November 2009 | kept 505 times | click to keep
In safety we laughed and high-fived. We found ourselves standing very close. Suddenly she said, “We need money, right?” It wasn’t like her to say that. True as it was, saying it out loud meant something else. I knew it to be a crack in her armor, asking permission to do something bad and probably very dangerous. Heather’s philosophy suggested that she was wise beyond any girl or any kid I had ever met. Yet I didn’t know how much of her cynical armor was real and how much was bravado. I wasn’t in any position to know. I suspected that by the end of the day my life might depend on it. She was no older than me, I guessed. About twelve. At the moment it seemed very important. Instead of answering her question, I asked, “How old are you?”
“None of your damn business!” she shouted. Something in her tone struck to remind me that if we ever stopped to worry about our limitations, we’d never survive.
“I like you,” I said gratefully. I did. She softened and bushed her lips against mine as if by accident, turning her head. She permitted herself the slightest smile at the corners of her mouth.
My heart went faster than it had with the thugs or any encounter with Old Man.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Remember the other day in the grocery, when Fuckface Freddy said you dented a can and you had to pay for it and then he didn’t even give it you?”
“I didn’t do it!”
“I know. I was there.”
“He robbed me and the cops backed him up.”
“I know.”
“So we go in and steal that can back? Maybe take another one?”
“Not good enough. I want that register–anything we can get out of that register. Freddy’s a, well, you know, he’s an SF anyway.” She was shy about using her signature phrase on anyone after I yelled at her.