mother’s alarm went off, Christopher crushed all thirty pills into a fine powder and ate it like a rancid Pixy Stix.
Christopher went to the kitchen.
He threw a stopper into the sink and ran the water quietly. He took the two ice trays out of the freezer, cracked them like knuckles, and dumped the ice into the water. He filled the trays and returned them to the freezer to cover his tracks.
Then, he took his pajama top off and dunked his entire head, neck, and shoulders into the freezing-cold water. He wanted to scream, but he kept himself in that freezing soup for twenty-five Mississippis. Then, he pulled out his head, took a deep breath, and did it all again. And again. And again.
The cold bit through his skin like little needles until his body went numb, but he didn’t dare get out. It was either this or the doctor. There was no plan B. Christopher knew plenty of kids who pretended to be sick to get out of school. He remembered when Special Ed showed him how to fake out a thermometer with a lightbulb and a heating pad. He just never thought he would be the first kid in history who faked being well to get back in. When his mother’s alarm clock went off (thank God she always hit SNOOZE), he quickly dried himself with a dish towel, pulled out the plug, and raced back upstairs to climb back into bed and pretend to be awakened by her.
“Hey, how are you feeling?” his mother asked.
“Much better,” he said, pretending to open his eyes. It wasn’t a lie. The thirty pills were starting to work. He did technically feel better.
“Good. How did you sleep?” she asked.
“Great. I can’t wait for school. It’s Taco Tuesday,” he said brightly.
Then, he braced himself for the moment of truth. Christopher’s mother instinctively put her hand to his forehead. She felt his hair, still slightly damp from the water. Christopher thought he had blown it.
Until she smiled.
“I think your fever broke,” she said. “Let’s double-check.”
She put the thermometer under his tongue. He looked down when the digital readout beeped.
It was 98.6.
“Sorry, kid,” she said. “I’m afraid you have to go to school.”
It was a miracle.
My mother wants…
My mother wants…to invite the sheriff for Christmas dinner.
My mother won’t…because of me.
“Mom?” Christopher asked. “Where do people without families go for Christmas?”
“Depends. Some visit friends. Others go to church. Why?”
“Because I want people like Mr. Ambrose and the sheriff to have somewhere to go this year,” he said.
“That’s nice,” she said. “You want to invite them over?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she said. “Now hurry up. You’re going to be late.”
My mother is…
My mother is…so happy right now.
The school bus opened its doors.
The minute Christopher stepped onto the bus, the voices began to pick up speed. He saw the students stare at him like a thing at the zoo. To them, he was just the boy who pissed his pants in front of the whole school.
To him, they were something entirely different.
The boy with the red hair…dresses in his mother’s clothes.
The girl with braces…doesn’t eat as much as she should.
The little girl with brown eyes…worries about her family in the Middle East.
They are suffering. The whole world will be suffering soon, Christopher.
You have to find the message from David Olson.
Christopher passed the bus driver, Mr. Miller. He saw the tattoo on Mr. Miller’s arm. The tattoo from the marines. He could feel Mr. Miller bracing himself for the holidays. Every holiday he would think about the men he killed in a desert somewhere.
Mr. Miller thinks…
Mr. Miller thinks…he doesn’t deserve to live.
“Mr. Miller?” Christopher said.
“Sit down!” Mr. Miller barked.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to thank you for keeping us safe on the way to school.”
For a moment, Mr. Miller was silent. Christopher knew it was the nicest thing anyone had said to him in five years. Certainly the nicest thing any of these brats had ever said to him. Period. He would have thanked Christopher then and there, but he was afraid that if he spoke, he would burst into tears, and have no authority with these kids ever again. So, he said the only thing that he could think of.
“It’s my job. So, stop distracting me and sit down,” he barked.
Christopher simply nodded and sat down. The gesture helped Christopher. It calmed his mind long enough that he made it to school without thinking about every family in every house. When the bus stopped in front of school, Christopher smiled.