Stanley was in a taxi back to his home. He wished Zero could have tagged along for the visit, as everybody's faces illuminated with satisfied surprise when he entered the dull replacement home.
He picked threads of the red and gray fabric he sat on. It was a pretty pattern, one day, you could tell. The crimson threads overlapped the gray ones in beautiful harmony. Someone was very proud of their pattern that they designed. Then, this car was sent into the streets, where it was treated poorly, and had seen a lot of action. It took a very sensitive eye to see the beauty in this fabric, to see through it food crumbs and stains and small tears. Stanley had a sensitive eye
.
Zero didn't want to go back. He liked his new life. He liked his house and his hole-less yard, and most of all he liked his Mom. He loved his Mom. Camp Green Lake was one of the worst times of his life. Inside him, there was a beautiful thing, waiting to blossom. It just needed fed and watered with respect and even, love. Stanley provided him with that, after every other boy at camp had snatched any happiness he had away from him.
---
Twitch slowly opened his eyes to a pool of blood below him. Well, one eye saw a pool of blood, the other couldn't see at all. His body ached, and his entire face bled.
"What happened?" He silently wondered. He pushed his brain to think of what happened, but nothing at all would come to his mind. He was in a bus with a bunch of petrified looking-kids. Who were they? What happened?
All of the kids around him had on a uniform. A blue shirt that said, "Edgarson's Temporary Home for Troubled Youth" covered their chests and arms, while gray cloth sweatpants clung to their legs. Most of them didn't fit quite right. Why were they all dressed alike?
Then he looked down, and found himself in gray sweatpants, and a very blue shirt.
"I must be dreaming. I must be -"
Then he remembered something.
The car was so hot. He had to have a ride. His knuckles whitened as the gripped the wheel tightly. He was twitching fiercely - this was the worst it had ever been. His shaking right hand picked up a ring of keys, and chaotically shuffled through them to find the right one. He plugged it in, and turned it.
He heard his favorite sound in the world - a starting car.
He heard his least favorite sound in the world - police sirens.
He watched the red and blue lights come near to him. He could have driven away, but there was no way he could get away. Then -
"Come on, think... think!" He wrinkled his face, pondering what had happened next.
There was a man in a nice brown suit. Twitch had to dress up too; it wasn't something he liked to do, but his mom said he had to.
His mom.
She was a younger mother, only in her mid thirties, when most of his friends' parents were practically fifty. She has a short blonde haircut that the curled inward, so her ovular face was neatly framed. Her eyes were gray, and she was rather petite.
Twitch loved his mom more than he loved anything. Even if she drove a dorky minivan, Twitch had more respect for her than any other thing he knew. The worst part about getting caught was the look of disbelief and disappointment on his mother's face when she found out. He wanted her to be proud of him no matter what.
"She still might be," Twitch whispered, unaware that he was speaking. The almost silent whisper seemed much louder to anyone near him, as nobody had broken the silence since the last time Twitch spoke. Every pair of eyes in the back part of the bus shifted to Twitch.
Every pair of eyes, except for the driver's.
Perhaps he couldn't hear because his ears rang in his head with anger and hatred for whoever in the bus had killed his son. Whatever it was, a the bus was glazed in cold silence. Some were relieved to hear him talk, relieved that he was still alive, others were deathly frightened for their own lives, and for their friends.
ZigZag was good with plans. It was similar to the way Zero was good with numbers, or Twitch was good with cars. It was his thing.
When you suffer from acute paranoia your entire life, you get good at making plans. When you think that every irregular movement and every out-of-the ordinary situation could mean death, you plan. You plan a lot.
ZigZag was planning.
He picked threads of the red and gray fabric he sat on. It was a pretty pattern, one day, you could tell. The crimson threads overlapped the gray ones in beautiful harmony. Someone was very proud of their pattern that they designed. Then, this car was sent into the streets, where it was treated poorly, and had seen a lot of action. It took a very sensitive eye to see the beauty in this fabric, to see through it food crumbs and stains and small tears. Stanley had a sensitive eye
.
Zero didn't want to go back. He liked his new life. He liked his house and his hole-less yard, and most of all he liked his Mom. He loved his Mom. Camp Green Lake was one of the worst times of his life. Inside him, there was a beautiful thing, waiting to blossom. It just needed fed and watered with respect and even, love. Stanley provided him with that, after every other boy at camp had snatched any happiness he had away from him.
---
Twitch slowly opened his eyes to a pool of blood below him. Well, one eye saw a pool of blood, the other couldn't see at all. His body ached, and his entire face bled.
"What happened?" He silently wondered. He pushed his brain to think of what happened, but nothing at all would come to his mind. He was in a bus with a bunch of petrified looking-kids. Who were they? What happened?
All of the kids around him had on a uniform. A blue shirt that said, "Edgarson's Temporary Home for Troubled Youth" covered their chests and arms, while gray cloth sweatpants clung to their legs. Most of them didn't fit quite right. Why were they all dressed alike?
Then he looked down, and found himself in gray sweatpants, and a very blue shirt.
"I must be dreaming. I must be -"
Then he remembered something.
The car was so hot. He had to have a ride. His knuckles whitened as the gripped the wheel tightly. He was twitching fiercely - this was the worst it had ever been. His shaking right hand picked up a ring of keys, and chaotically shuffled through them to find the right one. He plugged it in, and turned it.
He heard his favorite sound in the world - a starting car.
He heard his least favorite sound in the world - police sirens.
He watched the red and blue lights come near to him. He could have driven away, but there was no way he could get away. Then -
"Come on, think... think!" He wrinkled his face, pondering what had happened next.
There was a man in a nice brown suit. Twitch had to dress up too; it wasn't something he liked to do, but his mom said he had to.
His mom.
She was a younger mother, only in her mid thirties, when most of his friends' parents were practically fifty. She has a short blonde haircut that the curled inward, so her ovular face was neatly framed. Her eyes were gray, and she was rather petite.
Twitch loved his mom more than he loved anything. Even if she drove a dorky minivan, Twitch had more respect for her than any other thing he knew. The worst part about getting caught was the look of disbelief and disappointment on his mother's face when she found out. He wanted her to be proud of him no matter what.
"She still might be," Twitch whispered, unaware that he was speaking. The almost silent whisper seemed much louder to anyone near him, as nobody had broken the silence since the last time Twitch spoke. Every pair of eyes in the back part of the bus shifted to Twitch.
Every pair of eyes, except for the driver's.
Perhaps he couldn't hear because his ears rang in his head with anger and hatred for whoever in the bus had killed his son. Whatever it was, a the bus was glazed in cold silence. Some were relieved to hear him talk, relieved that he was still alive, others were deathly frightened for their own lives, and for their friends.
ZigZag was good with plans. It was similar to the way Zero was good with numbers, or Twitch was good with cars. It was his thing.
When you suffer from acute paranoia your entire life, you get good at making plans. When you think that every irregular movement and every out-of-the ordinary situation could mean death, you plan. You plan a lot.
ZigZag was planning.