changed man, I told myself.
When I got back into the car, Petra suggested we go rough up some punks at the preschool around the corner. I looked at Rae through my rearview mirror.
“You okay?”
Rae returned my gaze with dry eyes. Then she asked, “Can we get ice cream?” as if nothing had happened at all.
I wish that were the end of the story, but it isn’t. Brandon ran home crying to his father, who in turn called my parents and followed up by filing assault charges against me. When Rae and I arrived at home with our ice cream cones, my mother and father had already received the first threatening phone call from Mr. Wheeler. Their stern expressions offered a flashback of my misspent youth. I’m sure they were wondering whether the Old Isabel was making a comeback. My father suggested we speak privately in the office and told Rae to go watch TV.
Rae, of course, didn’t watch TV. She lurked by the door (which my father had locked), eavesdropping on our conversation.
“Isabel, what were you thinking?”
“Believe me, you would have done the same thing.”
“You threatened to kill a twelve-year-old boy.”
“First of all, he’s fourteen—”
“He’s a kid—”
“—and I didn’t threaten to kill him; I threatened to fuck him up. There is a difference, you know.”
“What is wrong with you?” my mother yelled.
“That is the most reckless, irresponsible thing you’ve done in years,” screamed my father.
Then Rae smacked her hand against the door and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Leave her alone!”
My mother shouted back, “Rae, go watch TV.”
Rae banged on the locked door again. The thud was so loud it sounded as if she was throwing her whole body against it. “No. Leave Isabel alone! Open the door.”
My father sighed and let Rae in the room. Rae pled my case, which I didn’t, because I’ve got too much attitude. My father was forced to tone down his reprimand to, “In the future, let us handle this sort of thing, Izzy.”
There was almost nothing my mother wouldn’t do to protect her children, even if it was morally ambiguous. It was Mom who handled the potential assault charges, mostly because she can spot an Achilles’ heel with almost X-ray vision. If there is a single unfiltered trait I inherited directly from her, that might be it.
Olivia ran a civil lawsuit check on Mr. Wheeler and discovered a handful of sexual harassment suits in his wake. The pattern piqued my mother’s curiosity and she ran an informal tail on Wheeler over the next week. She caught him with a mistress, snapped some revealing photographs, and then cornered him at the coffee shop on his way to work. My mother suggested he drop the charges. Wheeler said no. My mother showed him the photos and repeated her suggestion, adding that she expected Rae’s bike to be replaced within the week. Wheeler called her a bitch, but the charges were dropped by the afternoon and a new bike was delivered on Friday.
Rae never forgot what I did for her that day. However, I should remind you that Rae’s brand of loyalty takes an entirely different form than the devotion to which one might be accustomed. While she can readily tell you she loves you, it is entirely void of the sappy heart of a greeting card. She is merely stating a fact for your own edification. There were times it seemed Rae lived to please our parents and sometimes even me. But this often lulled us into a false sense of security. Rae’s interest in pleasing ended if it didn’t align with her own agenda. Yet there were times she followed instructions with the blind faithfulness of a well-trained dog.
How to Evade Capture
When Rae was about thirteen, the local media began to cover child abductions with the regularity of weather reports. Statistically, there was a decline in abductions compared to previous years; however, the media’s alarmist tactics engendered a veritable mass paranoia among parents of school-age children. Even my own mom and
When I got back into the car, Petra suggested we go rough up some punks at the preschool around the corner. I looked at Rae through my rearview mirror.
“You okay?”
Rae returned my gaze with dry eyes. Then she asked, “Can we get ice cream?” as if nothing had happened at all.
I wish that were the end of the story, but it isn’t. Brandon ran home crying to his father, who in turn called my parents and followed up by filing assault charges against me. When Rae and I arrived at home with our ice cream cones, my mother and father had already received the first threatening phone call from Mr. Wheeler. Their stern expressions offered a flashback of my misspent youth. I’m sure they were wondering whether the Old Isabel was making a comeback. My father suggested we speak privately in the office and told Rae to go watch TV.
Rae, of course, didn’t watch TV. She lurked by the door (which my father had locked), eavesdropping on our conversation.
“Isabel, what were you thinking?”
“Believe me, you would have done the same thing.”
“You threatened to kill a twelve-year-old boy.”
“First of all, he’s fourteen—”
“He’s a kid—”
“—and I didn’t threaten to kill him; I threatened to fuck him up. There is a difference, you know.”
“What is wrong with you?” my mother yelled.
“That is the most reckless, irresponsible thing you’ve done in years,” screamed my father.
Then Rae smacked her hand against the door and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Leave her alone!”
My mother shouted back, “Rae, go watch TV.”
Rae banged on the locked door again. The thud was so loud it sounded as if she was throwing her whole body against it. “No. Leave Isabel alone! Open the door.”
My father sighed and let Rae in the room. Rae pled my case, which I didn’t, because I’ve got too much attitude. My father was forced to tone down his reprimand to, “In the future, let us handle this sort of thing, Izzy.”
There was almost nothing my mother wouldn’t do to protect her children, even if it was morally ambiguous. It was Mom who handled the potential assault charges, mostly because she can spot an Achilles’ heel with almost X-ray vision. If there is a single unfiltered trait I inherited directly from her, that might be it.
Olivia ran a civil lawsuit check on Mr. Wheeler and discovered a handful of sexual harassment suits in his wake. The pattern piqued my mother’s curiosity and she ran an informal tail on Wheeler over the next week. She caught him with a mistress, snapped some revealing photographs, and then cornered him at the coffee shop on his way to work. My mother suggested he drop the charges. Wheeler said no. My mother showed him the photos and repeated her suggestion, adding that she expected Rae’s bike to be replaced within the week. Wheeler called her a bitch, but the charges were dropped by the afternoon and a new bike was delivered on Friday.
Rae never forgot what I did for her that day. However, I should remind you that Rae’s brand of loyalty takes an entirely different form than the devotion to which one might be accustomed. While she can readily tell you she loves you, it is entirely void of the sappy heart of a greeting card. She is merely stating a fact for your own edification. There were times it seemed Rae lived to please our parents and sometimes even me. But this often lulled us into a false sense of security. Rae’s interest in pleasing ended if it didn’t align with her own agenda. Yet there were times she followed instructions with the blind faithfulness of a well-trained dog.
How to Evade Capture
When Rae was about thirteen, the local media began to cover child abductions with the regularity of weather reports. Statistically, there was a decline in abductions compared to previous years; however, the media’s alarmist tactics engendered a veritable mass paranoia among parents of school-age children. Even my own mom and
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