The Deal

It was near the end of the kids’ morning break. They were all walking around in their groups or pairs, chatting, enjoying the sunshine. Dotted about, sitting at different tables, were the usual exceptions - the genuinely slow eaters and the ones who pretended to be, to avoid socialising. And Brad Wilkins. Of all the second graders, I’d have said he was the cheeriest, most sociable one in his class. Something must have happened at home, or on the way to school; I wanted to help.

As I approached, Brad kept his gaze fixed on the ground. There was still no acknowledgment when I lowered myself down next to him on the metal bench.

“Hey, Brad. It’s not like you to sit out on your own. Look, Jim’s over there probably wondering why you’ve left him to walk round with Billy and Janet.”

A look of bewilderment flickered across his face, but Brad didn’t respond.

“This isn’t like you. What’s up?”

In a single, abrupt motion, Brad covered his face with both hands. I was puzzling over his reaction when I noticed his shoulders heaving. Unable to stop them, he was at least trying to hide his sobs.

I stood up to reposition myself between the boy and the school building, screening him from view in case anyone inside happened to look out.

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” I said. “It won’t go any further, I promise.”

“I think Mommy’s not a Good Citizen,” he whispered, through short, panicked breaths, then looked at me, tears streaming from fearful eyes. “They’re going to take her away from me, aren’t they?”

I shook my head instinctively. I knew Mary Wilkins. One of the youngest, healthiest mothers in town, I’d often see her complete her daily 5k with what looked like relative ease. “Why do you think that, Brad?”

“She… She forgot to pack my morning snack.”

My shoulders, hunched until then, relaxed, and I was about to laugh with relief when the look on Brad’s face stopped me.

“I’ve never heard of anyone being sanctioned for anything like that,“ I said. “After all, every one of us forgets things. Even today, I forgot to bring in a book that I promised to lend to a colleague and I’m still here, still a Good Citizen. Aren’t I?”

Brad gave a weak shrug before returning his gaze to the ground, wide-eyed, rarely blinking. There was more to his story.

“Whatever someone’s told you, whatever’s happened, you can tell me,” I said.

Brad remained silent and still as a rock.

“I’ll bet it’s not as bad as you think. If you let me know, I might be able to help?”

Brad let out a long breath and said nothing. We sat in silence, staring ahead, watching the other kids. Suddenly, he opened up.

“Grandma got lost the other day and then the Doctor brought the men to our house last night. She asked Grandma ‘What’s the name of our current Archetype?’ and Grandma got it wrong. She said it right straight afterwards, but the Doctor said she couldn’t be a Good Citizen any more, and they took her. She was screaming The Archetype’s name, but they took her anyway.”

No wonder Mary had forgotten to pack Brad’s morning snack. Who knew how long she’d fought to hide the symptoms of her mother’s dementia, or how many times she’d had to explain them away to anyone showing suspicion? Now grieving, her thoughts were likely scattered, disorganised, leaving the boy to deal with his fears alone.

“I’m sorry about your grandma,” I said, keeping my tone calm, measured. “But she had a long and happy life. And trust me, you don’t need to worry about your mom. She’s fit and healthy, with lots of time ahead of her. It’s when people get near to their end that they sometimes suffer from a condition that affects the memory. It’s not the same as the normal forgetting that your mom, and I, and even you, do sometimes.”

Brad met my gaze and I could see there was more than grief and fear in his eyes; there was anger.

“They’re going to take me next.” He punched himself in the middle of his chest. “I’m not a Good Citizen.” His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse with emotion. “I never have been.”

He took a quick look around, double-checking that he was obscured from the view by my body, then took off one shoe. Tipping it up as though getting rid of a stone, he flashed the inside at me for a split second so I could see the lift. He put it back on, looking away and wiping a tear from his cheek.

I remembered those feelings of anger, and fear, and shame. That, and the fact he’d entrusted me with his secret, made me take a chance - one that I’d never considered doing in all my forty years. I wanted the boy to know he wasn’t alone.

“Here, look,” I said, holding out my hands, palms face down, fingers spread wide. “Normal hands right?”

It took a while for his rage to dissipate, but then he raised his head, examined my fingers, knuckles, wrists before nodding his agreement.

“They weren’t always that way.” I twisted them around so he could see along the sides of my pinkies. “The scars have faded over the years but I was born with polydactyly. That means ‘many digits.’ I had one extra finger on each hand. It’s a genetic fault, a Transgression as harmless as yours. I was lucky my mum and dad could raise enough credit to pay the surgeon. They didn’t tell me about it, though, shushed me whenever I asked about my scars, telling me they were natural marks but also warning me never to mention them to anyone outside the family. I had no idea I was a Transgression until Kyle - my older brother - let it slip. We were looking at old photographs. ‘Remember how Robert used to scream every time you put those gloves on him,’ he said and he was laughing, like it was funny, but I was in a sweat when I looked through all the pictures. In every single one, until I was about two years old, my hands were hidden in mittens, even in summer.”

“But I can’t be fixed,” Brad said, his tone flat, hopeless.

“You don’t need to be. You know all this stuff about Transgressions is an unfair load of old nonsense. It’s your actions and the content of your character that really matters. But while things are the way they are, you can at least keep lifts in your shoes. No one can see them and no one needs to know. Same as no one needs to know about my hands. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy gave a nod and I smiled, sensing that our exchange had calmed him at least a little. Perhaps after a few more chats he’d know for sure he could trust me.

Break was nearly over. Brad took off and joined the line, reuniting with Jim who was nowhere near Billy or Janet. My stomach churned as I looked to the end of the queue where they were standing with Daniel. They’d been with him the whole time, not Jim. The boys were the same height, and both had straight, sandy brown hair. Since becoming a Senior Citizen, I’d been greeting people on the street first in case it was someone I knew.

My throat dried as I looked back at Brad. His gaze fixed on me, he curled his lips into a smile and I could see in his eyes that he knew, and that no, it was not covered by our deal.