Dixby's Home For Special Cases

There was a click as the heels of Miss Patricia’s “sensible” shoes struck together, and the class stiffened to attention- all six rows of six, separated in accordance to color.

White and red. Forgotten and begotten. The innocent and the catalysts.

That was simply the way it worked at Dixby’s- parents would leave a child on the front stoop, with a slip of paper attached by pins, tape, glue. At the top, in wide typeset letters: Why?

The answer would determine the child’s clothes, food, seating; something that the outside world didn’t know. And so, the figures in tattered raincoats would rush back off onto the street, unaware that the simple, “Pop. Control said couldn’t keep her” or “Cries too much, neighbors angry” had marked the baby with red.

Callisto was a red. She was seated at the back of the room, back straighter than all the rest, hands resting on the edge of the battered desk.

Miss Patricia scanned the room for the sluggish, tapping a ruler in her hand. It was a foreboding sound; threatening.

Finding none at fault, she prodded the side of the projector with the flat of her hand, and the screen flashed to life. 9…8…7…

The numbers, encased in their fat black discs, flickered down to zero. A picture of a barking dog and a smiling boy, dressed in pinstripes with his hair greased back, appeared- bearing the caption, “Your Cells and You!”. Miss Patricia settled at her desk, fingers wrapped around a mug of tea.

The boy seated four desks down from Callisto smiled. He slowly reached into his pocket, and brought out a small scrap of paper, crumpled with age and with a dot of purple paint in the center.

Making sure that the headmistress was absorbed in her drink, he placed the paper on the seat next to him, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Tag, his lips mouthed. Break rank.

The girl he had passed it to looked horrified, and flung it at the next seat, hastily whispering the line.

It was so close to Callisto, dangerously close.

She tried desperately to focus on anything but the game- the boy with the greased hair and his dog were learning about the nucleus, something that seemed infinitely fascinating to the both of them.

“Golly, how does something that small do something so big?”

The boy in front of her yawned. Miss Patricia scanned the room with a scowl on her face, but upon noticing he was a white, went back to her tea.

The boy’s name was Tesla. He and Callisto were linked, bound- in ways neither of them wished. Her father had been the one who had held the pistol to his mother’s head, and Callisto herself had been the one who had cried at the noise. The one who had brought the police, and landed her parents in the penitentiary. And fourteen years later, he still glared at her, cast her dark looks from wherever he was sitting.

Callisto looked down at her feet, cheeks growing red- the moment she realized the crumpled bit of paper at the edge of her desk.

“Break rank,” someone hissed. She took the piece in her hands, holding it lovingly and touching the purple spot with her fingernail.

In a place like this, it was all the power one could ever long to hold.

Her eyes darted about wildly. Who should she give it to? Should she keep it longer? Everyone was fidgeting, threatening to turn round and expose her as the greedy one.

She hesitated, biting her lip, before she reached forward and tapped the shoulder of Tesla’s white jacket, whispering, “Tag.”

The paper slipped easily from her fingers and landed on the edge of his desk. He spun around, ready as ever to berate her, to make her ashamed.

He noticed the big purple eye staring up at him, and his expression softened.

Callisto almost managed a smile.

“Break rank.”