Runs in the Blood (Ch. 2)

About a week later, I noticed Arthur after school, staring out a window. We'd continued to share the same table at lunch but hadn't tossed a single phrase in the other's direction. I think we were both disgusted with each other. However, curiosity has its squirmish way of overwhelming softly held feelings, and I wanted to know what he was up to.

"Hey," I said, moving to stand next to him. "What're you looking at?"

He didn't turn away from the window. "Nothing. Or everything. Take your pick."

I had to stretch to see out the window properly. The view was not worth the effort. The parking lot, in all its crumbling glory, stretched out until it was penned in by the tennis courts. Surrounding those were cozy little houses with comfy little lawns. Absolutely unimpressive. I turned to look at him instead, but that view wasn't much better.

"This is why they think you're a freak."

"No, it's not. I know why they don't like me." His voice was young, but held the weight of an old soul. It must have been exhausting, to bear so much, even in his speech.

"This isn't exactly helping, is it?"

"What do you want?"

"You're avoiding that Justin kid, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "His last name's Jopp. Mine's Josam. Our lockers are next to each other."

"So you hide out of the way until he's left." I thought him a coward, and I did nothing to hide my disapproval.

He looked at me for a moment, then turned back to his window. "Get over yourself. You're no better."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He had a way of recoiling without moving. It came from his eyes, his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Like he was folding in on himself. "Nothing. Never mind."

"I will mind. What?"

"You're avoiding people too. You're just more showy about it." He glanced down the hallway, which was mostly clear now but for a few stragglers, and shuffled off. Arthur might never have thrown a punch, but the truth can hurt too.

I headed to my own locker and walked out of school. By then, my dad had pulled up in his minivan. Ellie my sister had already claimed the front seat, which I kicked her out of, as was my right, being the oldest. Ellie repaid me by kicking the back of my seat the entire ride to her new dance classes.

"Okay, kiddo," Dad said after pulling into a parking spot. He smiled at Ellie in the rear view mirror. "Have fun." Ellie looked at the new studio, her smile faltering. It must have loomed grand and terrible in her mind.

"It'll be fine, Ellie," I said. "You're their type of person. You're lovable." She smiled at me, kicked my seat again, and hopped out. The moment of fear had passed; she forged forward with gusto.

I watched her flit into the dance studio with a stab of jealousy puncturing my lungs. I think all siblings are jealous of each other at some point along the way. Mine came from Ellie's bright and airy spirit, the way she flitted through life, like she was fluttering above it. If I was a grumpy troll who found 'small talk' to be a daunting type of daily riddle, she was a fairy, with a magical laugh, a mischievous smile, and a frizzy sort of grace.

I expected Dad to drive off after Ellie had slipped inside the building, but he left the car in park. I turned to face him.

"Maude," he said in that uncomfortable voice that children hate to hear from their parents, "We need to have a talk."

"Okay."

"Well. Your teacher called. You're not in trouble, but she was concerned about... your choice in friends." He smiled sympathetically. "I know Mom and I have been encouraging you to use this move to start over, make some friends, and I'm very proud of you for making an effort. But this Arthur Josam, he's... not the right friend for you."

"How do you know? Have you ever met him?"

"No, but I've met you, and I love you, sweetie. I want what's best for you. I want you to be safe." That's part of the reason we left Minneapolis- because the cities had grown so unsafe. Too much violence. Crime rates had spiked in all the big cities across the country in the last few decades, and no one knew what to do. Some blamed economic stagnation, some blamed the weather, or technological advancement, or the polarization of politics, but none of those things had quick, simple fixes, so no one wanted to fix them. Then someone had suggested it might be genetics. Maybe a gene mutation had created aggressive individuals who were more mentally and morally capable of crimes. Suddenly, scientists were hunting for evidence of such a gene, desperate to be the first to find the Murderer Gene. They hadn't- yet. But that didn't mean people couldn't speculate. It rarely takes evidence to convince people of a theory they find convenient.

"You see, the thing is," Dad said, "Arthur has inherited violent tendencies. His father killed-"

I crossed my arms. "Arthur hasn't inherited anything! He's a joke- he wouldn't hurt anyone if his life depended on it. I know- I've met him."

"Maude, calm down," he said sternly, breaking out the 'Father Voice', "They say the gene expresses itself suddenly, unexpectedly. Just because there's no evidence of it yet doesn't mean that it's not true. Violence runs in his blood."

I sighed. I could never win battles against my dad. He stayed too calm. "I'm not even friends with him. We just sit at the same lunch table."

"Maybe you could find a different lunch table?"

I looked out the window. I honestly didn't know if I could. I was no Ellie. "Sure. Whatever."

"That's my girl. Now let's get home. Do you have any homework?"