The Obedient Ones
The day Riley told his parents there was an incident at school, his mother’s hands flew to her neck like she was one of those old timey ladies clutching their pearls. His father, on the other hand, stood tall with his evening drink loosely in his hand, as if it could slip through his fingers and shatter and spill and it all wouldn’t matter.
“Some people your age are still prone to disobedience,” his father had said to the air. He never spoke to Riley in particular unless he deemed it absolutely necessary. “They haven’t removed that part of their DNA.”
His mother barreled into the kitchen, anxious. When Riley followed through the swinging door she went to the counter screen, scrolling through recipes with a sweaty polished finger. Every so often she lifted her hand to her mouth and tried biting off a nail. Crunch, like carrots. Riley moved closer, afraid to touch her shoulder. He didn’t want to scare her — he was scared too, though assumed she had forgot — and wanted his arms around him so tight it was warm and he could feel her heart against his, safe.
“Tell me again,” she said, moving her hand from her face and extending it. “What exactly did the little girl do at school?”
“Well, we were sitting at lunch,” Riley started. His mother remained in her inquisitive trance. “And we were talking, like usual, when she pushes out her chair and stands up without asking. She’s said some things before, mean names, but she stops when they say so, like we’re meant to. But today she got up with a red marker in her hand, tight, and she walked over to the wall with the board and the white space. Her arm went so high like she was stretching but angry, her fist in the air. Then she started to draw on the wall. Lots of lines. Squiggly ones, straight, it didn’t matter because she wasn’t trying to draw a picture. They told her to stop. Some people said the classroom was too loud, maybe she didn’t hear it. But, she was smiling, you know. I saw her teeth and her eyes looked happy. Like she was enjoying it. Like she liked disobeying them.”
“That’s enough,” his mother said, her voice shaking. She opened the drawer, swish, and started scrambling for tea. Something calming, Riley knew. Maybe lavender.
“But Mom, she was told to stop but she didn’t. How? We’re made to listen. How can she want to be disobedient and not do what they tell her? And like it!”
“I said that’s enough.” His mother turned toward him, his face saddened by her halting, cutting him off his story. “Do not speak of it again.” She watched his mouth warp against his face, closing like an automatic garage, quickly, clanking shut against his will. He knew better than to fight against his lips. No muffled words about the incident would — could — be let out now. He knew better.
