| FALL 2002 |
flashquake Editor's Pick |
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She was small, birdlike. Her arms were bent by her side, the elbows seemingly attached to her hips, like inefficient wings. They would flap as she chirped on. Words spilled out of her mouth in shrill, undisciplined notes that pecked at her audience. Her name was Abigail. Abigail Schloss. She came to our school in the seventh grade. The boys immediately began to tweet as she bounced down the halls. Abigail didn’t seem to hear the imitations that flew with her wherever she went. She didn’t flinch at the things they yelled after her like “Polly want a cracker?” and “Hey, cockatoo.” She moved on point, her entire body ready to spring forward on its way to Algebra class. A smile lived permanently on her face and her head bobbed, as if a beat played internally. 
Abigail had a twin, a fraternal one. Abe. His hair was frizzy and black, like Abigail's, but his legs lacked the bounce of his sister's. He came to school in a motorized wheelchair that zoomed around the corridors. His legs hung unnaturally, bent outward from the knee. We heard he was born that way. The wheelchair looked fun, but Abe wouldn’t let us try it. "My mom says I'm not allowed. She would get really mad," he said with an air of authority. The boys didn’t like this answer. They would often surround the chair and alternately pepper him with charm and harassment. “Come on Abe, man, we’ll give it right back,” and “Hey, we’re having a party this weekend. Let us try out that chair and you can come by,” or “Give me that chair or you and that bird-brained sister of yours will regret it.” Abe refused. He simply revved up his engine and shot down the hall. When she could, Abigail stood guard by Abe’s chair. The boys brushed right by her skinny body as if it were a homework assignment. The twins always sat at the same lunchroom table, the round one in the middle of the room. Abigail smiled at her brother as her mouth whirred along in conversation. In between words, she slurped YooHoo from a red twisty straw and ate Fig Newtons. You could see the bits of mashed cookie tossing about in her mouth like socks in a dryer as she spoke. But Abigail chatted on, oblivious to the stares and jokes that floated in the air around her. Abe, on the other hand, had eyes that probed and darted, collecting information, storing it. He kept his open YooHoo in a holder in the arm of his wheel chair, never drinking from it. Sometimes it would remain there all day. We wondered if it was still full when he got home. It happened after last period one day. We came out of social studies and almost got hit by Billy Fatland zooming around the corner in a wheelchair — Abe’s wheelchair. Billy shot down the hall, the chair at full speed, the wheels squealing. “Woo hooooo!” we heard streaming through the air as he zoomed back and forth. We looked around for the wheelchair’s owner. Abe was propped against the red lockers, his head wedged between two locks. His helpless legs were splayed before him. We murmured amongst each other, glancing around for the authority that would correct this situation. Abe didn’t look at us. For once his eyes ceased to search. His head hung towards his chest as if in shame. It was then that Abigail came round the corner on pointed toe, her head towards the ceiling, her inner song on high. She almost walked into the group of us. When she realized there was a crowd, she fluttered behind, sashaying from side to side to get a glimpse. Then she saw him. A screeching sound flew from her mouth. We all turned around to look at her. She glared at the bunch of us with scorn that scorched our skin. Billy Fatland was zipping back from his journey straight towards the crowd. He grinned at us, basking in the attention of what he thought was a gathering in his honor. His smile straightened as his eyes caught Abigail’s. She stood at the end of the hall, waiting for him. Her arms slowly rose from her sides, suddenly long and majestic. Billy’s lips turned a pale white. He got out of the chair and swiftly walked it to Abigail. She took it without a sound and pushed it to her brother. Then Abigail flew into action. We watched as she leaned down to Abe, placing her two hands beneath him. We shook our heads at the wasted gesture. She was too feeble to pick him up. But then we stared in awe as Abigail lifted her twin brother up in a smooth motion and placed him in his chair, her skinny limbs now those of a superhero. Abe’s body surrendered to the chair, settling in lopsidedly. Abigail shrieked at the crowd — a supernatural piercing sound — as she grabbed hold of the chair’s handlebars and swung it around. She smacked Billy Fatland in the shins with the metal wheel as she rotated. Billy fell backward, slamming into the lockers where Abe had been. Then Abigail began to walk in measured steps, pushing her brother’s chair in front of her down the hallway. We watched them, stuck in our spots, as the image of the three of them, Abigail, Abe and the chair, grew smaller. Then, when they reached the doors, they turned to face us. Abigail started forward, picking up speed. We backed up against the lockers. She swooped down the hallways with the chair gliding before her. “Get out of my way,” she cried, “Here I come!” Mrs. Sarton emerged from her classroom and saw the chair zooming down the hallway. She yelled for Abigail to stop. Abigail didn’t slow. The wheel chair came screeching towards us with Abe in the seat of command. The twins were heading straight for Billy. Billy drew his knees up and put his head down. The chair hit him hard, cramming him further against the lockers. “Ahhhhhhowwww,” he squealed, his voice hitting the top of its range. Abigail and Abe backed up and exited the scene, leaving us with Billy’s howl. “I’m hurt, I’m hurt,” Billy whimpered. Mrs. Sarton hurried over to him. One by one, the rest of us went back to class.
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