Thomas - Sometimes a Helix is a Circle

By Michael Thomas

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IN THE HALLWAYS THEY whispered: fight after school, norms against mods, revenge for the destroyed solar cells in the Prestons car. No way, I thought, but at lunch my friends and I decided to hang around the playground after school just in case. As the day wore on, the classroom dulled, the odds on the fight being the only equation to catch my attention. Mr. Dalton, as always, caught me daydreaming.

Eric? Mr. Dalton said, Have you ever considered using that brain your parents bought for you?

Mr. Dalton taught the modified gene type advanced class. I have never met anyone who smiled as much as Mr. Dalton, the expression seemingly etched into his thin face, permanent wrinkles bunched around his cheeks from the effort. He prowled behind us, smiling, hands clasped behind his back, his head bobbing on his long neck like some bird of prey.

The logarithm, Eric?

I stared at the probability model on my monitor, shrugged my shoulders and said, How about two four time?

He stared at me for a moment, finally got the joke. His smile stretched tighter across his teeth. Along the circle of terminals my mod classmates stared at me as if I was a somewhat amusing monkey.

The bell sounded, dismissing the advanced classes. I waited for an hour in the parking lot until the norms were dismissed. The late May sun sent heat ripples dancing on the asphalt and the air smelled of sap and newly mowed grass; three weeks until the end of eighth grade and the beginning of summer vacation, freedom in the air as thick as the smell of the grass.

Soon my norm friends came running and we raced to the best seats on the semi-circle of berms separating the softball diamonds from the neighboring subdivision. There was Lew, who at fifteen was two years older than us, but still in the eighth grade because he had been held back twice, and Screwy, which just about sums him up, and me, who they called Sleeves because I always wore long-sleeve shirts. Norms and mods never hung out together, but my friends and I were different despite the fact that I worked on trigonometry and the orbit of a gas giant circling Vega while they struggled with x 20 .. 35. They didnt seem to much care if I had been engineered to a 190+IQ; I didnt care if Lew had been held back, or if Screwy had a row of five studs implanted along the side of his nose. Sometimes you can only care about another person if you dont care.

Screwy said, You think the mods really messed up that car?

Lew shrugged his shoulders and tipped back the brim of his Stetson. One day theres a car and the next day something blows away every solar cell in the whole damn thing. Who else would be smart enough to do that? Right, Sleeves? He glanced over Screwys shoulder at me and grinned his lopsided grin, the one that turned his mouth into a lightning bolt. I said, Whoever did it should get a medal.

Screwy wrinkled his clay-colored face, stuck a finger in his ear and fished for ear wax. All Bobby Preston did was spray paint some wall.

Not just graffiti, I said. He and his pals painted swastikas all over the university genetic research building. If you let that kind of hate crap go unchallenged itll get worse. Theres already a move in congress to outlaw genetic modifications. Most norms would support it, wouldnt blink if they put us in concentration camps. Pretty soon the real brown shirts will be goose-stepping down the streets.

What the hell are you talking about? Screwy said.

Its called politics. Its not my fault if I can read.

Screwy said, Yeah, thats why we hate mods.

I shoved a handful of grass down the back of his T-shirt and he took a swipe at me with his backpack and was about to leap when Lew tackled him and called him a pin dick.

Your mother, Screwy said as he squirmed away from Lew.

Least my mothers not a guy in drag, Lew laughed.

We killed time that way, clowning beneath the fiery circle of the sun until we heard voices coming from behind the back stop. A gang of norms marched onto the pitchers mound led by Bobby Preston. Bobby had once tried to play a prank on the principal by ordering ten pizzas and having them delivered to the principals house; unfortunately he gave the pizzeria his own phone number. People like Bobby give norms a bad name.

For about ten minutes the norms milled around the pitchers mound until a group of my mod classmates left the school. Even at a distance I recognized most of them: Liz was there, whose nylons swished when she crossed her legs, and Justin Moore, engineered for flawless skin as well as brains, and others from the far end of the bell-shaped curve.

They walked toward the subdivision and as I recognized more faces, my gut went rigid. On the diamond, backpacks hit the dirt, baseball bats fanned the air.

This isnt a fight. Theyre going to attack them.

How do you know? Screwy said.

Thats the Greek club. No one over there could defend themselves against a flea.

Sure enough the cat calls and the jeers from the norms rang out and the mob started toward my classmates, Bobby Preston in the lead with a Louisville Slugger in his hands and moronic hate etched into his blubbery face. The mods tried to ignore them, but the norms had a good angle and cut them off before they could reach the subdivision.

You know, Lew said, I hate Bobby Preston. Maybe Ill go make him give me back the five dollars he owes me. With that, Lew cocked his Stetson and sauntered toward the norms like the hero of a western. That was Lew; not stupid by any means, just living out his personal rebellion fantasy, using failure as a weapon. His father was a drunk, no one knew where his mother lived. My own father walked out on us when I was five. I havent seen him since. I cant remember what he looked like.

Hey pin dick, Lew yelled.

The crowd of norms parted for him.

This aint your fight, Bobby Preston said and backed away. The norms closed in around Lew.

You owe me five bucks, Lew said. Pay up or get off my playground.

This aint your ....

Want to prove me wrong?

They messed up my dads car!

Prove it.

More bodies crowded Lew.

Screwy and I stared at each other and I knew we both felt the same disgrace at our cowardice. We charged down the hill toward our friend who was about to stand up to fifteen angry norms.

When we got there, Lew had already shoved Bobby Preston to the ground. The mods stood nervously by. Tension charged the hot air like heat lightning.

Take a hike. Lew laughed.

A big kid leapt from the crowd and pinned Lews arms behind his back. Bobby Preston Scrambled to his feet, his arms swinging backward, the Louisville Slugger tracing an arc through the air, the upswing of which would have caught Lew in the side of the head.

Im not sure what happened next. People told me about it, but I dont remember. It was like when youre in an accident, one moment youre driving along and the next moment your car is a mangled heap only your brain has mercifully blocked out the actual crash.

Bobby Preston lay on the ground screaming, holding his face. The kid still held Lew, both of them too stunned to move. Everyone froze. And I wasnt where I thought I was.

Screwy and I had been ten feet away when Bobby swung the bat, separated from them by the mob of norms. Now I stood between Bobby and Lew. Pain throbbed through my right hand. Everyone stared at me.

Jesus, Lew said.

The norm released him and jumped back.

Sleeves, how the hell did you do that?

Do what? I said. Fear scurried up my chest. Bobby staggered to his feet and for a moment dropped his hands from his face. A crimson splotch discolored the side of his face like a massive sunburn in the shape of a hand print. For a moment he stared wild-eyed at me, then turned and bolted, the other norms fleeing with him.