Misdemeanor (Responsible Adult #1)

2: Education, Education, Education

           

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Micky clenched his fists. Shut his eyes. Counted to ten.

"You can't take that to school, Flynn," he said, holding out his hand as he knelt on the hall floor to tie the laces on his little brother's school shoes. Flynn perched on the last stair, winding up his toy giraffe, the four legs all rushing forward at triple time to the penetrating high-pitched buzz.

"Why?" Flynn asked and wound it up again.

Micky placed his hand over the toy. He curled his long fingers over Flynn's tiny, delicate hand and squeezed gently. Flynn peered up through his sky-blue round-rimmed plastic glasses, the lenses so thick they made his large, oval blue eyes double in size.

"You might lose it," Micky replied, instead of his initial instinctive reply of because it'll annoy the fuck out of everybody. He sometimes had to give himself a mental nudge that his brother was only eight and his understanding and ability a lot younger than that.

"I'll hold it really, really tight," Flynn said, squeezing the toy underneath Micky's grip while shutting his eyes and proceeding to hold his breath.

"Flynn, stop it," Micky warned.

Flynn didn't. He continued holding his breath until his entire face turned red and he wobbled on the edge of the step. Micky let go of Flynn's hand and clutched his little brother's shoulders to steady him. "Flynn. I said stop."

Flynn finally breathed. He opened his eyes, displaying a huge wide grin. "I love you, Micky!"

Micky let out a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes for a second before opening them again and returning the smile. "I love you, too, Flynn."

Flynn nodded, double time, and carried on winding up the toy giraffe. Micky scraped it out of his hand and tucked it into his jeans pocket.

"Nice try, kid," Micky mumbled under his breath.

Flynn bobbed his head and hummed a tuneful melody as Micky secured the final lace on his boot. Flynn had a way with music. His vocal skills weren't up to much, but his range of pitch was staggering. He couldn't remember his full name or where he lived but could recite the lyrics to any song he'd heard play once on the radio. If only they taught math and English by song and verse, then Micky wouldn't be spending most of his evenings trying to get Flynn to understand the homework set for a kid in reception class. Flynn was in year four.

Micky stood and grabbed Flynn's book bag from the floor along with his lunchbox and water bottle. He held out his hand and Flynn bounced off the step to curl his tiny hand into Micky's palm. He carried on humming whatever tune it was as Micky yanked open the front door and stepped out into the street. Flynn soon merged into full-on singing what Micky realized was an advert for car insurance. Micky chuckled. Only his little brother could make a crappy television advert sound like that.

"Are we late?" Flynn asked, skipping along beside Micky.

"Yes."

"Okay!" Flynn cheered. He smiled up at his big brother and squeezed his hand.

Flynn was always cheerful. He only really had two levels of emotion. Deliriously happy most of the time or totally fucking pissed off. The latter tended to happen when he got confused or couldn't understand why he wasn't allowed to do the thing he so desperately wanted to do at that particular moment—even if it might endanger life and or limb. Micky had a hard time controlling Flynn's outbursts when they happened. Any typical child could be given a quick slap or, as Super Nanny would disapprove of that method, be put on the naughty step.