Freakshow

Running Away to Join the Circus

My heart was about to break my ribs. The cadence of its beating was the only thing I could focus on to ground myself. In my hands, my shaking hands, I clutched my copy of The Book of Death.

Gran told me that I shouldn't be forced to live in this state. In a nation where the flag might as well be a hundred dollar bill. So she gave me the book when I was twelve and told me to hold on to it. Read it when I was ready.

Gran liked to steal books. Old history textbooks and diaries and such. She read them to me at night when she was still alive. Told me about the three World Wars and the Revolution and the Civil War. She told me about the Trail of Tears and the Internment camps and the bus boycotts. She told me about the Gold Rush and Bombing Day, when we ended World War III.

The street light flickered. It was almost midnight. I checked my watch. It was digital and the light didn't work on it anymore, but it had belonged to my mother, so I didn't care.

The lights illuminated the crumbling brick wall, put back together with slathered cement like a sloppy patchwork quilt done by a third grader. There was broken glass and a crushed wrapper from some sort of sandwich, too soaked by the puddles on the ground, water filling the potholes and cracks, for me to see what it looked like anymore.

Most places had been reconstructed sloppily. After the war ten years before I was born, the towns and cities had to be built back up using what was left, using what was affordable. The wealthiest cities, mostly state capitals, were the nicest. But the slums and suburbs and everything outlying them had been screwed in the ass and never quite recovered.

I checked my watch again. Three minutes till a watcher would come.

Gran told be about propaganda. She showed me old posters and political cartoons and adds. Her favorites were Uncle Sam and Rosie the Riveter. When I finally read the Book of Death, I was delighted to see Uncle Sam scrawled at the bottom of the page. A pseudonym, probably, but I never gave a damn about that and I still didn't.

I might never have read the book if they didn't shoot Gran and Mom. Gran was hosting one of her secret church services and Mom was helping her. I hadn't been able to come since the school bus broke down again and I missed it.

Someone ratted them out to the cops and they all got shot dead, no chance to explain their actions. Gran died while holding a Bible to her heart.

One minute left.

After they died, Dad drank. Alcohol was technically illegal, but any cop or official could be convinced to stay quiet about drugs and drinks and such if they were given some. He never hurt me, but he never helped me either. Passed out, didn't work, stole food from the trash, didn't pray over it.

I looked down at the book again. Paperback, torn up, worn out, with the skull that laughed in the face of death drawn on the cover in sharpie. I read the last line in the book again. Give me liberty, or give me death! Signed Uncle Sam.

When Gran showed me her posters and her history books and told me what we weren't allowed to learn, she always said kids would be mean to me because of it.

"Kids will be mean to you because you're a girl. They'll be mean to you because you're Chinese. Kids will be mean to you because they know you're better than they are. They're gonna talk behind your back, but they're behind you for a reason. You know what they aren't allowed to know because I hoarded books back in college. And damn right they're gonna be mean to you because of that."

Before I could check my watch again, I heard a shuffle. I spun around, fearing a cop. Curfew was two hours ago, and being caught out for reasons over than an emergency would end in my arrest and immediate drafting.