For what must have been the ten-thousandth time, SR mentally kicked himself and dug his claws into the pads on his paws because he'd never given Tara that goodbye hug. Splitting up was unavoidable, really, but there was no reason to deny her that last comfort. Two weeks after he'd so unceremoniously dumped her, her father got a job with a large, out-of-state firm, and she was whisked away to that imaginary land known as 'Florida.' In all of his subsequent searching, SR was never able to find Tara Nedrow again. He would never forgive himself for that. Presently, SR was listening to the happy melody of "Jingle-Bells" as he walked past the front of one of the toy stores along the main walking street. Inside, to the dismay of one shopkeeper, four teenagers were 'testing out' some of the merchandise. One in particular caught SR's eye: He was flipping a butterfly yo-yo dangerously close to the back of one of his companion's heads (who was attempting to reassemble one of the shop's store-front displays the he had, moments previously, knocked over). The one struggling with the pile of Legos would occasionally hear something, and turn to look accusingly at his friend. In the meantime, the one with the yo-yo would do some other trick, plastering an overly-innocent look on his face. This charade ended when he misjudged the length of the string and gave his friend a solid knock upside the cranium. A short and uninteresting scuffle ensued, but the shopkeeper shooed them out of the store before they could damage anything else. SR chuckled to himself. Aah, the wonders of the yo-yo! He'd learned in junior high that the best way to get some breathing room in a crowd was to pull one of those magical toys out and begin flipping it uncomfortably close to his neighbors' surrounding ankles. He'd also played the 'let's see how close we can get' game with his younger brother William's head-- except that he usually made William face the yo-yo and keep his eyes open. Considering the number of black-eyes that William had received, it was a miracle that they didn't fall out! Of course, SR also paid dearly each time William's complaining cry reached his mother's ears. Those were the days! Upon entering junior high, SR's social life changed as much as his body and attitude. The first thing he realized was that there were a lot more SCABS in this school than his previous one. In Washington Elementary, there were only four students who had SCABS, all of them sixth-graders who were transformed during that year. In South Junior High, a school of nearly three times the size, there were over fifty. But it still wasn't hard to have a Normals-only group of friends. SR was rather introverted, but was quickly enveloped into a tight-knit clique of four rather gifted boys: Chad Beasly, Jeff Matthews, Rick Porter, and Kelly Pope. They all excelled in school, but also carried some of the more negative stereotypes of students of their achievement. Before long, they were known as the 'Yo-yo Club,' for their chosen lunch-hour pastime. In the eighth grade, Rick introduced the other three to the magical world of computers. Of course, they had all used them in school and home before, but none of them had ever attempted to program one. For SR's amusement, his father dug out an old machine that he bought during his college years. SR wasn't sure, but he figured it was made sometime between 2005 and 2007: It only had 4 processors, a very ancient voice-recognition system (SR actually had to use the keyboard sometimes), and its 3-D rendering hardware could only handle fifty million polygons at sixty frames per second. But despite its obvious shortcomings, SR had it purring for him in almost no time at all. SR watched the four boys make their way down the street, obviously enjoying each other's friendship. When they went around the corner, they passed a couple coming the opposite direction. He was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed Norm. She was a five-foot walking lady-bug. The walked, arm-in-foreleg, very much consumed in each other's love. SR sighed. Throughout his high-school years he and his friends had kept themselves busy with computers, orchestra, and a few extra-curricular programs like the Honor Society and Academic Decathlon. Through his expanding education and church seminary classes, it became gradually clear to SR exactly what his religion dictated in terms of the eternal fates of those who got SCABS. To SR's luck, during those years he never had another friend as close as Tara had been commit the unpardonable sin. Consequently, he had never had another serious talk with his father over that particular matter. In his final year at Andrus High, SR wrote his senior thesis about the detrimental effects of SCAB employees and researchers in the high-tech marketplace. He received an A+ for the paper, and his English teacher, an activist in the local chapter of Humans First, encouraged him to polish up the work and attempt to have it published in a professional journal. SR's father provided his support as well. SR never told them why he didn't. Shortly before graduation-- SR would have a 4.09 GPA, second only to his friend Kelly's 4.16 GPA-- the group of socially-defunct introverts prepared to attend the senior prom. For three of them, SR included, finding Norm dates proved easier than expected. During that same year of school, SR watched with increasing concern as Kelly gradually became attracted to and began going steady with a female cricket morph of his same age. When the time for the prom came around, it was obvious who his chosen date would be. Since the foursome planned on making a quadruple-date of the event, and because George Foxley had a very strict 'As long as you're under my roof, you'll obey my rules' policy, SR knew he'd have to have a chat with his dad about it. It didn't go over well... "Damnit! It's only one stinking night, and she's not even my date!" "SR, please do not curse in this house!" SR sank heavily back into the velvet covered wooden chair across from his father's desk. "Sorry," he spat. George placed both elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers in front of his mouth. He exhaled loudly through his nose. "Look, SR," he eventually said, "Do you understand why we don't want you to have any association with SCABS?" SR frowned. "I understand all the doctrine behind it-- about being happy with you're lot in life, and keeping out of temptation and all that stuff. But I really don't see how one little evening could hurt." SR held his right hand out toward his father. "I mean, come on! I hardly even know the girl, and after dinner we'll be going straight to the prom-- and you know there's going to be plenty of SCABS there! I haven't heard you say one thing about not going to the prom or to school where I have to be around hundreds of SCABS every day!" "The SCAB your friend Jeff chooses to associate with is a bad influence. She has made choices in her life that she can never repeal..." SR was on his feet again in an instant. "Now where do you get off saying that? I know the doctrine, but I've never understood why you believe it! I mean, all the scientific evidence in the world says that SCABS affects people at random! Sure, there've been some rumors flying around that susceptibility to SCABS might be hereditary, but for the most part, it's completely random-- changing who it wants, whenever it wants! And how can you say that they actually wanted that disease? Do you know their thoughts? Can you climb into their heads? How can you say that they wanted to be shunned? Or frightened? Or alienated? Or killed? Jesus! You know the statistics-- how many of them commit suicide after they start to show symptoms!" SR was breathing heavily, leaning on the front of George's desk. George waited patiently for the tirade to end, and for his son to calm down before speaking again, eyes lowered to the floor. "SR, please sit down." SR turned and sat in his chair, arms folded in defiance. At last, George looked into his son's eyes with warm sternness. "SR, I know it's been hard for you to accept what's been happening around you at school, and especially to accept some of the doctrines of this church." SR huffed sarcastically. "I know you love to analyze things, but please realize that science doesn't have all the answers, and that it can sometimes be blatantly wrong." SR only frowned. George continued. "Science tells us the world was made over the course of millions of years instead of just seven days. It tells us that there was no great flood. It says miracles do not happen, and tries to attribute some of them to freak phenomena in nature. It tells us that Mary, as a virgin, couldn't have born a child. It tells us that Jesus couldn't have risen on the third day." He paused to let his word sink in, leaning forward. "And it tells us that SCABS can't do anything about getting that disease." SR shook his head, staring at the floor. George went on. "This isn't the first time that God has used a disease to punish the wicked. In Egypt, among the plagues sent on that country for not letting Israel go was a plague of boils. In ancient Greece, God used sexually transmitted diseases to end their abominable practices. In the middle ages, God sent the black plague to punish the people for falling away from His righteous ways. In the late twentieth century, God used AIDS to scourge sodomites, homosexuals, adulterers, and fornicators. And today," George paused, "God has sent SCABS to punish those who are ungrateful for the many blessings He has given them." SR smirked, "He sure has pretty poor aim with his plagues, then, doesn't He?" George did his best to ignore the sarcastic tone of his son's blasphemous remark. "Well, of course there have been some who unnecessarily suffer. In Pharoah's Egypt, the plagues were caused by one man's unbelief. And in the middle ages, entire towns of righteous, god-fearing folk were decimated. Look, bad things happen every day. People die needlessly in auto accidents. Murderers and robbers get away with their wicked crimes. But God more than makes up with it with the paradise in which he allows the victims to dwell." SR looked up. "And with SCABS?" George sighed, then leaned back into the folds of his leather chair. "With SCABS, I'd estimate that maybe one in ten-thousand unjustly suffer." SR leaned forward angrily, this time controlling his temper enough that he didn't stand. "But how can you say that? How can you know that any of what you've told me isn't some sort of paranoid pipe-dream?" George frowned and reached toward the top drawer of his desk. Pulling out the Bible, he flipped to a passage near the end and began reading: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. He paused for a full minute before speaking again. "SR, do you believe in God?" SR responded quietly, "Yes." "Do you believe that he hears and answers prayers?" Even more quietly, "Yes." "Then what should you do about this?" SR bowed his head, looking at the carpet in front of the desk. "I suppose I should ask God." By this time, George was already around his desk. "Will you do that?" Without raising his head, SR responded, "Yes." This was met with a good half-minute of silence. George finally spoke, whispering. "Thank you, son. I'm proud of you. Could I have a hug?" Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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