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Authors: Jeffrey Thomas
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that there hadn’t been exceptions. Hosts who eventually died, their brains found to house colonies of a hundred worms or more.
The bulge on Dylan’s forehead could be seen pulsing, if you looked closely and in a certain light. Throbbing like a second, ailing brain feeding off his own. And it was only when Dylan sniffed that Clare spotted the tip of a parasite, maybe a blind head taunting her, before it disappeared back inside the boy’s nostril.
Meeting her eyes, Dylan said, “The host-boy kicked us. Chad worm-child kicked our extremity. Shit shit fucker.”
“Now, honey,” she told the seven-year-old, not wanting to upset her friend by showing any resentment toward her child; you had to be as understanding of them as you were your own. “I’m sure Chad didn’t mean it.”
“We want to break kill eat peanut butter on toast mom-worm. Now! ” He kicked her sharply in the shin. Always the shin. The host-kid moms joked in class that their black-and-blue shins were their badge of honor.
Clare winced and said, “Okay, honey, I’ll take you home now and make you some toast with peanut butter.”
“Tuna sandwich! Tuna sandwich, sow-mom!” He bubbled his lips at her, speckling her face with saliva and parasite mucus, and then he squeezed her hand warmly and started leading her toward the door.
“Catch you later, Pat!” Clare called over her shoulder. “The prince is whisking me off!”
“I can see that,” Patricia said brightly, although she was struggling with her own son to keep his hands off her breasts. “See you in class.”
They both heard the door to Brice’s bedroom door slap open upstairs, the violent music boom louder, and the teenager shriek down at them, “Keep the noise down, you stupid fucks—I’m on the phone to Brad!”
««—»»
The parking lot of Dylan’s school gleamed with ranks of SUVs, like an army of giant beetles in readiness for world domination. They were owned by parents come to see their children play soccer in the field behind the school. The parents perched on opposing bleachers, trying to look composed and good-natured but each inwardly praying that the coaches—especially trained to work with host-kids—could keep their children in line, like diligent dogs herding an unruly flock.
Soccer had been a great way for a lot of these kids to focus their attention and channel their aggression. (Their disgruntled older siblings contented themselves with sports on video game consoles, though they tended to prefer games involving shooting sprees.) Of course, it had sometimes proved disastrous to mix host-kids and “typical” kids on the same teams, or have host-kids teams oppose
“typicals,” and so the schools now kept these teams and events separate.
But not all host-kids responded well; a lot of it had to do with how many parasites the individual child contained, and how they affected his or her particular brain. Clare had hoped that she could sit proudly in her class and report on her child’s successes, as did Melissa and Dawn and other moms whose kids had reaped therapeutic benefits from the sport, chasing and kicking the ball as if to kick the very worms out of their own skulls. Dylan, though, just wasn’t into the whole thing, as was evidenced by the kick he had just delivered to his mom’s shin instead of a soccer ball.
He panted red-faced and sweaty-haired by the side of the field, Clare hovering over him as Coach Chandler left them alone together to go address some other dilemma. Dylan had had to be taken out of the game for flopping down on his back in the middle of the field and shouting obscenities, much to Clare’s chagrin, though she tried to countenance that display and the pain in her leg with calm and composure.
“Honey, this is supposed to be fun,” she told him.
“No fun no fun chase sterile egg we don’t like soccer.”
“Well we don’t like your attitude, young man. You’ve got to have more patience.”
The boy snapped his
The bulge on Dylan’s forehead could be seen pulsing, if you looked closely and in a certain light. Throbbing like a second, ailing brain feeding off his own. And it was only when Dylan sniffed that Clare spotted the tip of a parasite, maybe a blind head taunting her, before it disappeared back inside the boy’s nostril.
Meeting her eyes, Dylan said, “The host-boy kicked us. Chad worm-child kicked our extremity. Shit shit fucker.”
“Now, honey,” she told the seven-year-old, not wanting to upset her friend by showing any resentment toward her child; you had to be as understanding of them as you were your own. “I’m sure Chad didn’t mean it.”
“We want to break kill eat peanut butter on toast mom-worm. Now! ” He kicked her sharply in the shin. Always the shin. The host-kid moms joked in class that their black-and-blue shins were their badge of honor.
Clare winced and said, “Okay, honey, I’ll take you home now and make you some toast with peanut butter.”
“Tuna sandwich! Tuna sandwich, sow-mom!” He bubbled his lips at her, speckling her face with saliva and parasite mucus, and then he squeezed her hand warmly and started leading her toward the door.
“Catch you later, Pat!” Clare called over her shoulder. “The prince is whisking me off!”
“I can see that,” Patricia said brightly, although she was struggling with her own son to keep his hands off her breasts. “See you in class.”
They both heard the door to Brice’s bedroom door slap open upstairs, the violent music boom louder, and the teenager shriek down at them, “Keep the noise down, you stupid fucks—I’m on the phone to Brad!”
««—»»
The parking lot of Dylan’s school gleamed with ranks of SUVs, like an army of giant beetles in readiness for world domination. They were owned by parents come to see their children play soccer in the field behind the school. The parents perched on opposing bleachers, trying to look composed and good-natured but each inwardly praying that the coaches—especially trained to work with host-kids—could keep their children in line, like diligent dogs herding an unruly flock.
Soccer had been a great way for a lot of these kids to focus their attention and channel their aggression. (Their disgruntled older siblings contented themselves with sports on video game consoles, though they tended to prefer games involving shooting sprees.) Of course, it had sometimes proved disastrous to mix host-kids and “typical” kids on the same teams, or have host-kids teams oppose
“typicals,” and so the schools now kept these teams and events separate.
But not all host-kids responded well; a lot of it had to do with how many parasites the individual child contained, and how they affected his or her particular brain. Clare had hoped that she could sit proudly in her class and report on her child’s successes, as did Melissa and Dawn and other moms whose kids had reaped therapeutic benefits from the sport, chasing and kicking the ball as if to kick the very worms out of their own skulls. Dylan, though, just wasn’t into the whole thing, as was evidenced by the kick he had just delivered to his mom’s shin instead of a soccer ball.
He panted red-faced and sweaty-haired by the side of the field, Clare hovering over him as Coach Chandler left them alone together to go address some other dilemma. Dylan had had to be taken out of the game for flopping down on his back in the middle of the field and shouting obscenities, much to Clare’s chagrin, though she tried to countenance that display and the pain in her leg with calm and composure.
“Honey, this is supposed to be fun,” she told him.
“No fun no fun chase sterile egg we don’t like soccer.”
“Well we don’t like your attitude, young man. You’ve got to have more patience.”
The boy snapped his
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