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Authors: Jeffrey Thomas
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eyes to hers, suddenly looking less distracted than he had before. “Who is we? Are you our queen?”
“Now honey,” she sighed with irritation in her tone, reserved for times when no one else could hear and think she might be losing control, “you know I’m your mom. I told you, don’t let those pests talk for you. You have to work on that.”
“You call us prince your prince so you are our queen!” he whined, growing more agitated. Clare flinched, expecting another kick, but his shoe scuffed at the asphalt instead.
“Okay, okay, I’m your queen.” She took his hand and began walking him away toward the parking lot briskly, looking over to give a little shrug to Coach Chandler as if it didn’t ruffle her much, though it secretly irked her that other kids continued to run and play behind her, their parents no doubt glowing with pride—when not twisting their hands in their laps with dread that their child’s meltdown would come next. “Let’s just get home now so I can start thinking about dinner.”
“We want queen take us to king Burger King!”
“Whatever,” she sighed.
By the time they reached the rows of vehicles, however, her embarrassment was easing up already. Dragging him to their SUV had been like carrying a splintered cross upon her shoulders, while keeping her back as straight as possible, no sweat marring her expensively casual sweatshirt and jeans. Her poise counterbalanced her son’s chaos. Parents watching her retreat would feel less sorry for her than praiseful of her personal dignity. She epitomized the order that their children—their society—needed to get through all this.
««—»»
At last, Clare thought she had found something Dylan could take part in that would improve his social interaction, or at least upon which he could concentrate some of his turbulent energy. She was encouraged by the new class she was trying out on Wednesday nights, over in the city of Worcester . The class was called the Hive Moms, and the program they sponsored was called the Hive Chorus. The group’s approach was to confront and direct their children’s malady by “fighting hive mind with hive mind.”
“These worms aren’t going to claim our kids,” Hive Moms’ founder, Paula, would say, her own twin girls having been infested. “It’s time to take our kids back and show these things who’s really in charge.”
It seemed that many host-kids liked to sing, and could sustain their attention throughout not only the course of a song, but a whole concert of songs.
Apparently the parasites liked it, found it soothing when a group of children invaded with them bonded to a united purpose in such a way. It was a kind of harmony, as soothing to the moms as to the parasites they were in competition against.
A reporter from a Boston-based newspaper was in attendance at tonight’s concert in the auditorium of Dylan’s school, an event Clare had helped Paula organize. Clare heard the reporter ask Paula, “But might this kind of program be as beneficial to the parasites as it is to the kids? Obviously they’re getting something out of it themselves, since the host-kids take to singing so much.”
“Well,” Paula replied, unfazed, “even if that’s the case, that still works for us, because while we are determined that our kids’ identities won’t be eclipsed, and determined to evict these pests someday, in the meantime we have to deal with what we’ve got, and it’s undeniable that the worms are integrated in their minds. So if that’s the situation, and we can’t oust the worms at this point, then we at least have to help our kids live with them. And that means not only directing our children’s minds constructively, but directing the worms’ minds constructively along with them.”
Clare smiled. She couldn’t have said it better.
That night the children didn’t speak in tongues, but sang in the voices of angels. Clare clasped her hands together in pride as she watched
“Now honey,” she sighed with irritation in her tone, reserved for times when no one else could hear and think she might be losing control, “you know I’m your mom. I told you, don’t let those pests talk for you. You have to work on that.”
“You call us prince your prince so you are our queen!” he whined, growing more agitated. Clare flinched, expecting another kick, but his shoe scuffed at the asphalt instead.
“Okay, okay, I’m your queen.” She took his hand and began walking him away toward the parking lot briskly, looking over to give a little shrug to Coach Chandler as if it didn’t ruffle her much, though it secretly irked her that other kids continued to run and play behind her, their parents no doubt glowing with pride—when not twisting their hands in their laps with dread that their child’s meltdown would come next. “Let’s just get home now so I can start thinking about dinner.”
“We want queen take us to king Burger King!”
“Whatever,” she sighed.
By the time they reached the rows of vehicles, however, her embarrassment was easing up already. Dragging him to their SUV had been like carrying a splintered cross upon her shoulders, while keeping her back as straight as possible, no sweat marring her expensively casual sweatshirt and jeans. Her poise counterbalanced her son’s chaos. Parents watching her retreat would feel less sorry for her than praiseful of her personal dignity. She epitomized the order that their children—their society—needed to get through all this.
««—»»
At last, Clare thought she had found something Dylan could take part in that would improve his social interaction, or at least upon which he could concentrate some of his turbulent energy. She was encouraged by the new class she was trying out on Wednesday nights, over in the city of Worcester . The class was called the Hive Moms, and the program they sponsored was called the Hive Chorus. The group’s approach was to confront and direct their children’s malady by “fighting hive mind with hive mind.”
“These worms aren’t going to claim our kids,” Hive Moms’ founder, Paula, would say, her own twin girls having been infested. “It’s time to take our kids back and show these things who’s really in charge.”
It seemed that many host-kids liked to sing, and could sustain their attention throughout not only the course of a song, but a whole concert of songs.
Apparently the parasites liked it, found it soothing when a group of children invaded with them bonded to a united purpose in such a way. It was a kind of harmony, as soothing to the moms as to the parasites they were in competition against.
A reporter from a Boston-based newspaper was in attendance at tonight’s concert in the auditorium of Dylan’s school, an event Clare had helped Paula organize. Clare heard the reporter ask Paula, “But might this kind of program be as beneficial to the parasites as it is to the kids? Obviously they’re getting something out of it themselves, since the host-kids take to singing so much.”
“Well,” Paula replied, unfazed, “even if that’s the case, that still works for us, because while we are determined that our kids’ identities won’t be eclipsed, and determined to evict these pests someday, in the meantime we have to deal with what we’ve got, and it’s undeniable that the worms are integrated in their minds. So if that’s the situation, and we can’t oust the worms at this point, then we at least have to help our kids live with them. And that means not only directing our children’s minds constructively, but directing the worms’ minds constructively along with them.”
Clare smiled. She couldn’t have said it better.
That night the children didn’t speak in tongues, but sang in the voices of angels. Clare clasped her hands together in pride as she watched
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