Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
I drive morning carpool about once a week. I take the girl, two of her friends, their older brother, and one other boy. Both the boys are former schoolmates of my boy’s. Five kids at 7am. They never shut up, but can be entertaining.
This morning, I end up in the wrong lane. I put my blinker on and implore other drivers to let me in. One by one, they pass me by, seemingly not noticing my sad eyes and my insistent blinker. Finally, a guy about my age in a white truck looks right at me. “Yes!” I think. Nope. He totally drives right on by, smiling like The Cheshire Cat at me the whole way.
I was spitting nails.
If I don’t have other people’s kids in my car, this usually means a muttered string of profanities. (Okay, there was that one time where Rollie and the Commune Twins learned the phrase “You fucking dick,” and at high volume, but it was a Saturday Reading Bowl situation and all bets are off when I’m on my first coffee in a Saturday school day obligation scenario.)
This morning’s Fucking Dick, however, earned only a grudging “Jerk.” The kids all agreed. “Yeah, that guy was being a jerk.” Luckily, the next guy let us in, and I pulled in behind the offending white truck, completely giving him the finger in my mind, which is just not as satisfying as the real thing.
Then this exchange:
A, one of the 6th grade boys, says, “You should just rear end him.”
“Believe me, I kind of want to,” I say, “but violence is rarely the answer.”
M., one of Tiller’s Other Twins (she collects twins) says, “A. Loves violence,” in a voice that sounds like she’s saying he loves K-I-S-S-I-N-G girls.
I look back at A. in the rear view mirror. He’s gazing out the window in silence, then responds with a chilling calm, “I don’t love violence; I love revenge.”
Note to self: Don’t cross that kid. Ever.