Unknown by Christopher Smith Page B

about, Moore?”
    “Okay, Ginny, I’m going to talk really slow so you can understand what I’m saying.   I know your comprehension skills are something you’re working, so just try to follow along.   Here goes.   Where were you when my parents were murdered?   Were you getting the gas?   Buying the matches?   Or were you just encouraging the others?”
    “You better watch yourself.”  
    “I better watch what?”
    “You heard me,” she said.   “You’re up to something.   You’re not the same person anymore.   Look at you.   You’re different.   Something’s off.   If you weren’t so damned poor, I’d think you were taking roids, which is illegal.   So, just check your mouth before you speak to us.   We’re watching you.”
    “You’re hilarious, Ginny.   I mean, come on—is that all you’ve got?   You’re squirming around my question for a reason.   You’re deflecting it.   You’re worried about it.   So, I’ll ask again in front of the entire class.   Where were you when my parents were murdered?”
    “That’s none of your business.”
    “Actually, it is.”
    “Actually, it’s not.”
    “Do you think I don’t know where you were that night?”
    “What are you insinuating?   That I was there?   Where’s your fucking proof?   Just shut the fuck up.   You don’t know shit.   You never have because all you are is a piece of shit.”
    “Well, that last part doesn’t even make sense.”
    “Whatever.”
    “Poor, Ginny.   There is one thing that can be said about you.   You’ve sure got the mouth of a lady.”
    A few in the room giggled at that.
    “And you’ve sure got the face of a faggot.”
    “Are we back to that again?   Are you really going there again, as if it will hurt me?   As if it defines me?   It’s pathetic, don’t you think?   Worse, just saying that word reveals exactly the kind of person you are.   I want to guess, but I’ll let you tell us since you’re in such a chatty mood today.   What word do you use when you see a black person?   You know, like Dee over there.   I think we all know, but I’m sure as hell not saying it.   Still, I’m betting it’s just as intolerant, colorful and cruel as your frequent use of the word ‘faggot’.”
    “You don’t know anything about me!”
    I shrugged my shoulders and looked at her with pity.   “I wonder how much longer before the truth gets out about who killed my parents?   The police are all over it.   Homicides are rare around here.   When someone breaks this case—and they will break it, Gin-Gin, whether you and your posse want to face it or not—that’s a promotion and a raise staring them straight in the face.   Detectives around here don’t earn much.   I imagine several people are scrambling to solve what happened to me and to my parents so they can get that raise and their face in the paper.”  
    I paused and leveled her with a look.   “I sure hope nobody tips them off.”
    She was about to say something when our homeroom teacher, Mr. Garland, walked in.   He saw me and came over.   “My condolences, Seth.   We’re all sorry for what happened.   I hope you know that.”
    “Actually, I don’t.   Ginny Gibson just called me a loser, a faggot and a piece of shit in front of the whole class.   A week after my parents are buried and on my first day back to school, she calls me all those things.   What kind of person does that?   What kind of monster treats someone like that?”
    He seemed genuinely unsettled by this.   “Is that true, Ginny?”
    She shook her head.   “He’s a liar.”
    As usual, Garland looked down at Alex for confirmation.   “Did she say it?”
    “She said it.”
    He turned to her, but Gibson already was out of her seat.   She gathered her things and started for the door.  
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “I’m calling my parents.   Nobody treats me like this.”
    “Really?” I said.   “Well, here’s the