I wrote this piece a while ago when a registered sex offender moved in three houses down from me. I call it Mixed Emotions. It may or may not belong here but this sums up the many feelings it brought up in me.

MIXED EMOTIONS

LITTLE ONE

I hold the envelope real tight so I don't drop it in the puddles on the way to the mailbox. It is very important business, Flowerchild says but she lets me carry it anyway. All three of us are putting the letter out today because there's a scary new neighbor. "We must be careful," Grown Up said. "We must stick close together." Silly Grown Up. It's not like we're ever alone. We all share the same head, I think.

I have to reach up a little to touch Gail's nose. I pull it hard and her mouth opens right up. I stand the very important business up on the side of her mouth so she can still breathe. Gail-box is very funny. She has no teeth so she can't bite the mailman. He pulls her nose everyday, but he still doesn't know she has a name.

Flowerchild calls me stupid. "Mailboxes don't have names, or feelings, or teeth," she says.

But she's wrong. Bugs have feelings. Flowers have feelings. Bad men have them too.
I wave to the bad man at the end of the street as he slips a letter into his mailbox. He smiles and waves back.

FLOWERCHILD

"Great! Now you've done it," I sputter at Little One. I push her arm down fast. Stupid kid. She doesn't even care that the neighbor's a registered sex offender. Doesn't even care that she's the juicy bait. That she's what he's drooling over.

He won't touch me, no freakin' way. I'll kick him and stab him and stick my cigarette in his eyeball. It's not me anyway, it's the young one he wants. That's what they all want. Long, straight hair, flat-chested, chubby little legs. What do they see in that? I have everything to offer and I do it real good. Upside down, inside out, on my knees. I know how it's done. Men like him taught me good.

But I decide who does the touching now and it won't be him. Look at him, a fat old bald man. What would Little One see in him anyway? Fine if she wants to sit on his filthy lap, let her. I'm fifteen, I'll find plenty of laps of my own.

I flick my cigarette towards him and spit.

GROWN UP

"Hi," I say a little louder than I'd like. With a nervous wave with a half-frozen polite smile, the new neighbor waves back. I get busy putting the envelope in the mailbox, taking way more time than I should so I don't have to look back up and make the dreaded eye contact. I turn and walk away as my stomach flips and the mixed emotions breathe heavy and gurgle.

I feel the watchful eyes of the neighbors peering from their windows although I see no one. Doors are locked. Curtains are drawn. The air has changed.

Mothers march their children to the school bus in single file holding better rank than a military squad. They gather on the corner to whisper their concerns, their disgust. Keen eyes scan the streets for the enemy; thoughts focused on protecting their young.

We don't know the circumstances, I tell myself. Don't want to jump to conclusions, I tell myself. Who am I to judge, I ask myself.

I go inside. My doors are locked.

My curtains are drawn.

My stomach flips.