Innocent Girls and Undeniable Gifts

Guest Post by Robert Shelden

Moving swiftly across the schoolyard from the parking lot, I spot Paris in the center of the asphalt blacktop.  She’s surrounded by a crowd of school officials. She’s squatting with her chin gently resting on top of her knees, her brow furrowed, and her bottom lip tucked under a new permanent front tooth.  Her right hand grasps her left wrist, her thin pale arms wrapped around her bare legs.  She rocks back and forth on her heels.  One shoe lies on its side nearby; its coiled laces draped in the permanent puddle formed by daily sprinkler overspray.  The other shoe is nowhere in sight.

Paris exudes defeat. 

I can see a blackened trail of drying blood from her scraped and dusty knee.  Paris is oblivious to the wounds.  With pursed lips and rapid breathing, she stares through the stand of legs in front of her and into the distance.  Knowing her as I do, I wonder if some in the crowd stand too close.

Leaving Paris in my periphery, I study the scene.  Dirt, gravel, and bits of dried leaves carpet the area; clear evidence of a struggle. One odd casualty lies in the open, a still brown rabbit with a six inch gash down its side.  As I try and make sense of the transpired events, I notice someone at my side.

“Thank you for coming yet again, Detective Peterson,” says the round and balding man in the blue suit.

“Of course, it’s my job,” I say staring past him and studying Paris.

“You know the drill.” “You’re welcome to take it from here,” the man says and drifts away.

“Thank you.”

With my arrival, the crowd begins to disperse as the baton of responsibility is transferred.  I approach Paris and gently touch her wrist.  As she stands, bits of embedded gravel fall off her knees.  She raises her head to look me in the eye, but soon glances away unable or unwilling to hold my gaze.  She’s calm and clearly relieved that I’m here.

“Lucy called him a dog. He’s not a dog,” complains Paris.

“I know he isn’t,” I acknowledge. “But you can’t hit your friends.”

Paris ponders my admonishment as we walk hand in hand to the car in silence.

Halfway to the car, I stop, turn and gaze back towards the play ground.  It’s quiet.  The only audible sound comes from the oxidized chain of a nearby tether ball at it taps rhythmically against its steel pole in the calm breeze.

I see the battered brown rabbit lying in the gravel.  “Don’t forget Mr. Thumpers.  We’ll have to sew him up when we get home.”

“He’s leaking,” Paris says as she picks up the stuffed rabbit.  I nod and we continue walking.

Police work will never be as difficult as raising a six year old girl.