#butt genie

Quinton is bent double, breathing hard. There’s a stitch in his side from running so fast, and the blacktop smells of tar from the heat of the day. But at least from this angle he’s more likely to spot his target. The little man.

Where is Trevor? He checks his watch. He can’t be upset, he’d barely made it to their meeting spot on time himself. Ever since his dad got killed, his mom’s been keeping a tighter leash on him. He can only assume Trevor’s parents have been doing the same thing.

Finally, his newfound and unexpected ally shows up, looking frazzled. Scared. Actually, his eyes are red around the edges, like he’s been crying. 

“Hey,” Quinton greets him, standing up and extending one of his walkie talkies. “You okay?”

Trevor sniffs loudly as he takes the walkie. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Quinton knows better than to push. This isn’t exactly a friendship. Trevor had extended an olive branch and Quinton had accepted it; he’d believed him when he said he was sorry. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to pour his heart out to the boy he used to spend his time bullying. 

Still, they need each other now. Their parents didn’t believe them, their teachers didn't believe them. Even those FBI agents weren’t sure what to make of their story. He can’t exactly blame them. What would he think if someone told him their dad was killed by a guy that resembled an Oompa Loompa?

Trevor leads the way into the front hallway of the school, a new determination in his step. Like he has an even deeper agenda than the one they’ve already laid out. He gives Quinton a nod and, as planned, heads towards the science lab. Quinton flattens his back behind one of the lockers and waits. It’s kind of fun, he thinks; like they’re in one of those Hardy Boys books he used to read.

creak… creak… creak

He closes his eyes. Whatever fun he’s having is completely gone now. He can only hope after this is all over he doesn’t keep hearing that sound in his nightmares. 

The janitor, Quinton doesn’t remember his name, but doesn’t care, rounds the corner with his mop and bucket, slowly creaking along. He does not see Quinton tailing him as he goes in and out of classrooms, performing the task for which he’s been hired. Finally, he arrives at the science lab. 

Quinton ducks behind a case of trophies. “ Here he comes ,” he whispers into his walkie. It’s up to Trevor now. All Quinton can do is wait. 

Eventually, he hears the crash he’d expected, but as he turns the corner in search of Trevor, he stops in his tracks, realizing this has not gone according to plan. 

His body seizes in terror as he stares directly into the face of the little man. It’s no longer the face of the janitor. It’s him . The man who killed his dad. And now he wants to kill him, too. 

Quinton runs as fast as he can, as far as he can. Down a flight of stairs, doing everything he can to lose his attacker. But he can’t. 

creak… creak… creak

He dashes into a biology classroom, and a lesson from the week before pops into his mind: he is prey, and there is nowhere he can hide from his predator. 

The doorknob rattles, and Quinton knows the only way out is through a window, but they’re all locked. Trevor tries to help get it open, but he can’t. And before he can get his thoughts together, figure out a solution, the little man is back. 

He hasn’t seen him so close up before. It’s funny how something so seemingly helpless can be so threatening. 

“I’ll get help,” Trevor promises, and then he’s gone. 

The little man closes in. Quinton shuts his eyes. I’m going to die, he thinks. And just as he’s accepted his fate, the door opens, and in walks that redheaded FBI agent. 

Oh, thank god . 

“Do something!” he screams. But she hesitates. Why isn’t she doing something? Why isn’t she protecting him? “It’s him! It’s the little man!”

“Who? Trevor?” she asks, and at first Quinton thinks maybe she’s just forgotten his name. 

“Stop him! Shoot him!” he pleads. The man keeps advancing.

There’s a look on her face of confusion, then curiosity, as she aims a good twelve inches above where her target lies. Suddenly, he understands. The little man is trying to fool her. Just like he sometimes looks like a janitor, to the grownups he’s making himself look like Trevor.

So they won’t shoot. They’ll never shoot. 

“I… can’t,” she says weakly. 

Quinton wants to cry. The little man has got them all trapped like rats, rats who don’t know their way out of the maze. The agent gets a better grip on her weapon, but is still aiming at what he imagines she believes is Trevor.

“You're aiming too high!” he tells her. “He’s just a little man!”

She seems to hear this, actually lowers her weapon a bit. Maybe on some level, she believes him. Please, believe me , he thinks.

creak… creak… creak

“Listen, you can hear his cart!”

Her eyes widen, and he knows she can hear it. He knows it. 

“It’s not Trevor! You have to believe me!” he shouts at her. “Please, I need you to believe me!”

creak… creak… creak

“Shoot him!” he cries again, and finally something inside her seems to click. The little man is nearly upon her when she pulls the trigger not once, but twice. 

The little man falls to the floor. 

The agent doesn’t celebrate, however. She looks down at the dead man like she’s done something wrong. Like she’s one who has been defeated.

Quinton exhales a sigh of relief. It’s over , he thinks. But for the redheaded agent, it seems like something else has only just begun.