It was just a stupid joke.
Everybody made fun of the deaf kid. He talked funny. And he did! We weren’t mean about it. He couldn’t hear us anyway, right? He was frikkin deaf. All we did was make fun of the way he talked. We said he sounded derpy.
It’s not a bad word. It’s not even a swear word.
Derpy.
He did sound derpy. We weren’t wrong.
Whatever. The sign down the block from where the deaf kid lived said DEAF CHILD AREA. We'd laugh about it as we passed his house, walking home from school.
One night, after a six-pack of lite beer split between the three of us, me and Dave and Kate bought a can of yellow paint and a can of black paint and made our slightly drunken way to the sign. We took out time, we did it right. No one saw us. It was fun.
DERPY CHILD AREA.
Change the A to an R. The F to a P. Add a Y.
Easy. And funny. Like I said, we laughed. It was just a joke.
In our defense, the deaf kid probably never even saw the sign. He died the next day. A car saw the same sign, but didn’t heed the warning. Because we had changed the warning.
The car didn't see the sign and hit the deaf kid and the deaf kid died. He never even heard the car hit him.
It wasn’t our fault.
Still. We felt pretty bad.
The night after the funeral, I wandered over to the deaf kid’s street alone and sought out the sign. I was thinking maybe I’d find the kid’s house. Maybe say a silent prayer. Maybe apologize. Maybe just grieve.
From a distance, I saw the sign had been changed. They must have scrubbed the graffiti off. The Y was gone.
Good. The parents, or the police, or someone, had cleaned the sign, removing all evidence of our vandalism.
I walked toward the sign to inspect it further.
Wait. Something had changed.
I stepped closer, willing myself not to run.
Someone had changed the sign again. Another vandal.
I stepped closer. Then I ran.
I read the sign three times to make sure I was reading it right. The sign now said: DEAD CHILDREN AREA.
The vandal had changed the final F into a D.
I never even heard the car hit me.
