Helmets

Hat hair. Sounds better than “helmet hair.”

 

My favorite class is history. It’s the only time I feel special. Hindsight, 20/20. Knowing that grandma and grandpa held in their hands the tools of our destruction. And used them.

 

Smile! Share! Selfies, tipped up, cropped, sent to a datacenter in Las Vegas where North, South, East, West marks the spot. (Power fed in all directions.)

 

Pale, discolored lights spill across my desk, tinted orange by the filter on the windows. And my helmet feels extra heavy.

 

“Can anyone tell me what the North American Technological Summit was and why it was convened?” My teacher looks over the room. Her helmet is violet. Round and bulbous like a blooming flower. “Radiation,” she whispers to us. We are still and silent, waiting for the day to end.

 

Some were killed in clusters, then movements. Sweeping hands of a conductor, trembling with feeling, snuffing out the orchestra.

 

But we know now. Everyone keeps their helmet safe. Policemen look for those who forget to wear them. One-hundred and seventy-eight dollar fines to remember what comes next.

 

No one gave tickets to smokers. Back then it was cool.

 

I’m watching Ms. Drew trace the front of the classroom, walking the slim line between us. The helmet hurts her. Bent neck under sagging shoulders. Distorted bones and twisted muscles. So obvious then. We were enlightened. Now we have the helmets.

 

It’s not as bad as cancer. Afterimages. Ancient memories. Clowns and rollercoasters snake through spent graphite and pencil shavings. Seizing fits of tightness. Swelling in the cerebellum. Bleeding from the ears. Death.

 

I have my helmet though. It has a chrome rocket ship on it.