Copyright 1995(c)

                      THE RIGHTS OF SPRING
                       By Caroline McGhee

     She wasn't a blond, cherubic child and she wasn't an ornament.
You inherited looks and she was tired of being what she looked like
instead of what she was. She took a fierce pride in using the
electric shaver she'd found in a thrift store for a dollar to buzz
the flaxen locks to the base of her skull, letting it drop in a
great, thick mound like an extended helmet atop her head. It only
annoyed her when one of those extremist groups made bald heads the
anathema of fashion. 
     "Who does your hair?", wanna-be chic teens asked her on the
bus and in the mall and she barely acknowledged them, pretending
she was deaf as a post. Individualism was impossible in this cloned
society of forever young, beautiful people, she told herself for
the umpteenth time and sighed.
     She moved her school books onto the stone bench and regarded
the man-made waterfall that graced the center of the mall, idly
watching the jostling crowds pushing to be first to return the
unwanted gift item and secure a refund. Advanced Algebra lay like
a stepchild atop her notebook as she swung her feet and
contemplated travel. Anywhere would be better... have better
people... better things to do. Anywhere would be away from her
stupid family with their stupid ideas about college and 'making
something of herself.' 
     As if anybody with a name like Spring had any hope of making
something individual of herself, she thought in disgust. A tot
passing in a carriage propelled by what might be its mother eyed
her curiously, attracted by her audible snort of derision. She
frowned -- remembered her mother's explanation.
     "A lovely actress of the time was named Spring Byington," her
mother had said when Spring had complained bitterly that it was
virtually impossible to come up with a decent nickname. She'd
settled for Spy, and her mother had been horrified, but Spy it was
and she'd answer to no other. Her mother shook her head a lot but
so what? It was her life and she intended to overcome the obstacles
of good looks and a name that was so cotton-candy Barbie doll it
would make you retch.
     And today was her day.
     Today she was going to fulfill all the prophecy. She intended
to strike a blow at the very heart of this stupid little town with
its stupid little pretensions of normalcy. She fingered the
switchblade in her jacket pocket and waited. Now that she had it
worked out, the waiting was almost easy.
                               ***
     Mayor Radnor hurried the reporter from his office as he joined
up with his aide and headed for the limo that would whisk him to
his next appearance. With two other candidates in the race, he was
taking no chances. His days were a flurry of ribbon cutting and
rubber chicken dinners as he raced against the polls to hold on to
his slim lead. 
     He pushed through a crowd to take his place on the podium. A
good Christmas season portended a prosperous new year, and one that
could only be guaranteed if he remained in office, he told his
audience. They clapped and cheered, he smiled and nodded, his eyes
coming to rest on a familiar face.
     He strode from the podium, his aide at his heels, a determined
look in his eye. In a fluid, buttery move the knife slid into his
abdomen as he reached to embrace his daughter. 
     She smiled slightly as she watched him crumple, a bewildered
look in his eye. She leaned down, straining against the arms that
restrained her as cries of alarm went up.
     "Look daddy," she sing-songed, "I've made something of
myself."
     She went willingly with the policemen. These were, after all,
the rights of Spring.
                               END 