“Absolutely.”
The truck pulls into the 7-Eleven parking lot and stops in front of the entrance. I unbuckle my seat belt, grab my bag from the floor, and hop out of the truck. Brian rolls down the passenger-side window.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say cheerfully.
“I can wait with you until your parents get here.”
“No, no,” I tell him, zipping up my jacket. “You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to keep you from your friends. You go. Tell everyone I said hi and sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Okay…” he says reluctantly.
“Go,” I insist, trying to sound light and jokey and not in the least bit how I really feel (which is totally desperate). “Have fun. Eat pancakes. I’ll be fiiiine.” I purposely elongate the word in hopes that the extra syllables will add some much needed conviction to my case.
“All right,” he finally agrees. “Well, we’ll miss you tonight.”
“Yeah,” I reply absently. “I’ll miss you guys, too.” But I’m barely even paying attention, because I’m already tapping away on my phone, telling Hunter to pick me up from the 7-Eleven parking lot in twenty minutes.
Inconvenience Store
The 7-Eleven bathroom is not exactly my idea of the perfect first date prep location. The lighting is dreadful, the mirror is lined with milky streaks of I don’t even want to know what, and it’s extremely difficult to change without my bare feet touching the grimy floor. Evidently that yellow bucket and mop in the corner are there purely for decorational purposes.
The outfit I brought was intended for a casual night at the Main Street Diner and is nowhere near the caliber of what I would normally pick out for a date with someone like Hunter Wallace Hamilton III, but when it comes down to that or the option of wearing this hideous suit, the choice is pretty obvious.
My hair is still up in that tight ponytail, and because I didn’t bring any product with me it’s going to have to stay there. But I manage to extract a few wispy layers from the top and frame my face with them so that the hairstyle doesn’t look quite so…severe. Then I pull out the tubes of mascara and lip gloss that I brought with me and do my best to touch up my face a bit.
But I nearly jam the lip gloss wand up my nose when a loud crashing noise resounds from outside the door, causing me to jump. It sounds like one of the stockers just knocked over a huge rack of soda cans while he was refilling the refrigerators. That’s gotta suck.
I take one final glance in the mirror—not the masterpiece I would have liked, but I suppose it’ll have to do—and cram my stuff back into my bag. When I first step out of the bathroom, I’m surprised by how quiet it is. Ten minutes ago this place was bustling with activity and now it’s deathly silent. Not even the ding of the cash register.
Then I see the woman on the floor. She’s lying facedown, her arms huddled up underneath her chest and her forehead resting against the tile. She appears to be crying.
Oh God, I think. Was that the noise I heard? Did she fall and hurt herself?
I take a step toward her and that’s when I see the rest of them. About ten in total. All on the floor. And before I can even comprehend what’s going on, the barrel of the gun is three inches from my face and the shouting has started.
“Get down! Get down on the floor NOW!”
Without a second thought, I drop to my knees and sprawl out onto my stomach. Now all I see are feet. Dirty white tennis shoes with mud caked to the bottoms. Thankfully, they’re moving away from me. Back in the direction they came from. The cash register.
There’s more yelling, but I don’t dare look up. I keep my face down, finding it extremely ironic how just seconds ago I was dancing around the bathroom trying to avoid extended contact between my bare feet and this dirty floor, and now I’m practically making out with it.
“The money! In the bag! Don’t think! Just do it!”
I turn my neck to the side and make eye contact with a woman around my mom’s age. She appears to be hyperventilating. The guy to my other side is mumbling whispered prayers under his breath.
I know I should be scared—making bargains with God like everyone else—but for some reason, all I am is annoyed. This really couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time. I mean, seriously. A holdup? In Parker, Colorado? What are the odds?
“Nobody move!” The white tennis shoes are all over the place now. Unable to stand still. From this angle, it almost looks like there’s some kind of routine going on here. The tango, perhaps? Or maybe a nice fox-trot.
Just then, a shrill ringing sound blasts through the air and I hear several people gasp. The woman next to me actually buries her head in her hands, as though she doesn’t even want to witness what happens next.
Crap.
“Whose cell phone is that?” the gunman thunders.
I know for a fact that it’s mine because I can see the light from the screen through the fabric of my bag, but it’s not like I’m going to raise my hand and volunteer so I stay quiet.
The phone keeps ringing, which seems to be totally pissing off the white tennis shoes because they’re galloping around the store now, searching for the source of the noise. “I want everyone’s cell phone out and on the ground where I can see them,” he commands.
Fortunately the ringing stops the moment I pull my phone out of my bag, but I can see on the screen that I have one missed call from Hunter’s number. And just as I’m placing it on the ground in front of me, a text message dings through.
I strain my neck to see what it says, but before I can decipher any of the words, a giant calloused hand swoops down and yanks it out of sight.
Damn it! That was from Hunter! And now I’ll never know what it says.
He’s probably wondering where I am. Wondering why I’m not in the parking lot where I said I would be. What if he gets tired of waiting and leaves? What if he thinks I stood him up again?!
If only White Tennis Shoes would hurry up with whatever he’s trying to accomplish here, I still might be able to get ahold of Hunter before he writes me off forever. I consider trying to appeal to the shoes’ common human decency and ask if I can be excused from this little “situation,” but even I know that wouldn’t be a smart move. No matter what, gun always trumps cute guy. Even Hunter.
Plus, the shoes are really starting to look annoyed. I mean, I know they’re only a pair of dirty sneakers, but they seem to have taken on a personality of their own. And right now, that personality is “ticked off.”
So I guess it’s adios to my romantic evening with Hunter Wallace Hamilton III. It’s too bad. I was so close this time.
I hear the slam of the cash register drawer closing and I feel my hopes lifting. Maybe this means it’s almost over. Maybe I’ll be able to go on my date after all! But my dreams are quickly dashed the moment I see the now-familiar red and blue lights reflecting in the store windows. The sirens come shortly after. And judging from the fact that the sound seems to be emanating from every direction, I’m assuming we’re surrounded.
And now all I can do is groan and rest my cheek on the cold tile floor as one thought filters through my mind. Oh, great. Not again.
Held Hostage
I’m being punished, aren’t I? The universe is punishing me for breaking my promise. For defying the wishes of my blog readers and making a choice on my own. And I think we can all agree at this point that it was a pretty crappy one.
As usual.
One spur-of-the-moment decision and I’m back where I started. Surrounded by the flashing lights of emergency vehicles and camera crews. And to make matters worse, it doesn’t look like I’m getting off this dirty floor anytime soon. The arrival of our little disaster entourage has really seemed to piss off the guy with the white tennis shoes and now he’s refusing to leave the store. He’s also been shouting something about “having hostages” (I’m assuming that’s us) and that therefore he doesn’t need to listen to anything the police are saying.
The cops have brought in a negotiator wh
o keeps calling the store with various offers, but judging from the obnoxious grunting sounds the gunman keeps making every time he takes one of these calls, I’m guessing the offers aren’t what he was hoping for.
Minutes pass followed by hours and my back is starting to cramp from lying here. The only thing I can do to pass the time is think about Hunter and how he’s probably home by now, cursing my name and vowing never to speak to me again. I also think about Brian and wonder how his night chowing down on pancakes is going. If only I had listened to my blog readers and followed the poll results as I swore I would, I could be at that diner right now. Instead of sprawled out on this disgusting floor.
And just the thought of those syrup-drenched pancakes is making my stomach growl. Did I mention how hungry I’ve been getting down here? It’s actually quite torturous because I’m lying right next to a full rack of Hostess snack cakes. The whole darn product line from Twinkies to Ho Hos to those yummy little Mini Muffins. Do you know how many times I’ve thought about grabbing one of those, tearing the wrapper off, and stuffing it in my face? It would be so easy, just a slight reach and the delicious sugar rush would be mine.
But the white tennis shoes tend to get kind of irritated when any of us so much as breathes too hard. And I guess I can understand that. He seems to be under a ton of stress right now. He’s been eating a lot of candy up there in the front of that store. And last time he walked by here, drops of sweat actually trickled off his face and splashed on the floor next to me. Plus, he’s started muttering things in a language I don’t understand. Yep, the pressure is definitely starting to get to him. I’ll tell you one thing. I certainly don’t envy him right now.
Well, I mean, except for the eating part.
After three long, muscle-cramping hours on the floor, a deal is finally made. Actually, it’s not so much a “deal” as a surrender. I guess the white tennis shoes figured he just couldn’t win and, around two in the morning, he walks out of the store and into the blinding light of the news vans and camera crews.
None of us really knows what to do at this point and we all kind of look at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move and get up. But I think we’re still paralyzed from fear. Not to mention the fact that my legs are so stiff I don’t think I’ll be able to move them for a week.
Three police officers burst through the doors a few seconds later and assure us that the nightmare is over and we can get up and leave. With a sigh, I push myself up and grab on to the Hostess rack for balance as I struggle to my feet.
As soon as my legs stop wobbling and I feel like I’m standing on solid ground again, I look to the uniformed policemen and immediately recognize one of them as Officer Banks, the man who released me from the station less than a month ago. He obviously recognizes me, too, because his lips curve into a grin and he walks up to me and throws an arm around me. “Baby Brooklyn,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Rescued again.”
I offer him back a weak laugh and a halfhearted “Yeah, how do you like that?”
“You seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, don’t you?”
What a canny observation.
“You better get outside,” he tells me. “Your parents are waiting. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you.”
I brush off my shirt and grab my bag from the floor. “Thanks.”
As I step outside into the frenzy of media, I’m happy to find that my parents aren’t the only ones who are waiting for me. Hunter is there, too. And instead of looking pissed off that I stood him up and didn’t answer his call, he actually looks worried. After my parents have fawned over me for a good ten minutes, Hunter pulls me into a deep hug and holds me close enough that I can smell his aftershave. It’s so amazing, it makes me wonder if I should get held up at gunpoint more often.
“Hi,” I murmur bashfully as I watch my parents’ reaction to our exchange out of the corner of my eye. “I’m sorry I messed up our plans.”
“You’re sorry?” Hunter repeats dubiously. “That a madman decided to hold up a convenience store while you were in it?” He laughs and gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Brooklyn, this was not your fault. I’m just glad you’re okay. I was so worried about you.”
“You were?”
He laughs again and shakes his head. “Yes! I kept thinking about what would happen if—” He stops short and pulls me into another embrace. “You know what, never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
A few minutes later, my parents say something about getting me home to rest and lead me to the car. As I’m ushered through the crowd of photographers, news vans, and family members of the other victims, I think about what Hunter said. That I’m not to blame for what happened to me tonight. That none of this is my fault.
But as hard as I try, I just can’t bring myself to accept that.
Because although I know the man, who has now been identified as Viktor Dolinsky, will go down in history as the responsible party for this evening’s events, although I know everyone in this parking lot—from the police, to the EMTs, to the eleven o’clock news—will mention his name when doling out the criticisms about judgment and poor choices, I will always know the truth.
I will always know where the fault really lies.
* * *
My Life Undecided
GRATEFUL
Posted on: Sunday, November 7th at 8:20 pm by BB4Life
My dear blog readers. I just want to take this opportunity to thank you for your time, thoughtful feedback, and dedication to this blog. Not only did Heimlich and I win our very first debate, but I had the most amazing time last night at the diner afterward. It surpassed all of my expectations. It was the most fun I’ve had in years! Today I am walking on air. Floating on a cloud. So thank you for pointing me in the right direction.
Now, on to today’s order of business:
1) We’re almost finished with The Grapes of Wrath. Now it’s time to choose a Shakespeare play. So what do you think? Twelfth Night or Julius Caesar? Once again, I know nothing about either of these plays except that Julius Caesar has a salad named after him. Please vote!
2) Because Heimlich and I won our debate yesterday, we’re now qualified to compete in some big upcoming tournament next weekend. It’s an overnight thing where we get to stay in some hotel. Sounds interesting. Any thoughts on whether or not I should go?
3) Contempo Girl magazine is asking if I’d like to renew my subscription. Hey, it’s a choice! So please make it.
Thanks again, everyone! The blog readership has now grown to 105 people and I’m grateful for every single one of you.
Signing off…
BB
* * *
Same Old Brand-New Me
Okay, so I lied. But only about the going-to-the-diner part. The rest of the blog is absolutely true. But I couldn’t admit that I disobeyed them. That I blatantly ignored the results of my last poll and ended up the victim of a three-hour hostage situation as a result. Mostly because the news of the crisis has been playing on a continuous loop on every local television station for the past twelve hours along with video footage of me leaving the store and being reunited with my parents. Apparently the fact that “Baby Brooklyn” found herself trapped in yet another disaster thirteen years later makes a much better story than any of those other poor people who had to suffer through the same fate. And if I write about what really happened last night, my cover will definitely be blown. Someone is bound to put two and two together and figure out who I am.
So I lied. To protect my own identity. And maybe, just a teensy bit, to protect my pride as well. I mean, I’m not exactly pleased with myself after last night’s mistake. Do I wish I could take it back? Yes. Do I wish I had just stayed in Brian’s truck and gone to the stupid diner like I promised I would? Yes. And did I learn my lesson about defying my blog readers? Absolutely.
No more detours. No more last-minute modifications to the plan. From now on, what they say goes.
On Monday mo
rning I’m out of bed at the crack of dawn. Today is very important because it’s the first time I’m going to see Hunter since that embarrassing fiasco on Saturday night. I mean, he was there when I came out, which is great and all, but it also means the last time the guy saw me I looked like a total zombie after lying on a dirty floor for three hours with a gun pointed at my head. Not exactly the image I want him to remember me by.
Plus, the news is still running the story with my picture on it. Chances are, people are going to notice me at school again. And not in a good way.
So today I have to look incredible. No. Not just incredible. Breathtaking. Like someone who just stepped off the set of a Vogue photo shoot.
My former camera-ready glam routine may have fallen to the wayside a bit ever since Shayne ejected me from her coveted co-pilot seat, but now it’s time to get my act back in gear and reinstate my old beauty regimen.
I take my time showering, making sure to shampoo twice and leave the conditioner in for the full three minutes as directed on the bottle while I meticulously run a razor over every square inch of my legs, paying special attention to the hard-to-reach nooks and crannies.
All the while I can hear Shayne’s voice in my head, like a drill sergeant, keeping me in line, making sure I don’t cut corners. “It doesn’t matter that it’s too cold outside to wear a skirt. You should never be caught with furry legs. NEVER. The consequences far outweigh the extra few minutes it takes to shave daily.”
I hop out of the shower, dry myself off, and rummage under the sink for my old supplies, freighting out armfuls of different-size containers filled with various popularity-enhancing products that I recently deemed pointless in my current social condition. I diligently apply two different moisturizing lotions to my entire body—the first intended to turn my paling, sun-forsaken skin a shade and a half darker by lunchtime and the second intended to give said darker skin a silky, glowing effect.
My Life Undecided Page 13
