by Cole Gibsen
Woodbury, Minnesota
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Katana © 2012 by Cole Gibsen.
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First e-book edition © 2012
E-book ISBN: 9780738732671
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Flux
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Manufactured in the United States of America
To Josh,
Who lent me his faith when
I ran out of my own.
1
I stepped outside the department store and felt something squish against my heel where concrete should have been. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?” My best friend Quentin shoved the last bit of a soft pretzel into his mouth and passed through the automatic doors, joining me under the mall’s awning. The St. Louis summer night enveloped us like a towel pulled too soon from the dryer, causing beads of sweat to form along my forehead and plaster stray hairs along my cheeks in blond lines.
“You tell me.” Balancing the large box I held, I closed my eyes and lifted my foot. “How bad is it?”
Quentin sucked in a sharp breath, rattling the chain hanging from his pocket. “A big ol’ wad of bubblicious bad.”
Opening my eyes, I dared a look. Sure enough, a line of gum stretched from my new DC skate shoe to the sidewalk. “Craptastic! These shoes cost seventy dollars.” I scraped the bottom of my sneaker against the edge of the sidewalk, but it did little more than turn the pink wad of gum into a black wad of gum. “Maybe I have time to run back inside and grab some napkins?”
As if in answer, the night security guard locked the door behind us.
Groaning, I shifted my grip on the box. “This stupid toaster is ruining my life!”
“I don’t think the toaster has it out for you,” Quentin said, batting a moth away from his face. “It could be karma. Or it could be your own guilty conscious for trying to kill your mom via a credit card statement.” He nodded to the chrome, digital, top-of-the-line monstrosity I’d chosen for my cousin’s wedding. “Seriously, two hundred dollars for a toaster? Was that thing even on the gift registry?”
“It’s chrome, Q. Chrome. How could we show our faces at the wedding with some pathetic stainless steel toaster in hand? People would talk.”
He laughed. “Uh-huh. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, you know.”
I looked at him and huffed. “Seriously, Dr. Q? Can you lay off the head shrinking just for tonight?”
He shrugged. “I’ll try and contain myself.”
After several more attempts to scrape the lump off of my heel, I gave up. “Good. Our last day as juniors—we should be celebrating with the rest of our class, not hanging outside the mall while I destroy the cutest pair of skate shoes in existence.”
“Relax,” Quentin said. “You know the party doesn’t officially start until we arrive.” He looped his arm through mine and we made our way along the sidewalk. We fell into step behind an elderly couple who had been in the checkout line ahead of us.
“Yeah? You wanna know what does start?” I said. “Your stupid sister putting the moves on that hot transfer student Whitley Noble because I’m not there to stop her.”
Angry heat rushed through my veins as I recalled our earlier run-in with Quentin’s twin sister Carly. She had stood fluffing her chocolate-colored hair and puckering freshly glossed lips in the mirror at Clinique’s display counter when Quentin and I rounded the corner.
“Rileigh and Q!” she’d said. “Can’t wait to see you at the party tonight. If you run late, I’ll make sure to tell Whitley ‘Hi’ for you.” Then she planted two sticky kisses on either side of our faces before dashing off, leaving Quentin and me scrambling for makeup remover and cotton balls.
“Don’t worry about Carly.” Quentin’s voice dissolved the memory. “I don’t know what her disorder is, but I’m sure it’s hard to pronounce.”
Laughing, I shifted the bulky appliance against my hip.
Quentin glanced at the leather cuff on his wrist that was also a watch. “There is one problem, though. By now, the wine coolers have started to work their magic on Carly and her friends. If we don’t get there soon, we’re not going to witness—and more importantly, make fun of—all of their bad choices. I’ll bet you five bucks they’re dancing on the tables by eleven.”
“You’re on! I’m giving them until ten-thirty.” I reached into my pocket and engaged my skinny jeans in a game of tug-of-war until I finally pulled the car keys free. Quentin sped into a trot and dragged me behind like a three-legged mule. I struggled to keep up, giggling each time I had to stop to adjust the toaster that slipped lower in my grip with each step.
Hearing our commotion, the older couple in front of us shot us the stink eye as they walked on. The woman was so focused on perfecting her pinched-eye glare that she bumped into a man as he hurried around the corner of the department store.
“Oh!” She clasped her hands as she stepped to the side. “I’m terribly sorry.”
I didn’t realize that I slowed my pace to stare at the stranger until Quentin huffed impatiently. Something about this man triggered a silent alarm in my head, like when I walked past the alligators at the zoo and felt their hungry eyes upon me; only this time there was no protective glass.
The stranger frowned. He was a little man with tanned skin and dirty brown hair that hung loosely over his face. His long pointy nose and bucked teeth reminded me of a weasel. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear from where I stood.
The elderly man straightened and the woman took a step backward.
“Come on, Ri-Ri.” Quentin tugged my arm.
Weasel screamed, “I said give me your purse!”
Fear tore the breath from my throat in a gasp and Quentin went rigid at my side, his fingers digging deep into my arm.
With a shaking hand, the woman tried to slip her purse off her shoulder, but Weasel snatched it before she was through. The white strap tightened around her wrist and she was jerked forward.
We watched, not daring to breathe, as she fell to the ground.
&
nbsp; Cursing, Weasel tugged on the purse again, and this time the thin leather strap broke, freeing the old woman. Weasel tucked his prize under his arm and ran down the sidewalk in our direction.
I could feel my arm bruising under Quentin’s iron grip as we stood paralyzed. I begged my legs to move, my lungs to breathe, but my body wouldn’t listen.
Weasel drew closer.
Realizing that our chance to run had passed, I hugged the toaster against my body and closed my eyes. The soft thud of the mugger’s footsteps tied themselves to the beating of my heart until they were a single pulse that locked my jaw tighter with each beat. Quentin pulled me against him so close it seemed I could smell his fear, a bitter scent that lay just below his Polo cologne.
The footsteps were in front of us, yet there was no pause in his stride. Would he run right past us? Or was he going to attack us, too?
Curled around each other, we waited to find out.
A second passed.
Followed by another.
When nothing happened, I cracked open an eye and found Weasel lying on the sidewalk next to me, his face a combination of bewilderment and fury. The purse he had stolen lay neatly on top of the toaster box in my arms. Before I could move, he scrambled to his feet and ran empty-handed out into the parking lot.
I remained frozen, too confused to move. What had happened in the few seconds while I had my eyes closed?
“Ri-Ri?”
I turned to Quentin, who now stood a good two feet away from me. The blood had drained from his face, leaving his skin the same color as his bleached hair. His mouth flapped with questions that wouldn’t form. He looked like a possessed nutcracker.
I heard a soft shuffle behind me and turned away from my best friend to find the elderly man helping the woman up off the sidewalk. As she brushed gravel from her sweater, I noticed that her wrist was purple and swollen.
I plucked the purse from the top of the toaster box and walked over to the couple on shaky legs. I held the purse out to her. “Here.” My voice was barely a whisper.
The woman’s eyes welled with tears as she grabbed on to the broken strap. “Oh, dear.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Please don’t think that I’m not grateful, but that was a foolish thing for you to do. What were you thinking, going after a man like that?”
I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”
The man put an aged hand on my shoulder. “Maybe ‘going after’ isn’t the right way to phrase it. But we saw you trip him. I know you were just trying to help, but you could have been hurt.”
That wasn’t possible. I remembered standing perfectly still with my eyes closed. I couldn’t have tripped the mugger without knowing I did. I shook my head harder. “No, you’re wrong. The mugger must have tripped and somehow I caught your purse.” My mind raced to make sense of it. “Maybe because it’s not very well lit here, you got confused.” I looked to Quentin for support.
He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe … ”
“Now wait just a minute.” The old man held his hands up in surrender. “We’re not trying to upset you, honey. We’re just worried, that’s all. We need to report this, so why don’t you two wait with us until we can get the police out here.”
“Wait? In the dark, empty parking lot?” I laughed, a high-pitched, nervous sound. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m just going to stand here and wait for that guy to come back.” Even as I spoke, the shadows around me seemed to grow bigger and darker. I shivered, and it felt like my skin wanted to slide itself free from my body. “Besides … I—I don’t feel right.”
“Are you hurt?” Quentin asked.
“No.” But I wasn’t okay, either. I tried to find the words to tell him what was wrong, but I didn’t know how to explain. A strange feeling pressed against me—like static in the air before a thunderstorm. It was a familiar feeling, almost déjà vu. I tried to place it, but the more I reached, the faster it sank into the recess of my mind.
Swallowing took more effort than it should have. “Q, I’m out.” I shot him a questioning glance as I began my backward retreat. “You with me?”
The old man said, “I don’t think you should go anywhere just yet.”
I refused to look at him. “Q?”
Quentin glanced from me to the old couple and back to me. He huffed. “Let’s go.”
Without waiting for him to catch up, I turned and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t that fast considering the jeans I wore were meant to show the curves of my legs, not allow them to bend. By the time I rounded the second corner of the mall, my arms burned from carrying the toaster, but I spotted my blue Ford Fiesta. Relief deflated the tension that had ballooned inside of me. I’d never thought I’d see the day when I couldn’t get away from the mall fast enough.
When I reached my car, Quentin skidded to a panting halt at my side. “If the toaster relay was an Olympic sport, you’d get the gold.”
I ignored him as I sorted the keys in my hand, looking for the one that would open the door.
“Ri-Ri?” Concern wrapped around his words, making them thick like syrup. “Maybe we should hold off on the party. It couldn’t hurt to talk to the police.”
Was he crazy? “Actually it would hurt quite a bit if that guy came back and murdered us while we waited.”
Quentin opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a soft chuckling.
“What’s this—you’re talking about me?”
We wheeled around in the direction of the voice. From the side of a rusted conversion van, out stepped Weasel.
2
No one ever said that life was fair.
Maybe if I’d had more time, I could have figured myself out. But now, with my potential death a parking spot away, I realized I was nothing more than a jagged puzzle piece in a world of smooth edges. I had no place, no purpose. If Quentin died, his death would be a tragedy. I knew he’d make a great therapist someday, and the world would suffer from the loss. But me … I tried to think how my death would affect anything and came up blank. My list of aspirations ended just past getting more air on the ramps at the skate park and graduating high school.
Weasel took a step forward. I dropped the toaster and thought my heart might join the box on the warm asphalt. Blood rushed through my head, beating against my temples and drawing beads of sweat onto my forehead. I licked my dry lips.
“Rileigh, get behind me.” Quentin pushed me roughly against my car and stepped in front of me. He stared at Weasel. “Listen up, you can have my wallet.” He pulled it out of his back pocket, unclipped the chain, and threw it on the ground at Weasel’s feet. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Weasel folded his arms as a smirk spread across his face. “Whaddya know, the queer’s got balls.”
Quentin stiffened, but said nothing.
I peeked around his shoulder. “You got his wallet, now go away. Go away, or I’ll … ” I cringed inwardly as I left the unfinished sentence floating in the air. Or I’ll what? Throw a gigantic toaster at you? The man in front of me was not a piece of bread.
Weasel chuckled again and walked toward us.
“Don’t come any closer,” Quentin said, his voice wavering.
“Like this?” Weasel kept walking until he was directly in front of Quentin.
Quentin took a step back with his arms held wide, plastering me against the driver’s side window. “What do you want?”
“Payback.” Weasel balled a fist into Quentin’s shirt collar and yanked him forward.
Quentin thrust out his arm and wedged it against Weasel’s chest—but it didn’t pry him far enough apart. Weasel’s other arm reached back, his fist quivering in the air for just a second before striking out and connecting with Quentin’s temple. Quentin spun like a drunken ballerina in an awkward circle before he crumpled to the ground.
I finished a scream I hadn’t realized I began and dropped to help my unmoving friend.
“Shut up!” Weasel grabbed me by the back of my tank
top and threw me against my car. The fiberglass popped inward from my hip and I tumbled to the ground in a heap.
Weasel smiled, exposing long, gray teeth. “She’s alone,” he called over his shoulder.
Two men emerged from behind the same van and joined Weasel. They looked alike—their skin was the same caramel color and their hair the same ash brown. Their eyes hung back in their skulls, casting dark shadows underneath. They had to be brothers. The younger one, who looked my age, seemed afraid.
My hair fluttered from a breeze that swirled around me. It seemed to rise from the very spot where I sat. I shivered as I inched my way back to my feet, using my fingers against the car door to guide me.
A very tiny voice in my head, one that I didn’t even know existed, spoke up for the first time: The young one will go down with the least resistance. It was barely a whisper, like a mother hushing a crying baby. The words brushed across my mind like icy fingertips and raised the hair on the back of my neck.
Fantastic. As if the night weren’t bad enough, now I was hearing voices inside my head. The car keys that I’d managed to hang on to until this moment slipped from my hand and fell on top of the toaster. The soft pretzel rolling in my stomach felt like it would soon join them.
The older thug—possibly in his late twenties—snarled at me. His features were harder than his brother’s, with scowl lines etched deep into his skin. “Stupid kid,” he said. “Whaddya think? You’re gonna stop a snatch and save the day?” He took another angry step toward me. “I think you’re going to pay for not minding your own business.”
My legs trembled and I tried to work up another scream, but my voice caught in my throat like a knotted balloon.
“Now wait just a minute,” Weasel said, stepping in front of him. “There are plenty of ways to teach her a lesson, and I’m more interested in the ways that are fun for us.”
Younger brother’s eyes bulged while his older brother smiled.
A whimper escaped my throat. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth to keep the flood of other pathetic sounds from falling out. I was dangerously close to spilling the warm tears collecting in my eyes when the breeze returned, lifting my hair and swirling through my fingers. For that last remark, we hurt Weasel first.
