by A. K. Smith
He unclenches his fists but does not look up.
I touch his shoulder. “I’m dead, just like everyone else Eric shot.”
Silence. Time ticks by. I don’t know how to end this, but I know I have to get away from Amir. I want to comfort my old friend, but this is not my old friend. Maybe I will have to move. I hope not. I don’t want to change my identity all over again. Something is different, and not just his clothes, contacts, weight-loss, hair, and white teeth—something inside, he isn’t reacting normal.
“Sunday, you’re not dead like everyone else, and I don’t want to have to call the police and tell them you are alive and hiding. Can you imagine what they would think of you running, hiding, and changing your identity? I can fix this. Come live with me and no one will ever know.”
A loud roar is in my ears, I can’t move. Amir mumbles something else I can’t understand, his head hangs down, and his right hand is still crunching the stems of the flowers. He sounds like he is repeating a phrase, but it’s incomprehensible. Five minutes that seem like thirty passes as I sit there not knowing how to respond to his threats. “Amir? What? What are you saying?”
Amir stops the mantra and looks up, his face changes into some weird expression. My breath quickens. What is wrong with him?
“Eric would never have killed you because he knew how much I liked you. I told him definitely not to kill you, so it’s impossible to imagine you’re dead like everyone else.”
His words chill me to the bone and the air around me seems to swirl. Did he know? Did he know Eric was going to go on a shooting spree?
I’m going to be sick.
Chapter 22
Thieves, Illusions, and Black Clouds
Impossible. The torn corner of my cardboard box of a dresser is all I can stare at as I sit on the floor like a broken doll. My dry throat makes it difficult for me to swallow. I make no attempt to stop my tears from dripping on the floor. It’s gone, all of it. EVERYTHING. The gold jewelry I had purchased at the pawn shop, the cash in the tampon box, my Kindle tablet.
Gone.
“Someone broke in,” Jamie says between hiccups. She’s hammered. So is Adriana. In between their slurring words and weaving, I conclude that they had come home from a party and the door was wide open.
“My laptop is gone,” Jamie slurs.
Adriana’s backpack is also missing.
The old school television with the ancient over-sized DVD player, bought at the Goodwill, still sits on the box against the wall. Too heavy to carry out or just too old to want? My paper-thin closet bedroom door was broken, and my meager, valueless possessions were thrown around, but the stuff that mattered—my whole life, all my savings, including the money from Ward—are gone.
Terror fills my chest cavity. It’s hard to breathe in a normal rhythm. There is nothing left. I have no place to run to. I try to breathe; try to collect my thoughts. The gravity of losing it all is sickening. Everything. Gone.
My life is over. Now this after Amir’s threats to make me come live with him.
Yesterday, after I stopped myself from throwing up, frozen in place in shock, he spoke quietly in a demented voice that frightened me into silence.
“I’m doing this for you. You’ll thank me some day,” were the last words he said. He acted like he was the logical one, doing me a favor.
Fear and disbelief held my tongue. I wanted to scream at him, walk away, tell him he was out of his mind. Who do you think you are? But I hesitated. I had to be smart, not reactive. Clearly, there is something wrong with Amir. Did Amir know Eric was going to go on a shooting spree that day, or did the horrific event make him delusional?
I wanted to run to the police. Why would he say that he told Eric not to kill me?
I can’t go to the police.
I didn’t know how to react or what to say. “You might be right,” I said. “I need to think your plan through. Can we meet tomorrow to discuss our plans?”
I grimace thinking back how he petted my arm like a cute puppy he had just rescued. Amir was not right in the head. It took all my acting ability to remain calm, when what I really wanted to do was scream and run.
After the meeting, I went to work and had a terrible day with only a few tips which is all I have after getting robbed.
A black cloud. Somehow, I am caught in a twisting tornado which is collecting the worst possible things on the planet, swirling and circling me. I’m dodging the obstacles, trying to not get knocked down, but it’s impossible. For a brief interlude, the clouds part and Jack pops into my mind. Oh, how I miss Jack, and wish for some magical scenario where he and I could end up together. He is my light in the dark. But Jack can’t help me.
Wake up, Sunday, I yell as I look at the cheap Walgreens mirror attached to the back of the door of my closet. I’m amazed it didn’t fall on the floor during the break-in. My reflection astounds me. How did I get here? My mascara paints black streaks on my cheeks, and my blonde roots are slightly visible. The whites of my eyes are bloodshot, and my nostrils and tip of my nose are red. Who am I? Sunday or Hannah? This illusion is not working for any name.
My whole PLAN is now destroyed. Not only did I lose Sunday and Jack and the imaginary baby that made me commit the whole pseudocide to begin with, but I lost every cent I saved. Maybe I should have been one of the casualties of the shooting.
I know my life with HE and SHE was not living, but I’ve spent my whole life working for something better, some grand plan that won’t ever happen. Jack was born under a lucky star, and somehow when he was in my life, I thought maybe my luck would change. There’s no reason things are the way they are, but maybe it’s me, my fate. That is the heart of the matter. Things don’t happen, they are this way because they are supposed to be. If chaos and commotion are part of my life, then who am I to fight it, to try to change it?
Amir’s threat of turning me into the police is the worst possible scenario I can imagine; it would ruin whatever life I try to create. HE might beat me to an inch of my life if I return home. I can’t imagine how I could explain any of this to anyone.
Life taught me to pick myself off the floor; to lie through my teeth and not expect miracles.
I tried.
If Amir turns me in, I’m not sure I can get back up this time. But if Amir’s responsible for the shooting, I don’t know how to go on and keep this dark secret.
Chapter 23
Back to Vegas, Towel Throwing, and Sickness
My hard-earned money is now nesting in some thief’s pockets. Everything I’ve worked so hard for is—Poof! —gone. Oh, I’ve learned that lesson before—one day you’re on a school field trip, whitewater rafting down a beautiful river in the woods, and then suddenly, well, there’s a crazy kid with a gun and an American flag and that’s it; you’re gone along with twenty-seven of your classmates.
Every brick I laid to build my road to the future led me straight back to where I started. I must truly be the unluckiest person God put on this earth. I’ve never had a mother’s love, never had a family, and never had control of my own future. Now, the world I tried to create is a fiasco.
I’m flat broke, and what does it matter? I’m certain that if I save up money again, the pendulum will swing, and I will be back to where I started from. Who cares where I live, what I do, or even if I survive? The world thinks I’m dead, anyway. Ironic, ’cause I feel dead. In a moment, I might be homeless. My rent was in the tampon box safe in my dresser.
Last night, after my shift and before the break-in, I ran into Hudson waiting for the bus outside the casino. I think back to the conversation from last night, picturing kind Hudson, wishing I would have said something or did something different.
“Up for a walk in the park?” he asked. His glass-half-full of positive energy dialed on high increases is such a huge part of his attractiveness. I can see why my soon-to-be-ex-roommate Jamie thinks he’s hot and talks about him constantly.
“I need to go home, I’m beat,” I said, wanting t
o scream, instead: I’m being blackmailed about my fake identity and I need your help.
“Okay, get some rest, Hannah.” And with that, he squeezed my shoulder and the conversation ended.
I let him walk away when I was exploding to talk to someone.
Then I arrived home to the break-in. Seriously, what else could go wrong?
I believed I could survive on my own, without anyone’s help. I’m so wrong. I have $43.25 from tips to my name. I owe four hundred dollars in rent and one hundred dollars for my broken closet bedroom door.
My two choices: accept Amir’s offer, or flee and say goodbye to Hannah Williams. This time, if I start all over again, I will have no money and no help. A true unidentified soul, a homeless runaway without an identity or an address. Who cares, right? No one does. That’s the point. So, what does it matter?
I watch him light the cigarette and blow it up toward the neon lights of the Casino beside us, the smoke creating a hazy picture of the new Amir. I picked a well-lit busy courtyard. “When did you start smoking?” I ask.
His eyes half closed, Amir faces me, holding the cigarette in his hand as if he had practiced the pose to look cool.
“It helped me lose weight. I never wanted to smoke around you because of your mother.” He takes another drag. “I knew you hated it. But everyone smokes in Las Vegas…. you must be used to it.”
“I’ll never get used to it,” I say.
Amir moves closer to me, openly scrutinizing me, his eyes going from the top of my head to my shoes. “Well, in Cambridge, I will smoke outside. Or, if it’s too cold, I’ll open the windows. I can do that for you.” He gives me a creepy smile.
“Someone broke into my apartment last night. They took all my money.” I watch Amir’s body language. He has no reaction. He blows out smoke and studies the cigarette, moving it to his other hand. With his other hand, he covers my hand with his.
I try not to flinch.
“Well, that’s terrible.” He flicks the cigarette ash on the ground, and then squeezes my hand. “But it will be okay. Lucky I’m here, we can ride the Greyhound together and head straight to Cambridge. My father will pay for the apartment a few weeks early and you won’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll cover you, Sunday. We will get an alarm. It pays to have one, that way, if someone breaks in, the alarm alerts the neighbors and scares the robbers away. You should have had an alarm. But, don’t worry, you won’t get robbed again. Not with me.”
“Hannah,” I correct him. How does he know I didn’t have an alarm?
“Of course, sorry, I meant Hannah.” He lets go of my one hand and shows me what he has beside him. It’s a brown paper bag over a bottle. He holds it up. “Want some?”
I focus on my breathing, trying to control my emotions. My pulse has been in my throat ever since I sat down beside him. I have never seen Amir drink.
He takes another swallow and continues. “Things have changed. Since the shooting, my father basically does anything I ask. Are you ready for this? I’m not going to medical school; I’m enrolled in the Brain and Cognitive Science Department at MIT.”
“Sunday, are you listening?” He slides his leg against my leg.
“Yes, I heard you, I thought your dream was computer science?” I need to find a non-obvious way to ask my burning question.
“It was, and is, but basically everything is computerized, and it’s science. MIT has the latest technology. Just wait until you see the school. You’re going to love it.”
He pats my hand again. I swallow back the rising vomit.
“Studying the human mind is an extraordinary opportunity, an irresistible chance to unravel persistent puzzles of the brain and mind. Neuroscience.”
He speaks as if he is reciting a college brochure. What happened to Amir? Everyone from our high school must be affected by the shooting. Amir, being such close friends with Eric, must have had an extremely difficult time. I must have misunderstood him last night. He couldn’t have possibly known what Eric was going to do.
I take in a deep breath and swallow. “Maybe studying the human brain will give you some insight into Eric.”
Amir, squishes the cigarette out on the ground with his new cool shoes, jerks his head in my direction. His face twists with anger.
“Why would I want to do that?” He balls his fists.
I touched a nerve. For a split second I empathize, but then I remember he’s blackmailing me. “To try and understand what would make someone snap like that! Why someone would shoot a group of innocent students?”
“Innocent? Do you think the Hard Liquor Boys and the Dream Team were innocent students?” Amir’s words are sharp; he spits them out one word at a time, as if they cut his mouth.
“Maybe innocent is the wrong word, but innocent enough not to be shot for their bullying.” I can hear my voice going up an octave.
Amir stiffens and chuckles, a cold ominous low sound. “Eric couldn’t be stopped—he wanted to be justified; that’s the word he used. He liked that word, justified. He just wanted to belong to something, anything, and he was so easily addicted. I showed him ISIS and other radical group videos on his computer just to piss off my father, the Gulf War hero. Everyone always called me a terrorist at school, a towelhead, a Muslim lover, so I looked it up and I showed it to Eric, and he became obsessed with all the information that exists out there. He wanted to go out with a bang.” Amir laughs a bitter laugh. “I guess he got his wish.”
The bitter acid taste in my mouth almost makes me heave on Amir. I swallow, unsure of what to say next, and I stand up. Could Amir possibly have prevented the murder of twenty-eight people? I sit down on the bench as far away from Amir as I can without falling off the bench.
I want to run, scream, slap his face, and punch him.
I have to know. I have to know.
I swallow and focus on the tone of my voice, struggling to keep it level and as normal as possible. “Do you think he had it planned out ahead of time? I mean, what made him pick the school field trip?”
Amir takes a long deep swallow of whatever liquor is hidden inside the crinkled brown paper bag. I try not to stare. Every time I look at him, I can’t fathom how he transformed, into this….
He motions for me to come closer, patting the seat beside him once more. “Everyone asks me questions about Eric, as if I’m the Eric expert. The press, the media. The fact is: no one ever cared or even took the time to get to know Eric before BOBB. And now, everyone wants to know everything. Always questions about Eric. It’s a little too late to care, don’t you think?”
“BOBB?”
Amir laughs and says, “That’s what the students call it, BOBB, B-O-B-B—Before Ohiopyle Blood Bath.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Well, for such a terrible thing, the school and the students have never been closer. Students are nice to each other. They’ve even befriended me. Eric would be mad. He wouldn’t be happy.” Amir finishes off the bottle, tilting it straight up.
“What do you mean, Eric would be mad?”
Amir moves closer to me, since I won’t slide over, and I can smell the liquor and cigarettes on his breath just like HE. I start sweating. I don’t know if I can sit here for another minute.
“Are you going with me, Sunday? Will you let me take care of you?” He is once again, touching my leg with his, this time with full pressure. “It will be easy to blend in, it’s a town full of college students, and don’t worry about my mother and father. They will stay away. I frighten them. They will do anything I want.” A creepy laugh bubbles out of his mouth, as he smiles.
I want to run, hoping he can’t see the perspiration on my forehead, but I have to know the truth. “Scared of you?”
Amir put his hands on my shoulder and pulls my chin to look at him. His eyes bloodshot and wild. “Sunday, I know you can figure it out. Eric was smart, but not as smart as me.”
And with that, he lights another cigarette, takes a big drag, and blows the smoke out with a smil
e on his lips. The conversation is over.
Chapter 24
Wide Awake, Walk Away and Viral Videos
After the meeting with Amir, I walk like a zombie through my first half of my shift at the Magic Hat. A variety of scenarios flash in my mind as I try to figure out what to do. I’m not giving up or giving in, not this time. You only fail if you give up.
I’m wide awake.
I can see clearly now. I AM smart enough to figure this out.
I realize what I need to do. I cannot, will not, go to Massachusetts with Amir.
Let him turn me in to the police.
I’m done being a victim. I am getting my control back.
Ward, back in the Magic Hat for the first time after winning his millionaire jackpot, sits at the progressive “Stinkin’ Rich” machine. The progressive jackpot is now only worth three hundred and twelve dollars. I don’t notice him until he touches my arm. “Bridget, are you all right, darling?”
Why is it when someone asks me tenderly how I am doing, the kindness gets underneath my skin and overtakes me to the point of crying on their shoulders and telling them everything.
I turn my fake smile on high and say, in a forced happy voice, “Of course I am, Mr. Stinkin’ Rich. What can I get you?”
“I’ll take a ginger ale tonight.” Ward lowers his voice. “Lately, I’ve had a little too much celebrating, if you know what I mean.” He chuckles. “Did you see that crazy music video they made of my interview and you and me, when I won? I guess it was a virus or something like that.”
“What video?” Ward has my attention.
“Oh, you didn’t see it, did you?” Ward lifts his chin as he digs into his pocket. “Well, you are probably going to like this.” He pulls out the latest iPhone. “I got me one of these fancy phones and I know I have it on here if I can figure out how to use it.”
