Joyride (2 page)

He could have a heart attack right here in front of the store.

On my shift.

The good news is, I'm short. I could easily reach the store shotgun just by lowering my arms behind the counter.

The bad news is, I don't know how to shoot a gun, and the chances of me taking aim before getting myself shot first are slim to none. Plus, I've never been robbed before.

Not that I'm being robbed just yet. In fact, the robber doesn't seem to be interested in me at all. I either pose no threat or he knows that Mr. Shackleford's wallet holds more money than my register does. I decide that this guy is either the world's stupidest criminal for turning his back on me, or I'm the world's dumbest clerk for not running out the back door and calling the cops. It's just that taking the time to run, to call the cops—that's time better spent on helping Mr. Shackelford
now
. Oh God.

Don't be a hero
.

But I'm not being a hero. I'm just being a human.

I snatch up the shotgun and slide over the counter with it, which sends my homework sprawling to the floor with a thud. I almost bust my butt by slipping on one of the stray pieces of paper and I let out a pathetic little scream.

The robber whips his attention my way and that makeshift bandana hides everything but the surprise in his eyes as he takes in the sight of me: a five-foot-four-inch mess pointing the shaky barrel of a gun at him, hoping my finger is on the trigger—and at the same time, hoping it's not.

My legs involuntarily run toward the door, bursting through it, making the jingle bells angry. I'm not graceful, either, like in the movies when an organized SWAT team busts in on a hostage situation. I'm all elbows and knees, running like an ostrich in boots and coordinated as a dazed fly that just got swatted. Oh, but that doesn't stop me. “Get down on the ground,” I yell, surprised that my voice doesn't tremble as much as my insides do. “Or I'll blow a hole in your … I'll shoot you!”

Since I obviously can't decide which part of him sounds the scariest to shoot a hole through, I go for directness. Directness is my specialty, anyway.

“Now, listen here,” the guy says, and I swear I've heard that voice before. I scrutinize the eyes widening just over the rim of the bandana but I can't tell what color they are because of the blue fluorescent beer sign in the window right behind us. And there's no way I can form a face out of his hidden features. “Take it easy,” he says calmly, as if I'm the one who's cornering a helpless old man against a truck. “I'm not here to hurt you. This is between me and him.”

To my surprise and terror, I take a step
forward
. “I said get down. Now.”

Wow, I'm going to die. What if this guy is allergic to bluffing? What if he makes me pull the trigger? I don't even know if the gun's safety is on.
Dios mio,
I don't even know if the gun
has
a safety.

The robber considers for several terrifying seconds, then raises his gun at my head, takes three intimidating steps toward me. I back away, hating myself for being a coward. I stop myself before I hit the glass door of the store. Cowardice has a threshold, I guess.

“Here's how it's going to go,” he says gruffly. “You're going to leave the gun right there and go back in the store and stand over there by the chips so I can see you.” He motions with the end of the gun.

“No.”

This elicits a huff from beneath the bandana. “Unbelievable.”

“You leave
your
gun here.” If he thinks it's a good idea, then I do too. Still, I'm not sure what I'll do if he actually does put his gun down. Secure him with plastic zip ties from the boxes of candy bars that need to be stocked?

“You're a crazy little thing. Do you have a death wish or something?”

Oh God. He truly seems interested in the answer. “I … I don't want you to hurt Mr. Shackleford.”

Rolling his eyes, he says, “Well, put the gun down and I won't.”

I want to put the gun down. I do. I want to cooperate. I want to live. But this gun is my only leverage. “No.” Did I say no?
Did I just say no?

“Fine. Keep the gun. New plan.” He uses the back of his hand to wipe some sweat off his forehead. “I'm going to leave. And you're going to let me.”

“I'm calling the cops.”

“Jesus, who
are
you? Look, you don't know how to shoot a gun, I can tell. And besides that, I definitely
do
know how to shoot a gun, so I have the advantage. If you fire at me, I'll shoot back. Understand?” When I hesitate, he adds, “When I start shooting, I'm aiming at the old man first.”

“No!” I blurt. “Don't shoot him.”

He nods. “I won't. As long as you let me back out of here. Just like this.” He takes two steps backward, never dropping the gun.

“But you haven't robbed us yet,” I say. Out loud.
Idiota
.

“Are you freaking kidding me? You
want
me to rob you?”

I raise my chin a little. “Well … It's just that … What did you come here for then?”

He shakes his head, then backs away more toward the end of Mr. Shackleford's truck, never lowering his gun. “You're crazy as a raccoon in daylight, you know that?”

I am crazy. He's right. “You should remember that, if you ever come back here again.”

At this he runs, turning his back to me. Sprinting away, he pivots sharply and heads toward the side of the store. It takes me a second to realize what he's doing. Within a few breaths he emerges from the shadows pedaling my bike as if an angry boar were chasing him. The wheels wobble as he struggles to balance it, one hand gripping his gun and the other on the handle.

My.

Bike.

Right now I have the perfect shot. If I knew how to shoot a gun. And if the safety wasn't on. If it has a safety.

I take aim anyway, cradling the butt of the gun in my shoulder like some kind of hunter, and fantasize about blowing out the back tire of my bike. About this guy face-planting on the asphalt. About that stupid cowboy hat taking flight like a startled bird.

But his silhouette disappears into the night. And the moment is over.

I let out a huge breath and turn just in time to see Mr. Shackleford sink to the ground, wiping the truck clean of any dust with his descent. His legs spill out in front of him as he looks up at me. “You … You saved my life,” he says. His voice shakes like he's freezing.

I did save his life. I know that. I saved us both.

If Julio found out I did anything like this, he'd kill me. Heroics bring attention. Attention brings scrutiny.

And scrutiny exposes secrets.

 

Two

The night did not go as Arden had reckoned it would. It was meant to be simple—relieve Uncle Cletus of his keys and hopefully scare him into never driving drunk again. An noncomplicated hoax turned into a catastrophe. Arden sifts through the reasons why.

Reason Number One: He didn't expect the girl behind the counter to be so ballsy.
She pulled a freaking gun on me. Who does that?
Isn't it in the employee manual to be submissive to gun-wielding robbers and be done with it? But no. This girl—what is her name, Carla or Carol or something—this girl pulled out a shotgun and gave him ultimatums. Maybe he should have watched her more closely in class before planning something like this. But everything she'd shown him screamed shy, insecure, unambitious. She wore a plain T-shirt and jeans every day. Never raised her hand in class, never spoke to anyone. No makeup, as far as Arden could tell. Shifted quietly between classes in a please-don't-notice-me sort of way. If he hadn't actually been scoping her out for this specific plan, he wouldn't have known she existed. Heck, she had three classes with him and he never even knew it before last Tuesday.

At best, he expected her to duck behind the front counter and let him rob his own uncle in peace. Maybe call the cops too, but he'd made sure Deputy Glass—the more competent deputy on duty—was busy with an anonymous intruder call at an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. That way, with a little efficiency, he could scare the bejesus out of Uncle Cletus without getting caught.

Not that Arden cared much about getting caught. His dad wouldn't allow the charges to stick anyway. Especially given the reasons behind it. Or maybe he would. Maybe this would be the last straw for his old man. Maybe this would be the one thing that his father wouldn't tolerate.

Reason Number Two: Arden's pretty sure he's stolen Carla/Carol's bicycle. It's a girl's mountain bike, nothing fancy, and it was parked near the entrance to the Breeze Mart. He would have made a run for it, but he was afraid she'd actually attempt to shoot at him as he made his way back to his truck parked about half a mile down the road. The bike was necessary for his mobility. For life and limb, even, because who knows what that crazy girl would do next? It didn't seem like she knew, either. Watching her thought process was fascinating. And frustrating, when he realized she didn't have any intention of backing down. He'd spent—wasted—all that time contriving a plan that ultimately failed.

With a scowl on his face, Arden skids to a halt in front of his red Ford truck. Gently, he lifts the girl's bike into the back of it, carefully laying it down so as not to scratch it. It's bad enough that he took it. It's probably her ride home for the night. He's hoping her parents will pick her up. And if not, Glass works Monday night patrol. He'll be the first of the two deputies to respond to the robbery—even with his counterfeit intruder call. That is,
if
that girl has the sense to call the cops. If she does, Glass will give her a ride home if she needs it.

Arden puts his truck into gear, steering off the dirt shoulder and onto the road. For once in his life, he buckles up and drives under the speed limit. He doesn't need to get pulled over tonight. Not when he's still wearing the robber's outfit and has the clerk's bike in his truck bed. Not when his curiosity has been piqued by this Carla chick. She has balls, that's for sure. But she doesn't seem to wear them when she's at school.
Why is that?

Reason Number Three: Why did Uncle Cletus act like a dead body as soon as a gun was pulled? What happened to the sturdy old guy who used to tell him and his older sister, Amber, all those horrific war stories? About how he was a Vietnam prisoner of war and lived on one cup of rice a day, took regular beatings, and then ran this county as sheriff as soon as he returned from overseas. Seems like the toughest sheriff in the county's history would have reacted differently. Arden had been ready for an entertaining scuffle, but his uncle just dropped the bottle of vodka and retreated against the truck. Might have even pissed himself.

So much for alcohol being liquid courage.

Arden runs a nervous hand through his hair. Maybe his mom is right. Maybe Uncle Cletus has drunk himself into near death. Which is troubling. His uncle is the closest thing to a real father he's ever had. The only person he could ever really talk to.

Of course, if he was that close to me, I would have checked on him a lot sooner than this. Have I become so consumed with making Dad miserable that I've let Uncle Cletus suffer on his own?

Yes, he has. He knows it. Giving the new sheriff in town hell—the esteemed Sheriff Dwayne Moss—has been Arden's only objective for the past year. He was willing to give up the football team, the baseball team, his potential scholarship opportunities. All the things he knew his dad would want for him to continue after Amber's death. But the one thing he'd wanted to keep was his relationship with Uncle Cletus.

Arden tries to remember the last time he visited the old man and can't. And now he's just given him a heart attack with his botched-up convenience store prank. Shaved years off his uncle's life in a matter of seconds. If he even has years left.

From the looks of him, Uncle Cletus has been knocking on death's door and patiently waiting for it to answer.
I've got to go visit that old guy,
Arden thinks to himself as he pulls into his driveway.

And somehow I've got to get this bike back to its owner.

 

Three

I don't actually breathe until Deputy Glass pulls out of our sandy driveway. The fact that he insisted on giving me a ride home at all almost gives me an ulcer—at least he doesn't have his blue lights flashing when we pull in. My only saving grace is that no one in our trailer park is usually up at this time of night. Not even Señora Perez, who enjoys a late-night cigarette every now and then on the front steps of her trailer. That's the benefit of living in a community of close-knit, hardworking immigrants—everyone is so tired that they actually sleep at night. Which is a good thing, since this bundle of nationalities is tightly secured by a rampant grapevine of unreliable gossip. Even the Russians get in on it. Gossip, as it turns out, has no language barrier. If anyone was awake to witness me being escorted home in a cop car … The scandal would permeate the very air in various, frenzied dialects.

I'm surprised to see a faint light shining through the living room window. Surely,
surely,
Julio is not awake. I make my way quietly up the stairs and use my key to unlock the door, giving the handle a jerk. The chain catches; Julio has officially locked me out.

Does he know what happened tonight?

“Julio,” I whisper between the crack in the door. “Let me in?”

I hear footsteps fall on the hollow floor of our living room, then the door is yanked shut from the inside. I bite my lip. I hear the chain being released and step back so the opening door doesn't knock me off the steps.

Julio greets me at the threshold with a tired smile. “Carlotta, why are you home so late? Did you have inventory tonight?” But he's already walking back into the house, toward the four-by-six area our landlord calls a kitchen. I bounce up the steps and shut and lock the door behind me. A fragile but definite sense of relief swirls through me as I realize I may be off the hook; if Julio had seen the cop car, he would have already been in ballistic phase. That's the one good thing about Julio—you always know where you stand with him.