Authors: Jessica Brody
club last weekend with Hunter, I have to give them props for this feeling. Winning is pretty awesome. I mean, even if it is at debate.
About halfway home, however, the exhilaration of victory slowly starts to give way to the drowsiness of fatigue. I had no idea how completely
exhausted I am until my eyelids start to feel like rocks and my head starts to flop forward like a rag dol ’s.
Brian just laughs at me like he’s been through this progression of emotions before and he knows exactly how I feel. “Go ahead. Get some
sleep,” he tel s me as he glances out the window. “We stil have about forty minutes until…”
But I don’t hear the last part because I’m already out like a light.
I wake up to the sound of a far-off beeping noise. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out. My eyes slowly heave themselves open as I try to figure out
what my head is resting on. Something kind of hard, yet cushy at the same time. With the texture of scratchy wool.
I look upward and my face immediately flushes with color as I realize that I total y passed out on Brian’s shoulder. And there’s even a smal
puddle of drool on his jacket to prove it. I quickly wipe my mouth and push myself back up to sitting. “Sorry about that,” I say with a humiliated
chuckle.
But Brian, who’s ful y focused on the road, just shrugs like he didn’t even notice. “It’s no biggie. You were real y tired.”
“What was that beeping noise?” I ask, glancing around.
“I think it was your cel phone.”
I look at him like he’s clearly on something. “My cel phone?” Since when does my cel phone make any kind of noise?
“It wasn’t mine.”
I reach down into my bag and remove the phone from the front pocket. I’m stil slightly unfamiliar with the device since it’s new and, let’s be
honest, it’s not like I use it al that much, except to cal my parents. I know, real y frigging exciting. But I don’t need the user’s manual to decipher the
message on my screen.
New text message from 720-555-9098
A text message? Who on earth would be sending me a text message? Especial y at nine-thirty at night. The only person who actual y speaks
to me these days, besides my parents, is sitting right next to me. I don’t recognize the number although I know from the area code that it’s local.
Curious, I click “OK” to read the message and then I let out the loudest, most obtrusive gasp in the world.
Hey, it’s Hunter. Missed you at the club last weekend.
Haven’t seen you around school. Where you been?
I look up to see that Brian is staring at me with this real y worried expression on his face. When he slows at a stoplight, he leans over and
attempts to read the screen. “What happened?”
I pul the phone possessively to my chest, instantly feeling foolish for making such a big deal about a stupid text. “Oh, nothing,” I say with a
wave of my hand. “Just…um…my parents. They texted to tel me that…uh…my grandmother is coming to visit.”
Brian looks dubious. “Your grandmother elicits that kind of reaction?”
I force out a strained laugh. “Yeah…wel …no one real y likes her. She’s kind of…you know…crabby. We cal her Crabby Granny. My mom
says she came up with the nickname. But I’m pretty sure I’m the one who said it first.”
Okay, time to stop talking.
“Uh-huh,” Brian final y says, stepping on the gas and refocusing on the road.
Checking to make sure that his attention is thoroughly occupied, I hastily tap out a response to Hunter.
Sorry about Saturday. Couldn’t escape the ’rents.
I hit “Send” and hold my breath, vowing not to release it until I get a reply. Thankful y for my lungs, it comes thirty seconds later.
What are you doing tonight?
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!
Hunter Wal ace Hamilton I I just asked me what I’m doing tonight!
I try to restrain my excitement but clearly I don’t do a very good job because Brian glances over at me again and raises his eyebrows
inquisitively, as though he’s expecting a play-by-play of my text conversation. “Good news?”
“Oh,” I tril , nodding to the phone. “Yeah. Um. Grandma’s staying at a hotel.” And then for an extra ounce of credibility, I pretend to wipe sweat
from my brow. “Phew! What a relief.”
He smiles politely and I start typing furiously.
Not much. Just hanging out.
Of course I’m going to lie to Hunter. It’s not like I can tel him the truth. “Oh, yeah, hi, Hunter. Just hanging with my debate partner. You know,
heading back from the meet. Good times. Good times.”
Heck no! How stupid do you think I am?
Actual y, on second thought, don’t answer that.
Hunter’s next message comes even faster than the last.
Let’s do something. Where should I pick you up?
Seriously, did someone slip caffeine into my water? My heart is beating so fast it no longer feels like a distinct rhythm. More like just a
constant hum. And I have to fight so hard to keep my reaction under wraps because I’m running out of make-believe details about my grandmother.
Not to mention how guilty I feel about lying to Brian. But I can’t tel him the truth because…
Wel , I’m not real y sure why. I just can’t. He wouldn’t understand. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who can relate to the thril of receiving
late-night text messages from sexy Southerners with roman numerals after their name.
“We’re almost there,” Brian informs me, exiting the freeway and veering left onto Parker Road.
“Oh!” I exclaim, with sudden realization. “Right. The diner.”
He laughs. “Did you forget?”
“No. I didn’t forget.”
Okay, I kind of forgot. But only for a second.
“It’s just that…” My voice trails off as I look longingly at my cel phone which is stil clutched between my fingers.
I know that I said I would go.
I know that my blog readers chose this as my Saturday night activity and that I vowed to do whatever they said.
But I also know this new opportunity that’s presented itself is simply too good to pass up. The debate team get-together is just a casual,
whatever sort of thing that they do al the time, after every meet. A night alone with Hunter, on the other hand, is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
And besides, even if I did have time to run home, type out a blog, post a new pol , and wait for a response (which I total y don’t), it’s not like I
don’t already know what that response would be. What my blog readers would advise me to do. It doesn’t take a Harvard degree to figure that one
out.
But you know what? I don’t care. Forget them. They already ruined my last weekend. I’m not about to let them ruin this one, too.
“It’s just that…?” Brian prompts me, interrupting my thought flow.
“Wel , it’s just that,” I continue, gaining confidence and al owing my anticipation of the night to come to overshadow the guilt I feel for being
dishonest, “you know, now that my grandma’s coming tomorrow—Crabby Granny—my parents need help getting the house ready. Vacuuming,
dusting, changing the sheets in the guest room and everything—”
Brian’s forehead furrows in confusion. “I thought you said she was staying in a hotel.”
“Wel , yeah…” I stumble, feeling ridiculous. “She is! But she likes to inspect the house every time she comes over. You know, make sure it’s
clean. Now you can understand why no one likes her.”
I swear I see just the slightest trace of disappointment on Brian’s face, but before I can be sure, it’s quickly replaced by a shrug and his usual
carefree smile. “Okay, then. Do you want me to take you home?”
“Oh, no!” I say, a bit too fervently, causing Brian’s eyebrows to pul together in what can only be interpreted as suspicion. I glance out the
window and catch sight of a 7-Eleven coming up at the next intersection. “I mean, I don’t want you to have to go out of your way. You can just drop
me off up here and I’l have my parents come get me.”
It’s a bril iant plan, if I do say so myself. My parents already think I’m going to be out with the debate team. Plus, I can slip into the store
bathroom and change out of this ugly suit before Hunter arrives.
Brian turns on his blinker and changes into the right lane. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
The truck pul s 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 rol s down the passenger-side window.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say cheerful y.
“I can wait with you until your parents get here.”
“No, no,” I tel him, zipping up my jacket. “You don’t have to do that. I don’t want to keep you from your friends. You go. Tel 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 real y feel (which is total y desperate). “Have fun. Eat pancakes. I’l
be fiiiine.” I purposely elongate the word in hopes that the extra syl ables wil add some much needed conviction to my case.
“Al right,” he final y agrees. “Wel , we’l miss you tonight.”
“Yeah,” I reply absently. “I’l miss you guys, too.” But I’m barely even paying attention, because I’m already tapping away on my phone, tel ing
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 yel ow 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 normal y pick out
for a date with someone like Hunter Wal ace Hamilton I I, but when it comes down to that or the option of wearing this hideous suit, the choice is
pretty obvious.
My hair is stil 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 pul 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 refil ing 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’l 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 fal and hurt herself?
I take a step toward her and that’s when I see the rest of them. About ten in total. Al 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 al I see are feet. Dirty white tennis shoes with mud
caked to the bottoms. Thankful y, they’re moving away from me. Back in the direction they came from. The cash register.
There’s more yel ing, 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 practical y 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, al I am is annoyed. This real y 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 al over the place now. Unable to stand stil . 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 shril ringing sound blasts through the air and I hear several people gasp. The woman next to me actual y buries her head in her
hands, as though she doesn’t even want to witness what happens next.
Crap.
“Whose cel 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 total y pissing off the white tennis shoes because they’re gal oping around the store now,
searching for the source of the noise. “I want everyone’s cel phone out and on the ground where I can see them,” he commands.
Fortunately the ringing stops the moment I pul my phone out of my bag, but I can see on the screen that I have one missed cal from Hunter’s
number. And just as I’m placing it on the ground in front of me, a text message dings through.