window, and a second later they were helping Officer DeWeise out. He was gasping and moaning with every movement. Once he got out, I sat up on the floorboards.
There was bright red blood all over the shiny, velvet-white interior. It dripped down from the lid of trunk and was smeared on the backseat.
It should have been my blood.
Would have been, if I hadn’t reached for my sunglasses right at that moment.
I couldn’t help it.
I lurched out of the car.
And threw up.
Chapter Eleven
T WO HOURS LATER AND I WAS SITTING IN ONE OF THE hospital waiting rooms, clutching a crumpled Styrofoam cup that used to contain water in it.
Dad was pacing the floor in front of me, Mom was sitting beside me, arm around my shoulder.
I was staring at the crumpled cup.
What was Styrofoam anyway? Who made it? And was it really one of those materials that never decomposes and will be around after a nuclear explosion?
DJ and Detective Masterson were behind the big number 237 written on the door in front of us. That was Officer DeWeise’s room. And last I’d heard, he was fine. The bullet had bounced off of his bulletproof vest but not before nicking him on the right side of his chest.
The doctor said he couldn’t tell us any more because we weren’t family or even friends. I told him that I was the person he took the bullet for, but the doctor didn’t seem to care. And about thirty minutes ago, a sobbing woman ran down the hallway and burst into his room.
I was assuming a wife.
The press conference had been canceled. Now all the reporters were gathered outside the hospital. I was scared to leave.
Finally, DJ came out of the room.
“What happened? Is he okay?” I immediately asked.
DJ rubbed his face, looking ten years older this afternoon than he did this morning. “He’s fine. His wife is here now. He got twenty-two stitches, but he should be back to normal within a couple of weeks. The doctor said that the force of the bullet cracked two of his ribs.”
Detective Masterson came out then too. “We should let them be alone,” he told DJ. Then he looked at me and my parents. “Come on, guys. We’re taking you guys to the station,” he said wearily.
I looked back down at the Styrofoam. Officer DeWeise had twenty-two stitches, two cracked ribs, and a sobbing wife.
Because of me.
Me and my dumb dream of being an artist.
I felt tears pooling in the corners of my eyes, but I tried my best to blink them away. Kate Carter never cried. That would be a sign of weakness, and Carters weren’t weak.
Or so Dad said. Mom claimed that crying was good for the soul.
Dad nodded at the policeman. “Fine,” he said crisply. I knew he was mad. He’d barely said a word after making sure I was okay when they got to the hospital. Just paced.
We stood and I gathered myself as I threw the crumpled cup away and followed DJ down the hospital corridor and to the front door.
Then I got scared. Someone had already tried to shoot at me once. What if he was out there waiting for me now? What if he was just around the other side of the huge grove of trees on the other side of the parking lot?
A throng of reporters were gathered outside the doors. Most were wearing suits, but there were a few who were dressed in jeans from the waist down and a collared shirt, tie, and sport coat from the waist up, like they’d been enjoying a nice day off before the parade happened.
DJ looked over at me. “Wait here with Detective Masterson,” hesaid. Then he made his way through the crowd of yelling reporters, jogged out to the parking lot, and pulled up right in front of the door in the familiar black Tahoe.
We got inside as quickly as we could, pushing past a few reporters who kept yelling at me, asking me what I knew.
“Did you know he’d get shot, Kate?”
“Kate, why did you duck? Did you know the shooter was out there?”
I wanted to tell them I wasn’t ducking, I was trying to prevent another squinty-eyed picture of me from showing up in
There was bright red blood all over the shiny, velvet-white interior. It dripped down from the lid of trunk and was smeared on the backseat.
It should have been my blood.
Would have been, if I hadn’t reached for my sunglasses right at that moment.
I couldn’t help it.
I lurched out of the car.
And threw up.
Chapter Eleven
T WO HOURS LATER AND I WAS SITTING IN ONE OF THE hospital waiting rooms, clutching a crumpled Styrofoam cup that used to contain water in it.
Dad was pacing the floor in front of me, Mom was sitting beside me, arm around my shoulder.
I was staring at the crumpled cup.
What was Styrofoam anyway? Who made it? And was it really one of those materials that never decomposes and will be around after a nuclear explosion?
DJ and Detective Masterson were behind the big number 237 written on the door in front of us. That was Officer DeWeise’s room. And last I’d heard, he was fine. The bullet had bounced off of his bulletproof vest but not before nicking him on the right side of his chest.
The doctor said he couldn’t tell us any more because we weren’t family or even friends. I told him that I was the person he took the bullet for, but the doctor didn’t seem to care. And about thirty minutes ago, a sobbing woman ran down the hallway and burst into his room.
I was assuming a wife.
The press conference had been canceled. Now all the reporters were gathered outside the hospital. I was scared to leave.
Finally, DJ came out of the room.
“What happened? Is he okay?” I immediately asked.
DJ rubbed his face, looking ten years older this afternoon than he did this morning. “He’s fine. His wife is here now. He got twenty-two stitches, but he should be back to normal within a couple of weeks. The doctor said that the force of the bullet cracked two of his ribs.”
Detective Masterson came out then too. “We should let them be alone,” he told DJ. Then he looked at me and my parents. “Come on, guys. We’re taking you guys to the station,” he said wearily.
I looked back down at the Styrofoam. Officer DeWeise had twenty-two stitches, two cracked ribs, and a sobbing wife.
Because of me.
Me and my dumb dream of being an artist.
I felt tears pooling in the corners of my eyes, but I tried my best to blink them away. Kate Carter never cried. That would be a sign of weakness, and Carters weren’t weak.
Or so Dad said. Mom claimed that crying was good for the soul.
Dad nodded at the policeman. “Fine,” he said crisply. I knew he was mad. He’d barely said a word after making sure I was okay when they got to the hospital. Just paced.
We stood and I gathered myself as I threw the crumpled cup away and followed DJ down the hospital corridor and to the front door.
Then I got scared. Someone had already tried to shoot at me once. What if he was out there waiting for me now? What if he was just around the other side of the huge grove of trees on the other side of the parking lot?
A throng of reporters were gathered outside the doors. Most were wearing suits, but there were a few who were dressed in jeans from the waist down and a collared shirt, tie, and sport coat from the waist up, like they’d been enjoying a nice day off before the parade happened.
DJ looked over at me. “Wait here with Detective Masterson,” hesaid. Then he made his way through the crowd of yelling reporters, jogged out to the parking lot, and pulled up right in front of the door in the familiar black Tahoe.
We got inside as quickly as we could, pushing past a few reporters who kept yelling at me, asking me what I knew.
“Did you know he’d get shot, Kate?”
“Kate, why did you duck? Did you know the shooter was out there?”
I wanted to tell them I wasn’t ducking, I was trying to prevent another squinty-eyed picture of me from showing up in
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