more I’m positive that’s where it is. It feels right. I don’t let myself think too hard on the fact that the cops probably already have it and are on their way to my house right now to arrest me. Mom opening the door, the look on her face. I shake my head.
No.
My medal is inside. It has to be.
I try to picture where the girl is now. Maybe signing in at the little kiosk you have to go to first before someone helps you. Would she try to just walk into the office? Or worse—will she tell her she’s here to pick up her daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s medal? I pace the sidewalk.
Calm the hell down, man,
I tell myself as I move to the edge of the sidewalk near the curb.
She’ll get it. It’ll be there.
That she showed up this morning—that she’s the one helping me—feels weirdly like fate, like maybe God is giving me a sign that he’s going to let me get away again. I lit a candle at the church on my way home last night. Ducked in and struck a match, like one of the tias. Then I got here this morning and there she was, looking up at me, those blue-green eyes of hers, not exactly trusting but curious, and I just thought,
Okay, so here’s the answer to my prayer.
The medal’s in there, and she’s going to get it for me.
I can’t see much of the bank’s lobby from here, just the guard, the same guy who was there yesterday, looking more alert than he did before, staring at every person coming through the door as if they’re a threat. It’s weird to see the victims afterward. It kind of feels like another violation or something, like I’m hurting them twice—him and the girl. I don’t like it.
I look down at my phone. Five minutes. It’s only been five lousy minutes since she went in. My skin feels like it’s crawling off my bones. I can’t stay still.
I reach into my pocket and take the girl’s student ID out and stare at it. I swiped it when I helped her pick up her wallet. I didn’t really plan to do it; I just saw it and wanted a better look. I shouldn’t have, but I’m curious about who she is. Alexandra Scott. Sophomore class. Student number 5756439. Westwood Preparatory. Never heard of it, but obviously it’s one of those rich-kid schools, probably in Orange County somewhere. Figures. She’s got that rich-kid look. Nice clothes, the air of cool confidence that only comes from getting whatever you want, whenever you want. I must’ve totally flipped her out good yesterday. It had to be the first brush with crime this girl’s ever had.
Maybe that’s why she came back here this morning? To revisit the scene of the crime?
I’ve heard some people are into that, that they find it exciting or something. I laugh. Yeah, it’s exciting all right. Until you get caught.
I wonder what she told the police afterward. Did she notice anything in particular about me? Something that could help them? My nerves are getting the better of me. I stare at the ID again and rub the corner with my thumb.
Please, please, please. Hurry.
A few more minutes pass, and then she’s coming out, scanning the street for me. I wave her over, feeling suddenly anxious about more than just whether she found my medal. She’s tall, lean, and graceful as a dancer, walking like she’s on a catwalk. Her blond hair bounces with every step, falling over her shoulders in perfect, loose waves.
Alexandra.
It fits her. Guys passing by turn back around for a second look, and I have to laugh because I’m ridiculous to think she’d want anything to do with me. I feel out of place standing next to her in my faded jeans and white T shirt.
“Did you find it?” I ask, running my hand nervously through my hair and trying not to stare into those deep-ocean eyes of hers.
She smiles and holds up one hand, and dangling from it is my Saint Jude’s.
Holy crap. It was really there.
I go to take it, but she pulls it out of reach and turns the medal over in her hands. “Christian Ruiz? Is that your name?”
Actually my last name is Sims, like
No.
My medal is inside. It has to be.
I try to picture where the girl is now. Maybe signing in at the little kiosk you have to go to first before someone helps you. Would she try to just walk into the office? Or worse—will she tell her she’s here to pick up her daughter’s ex-boyfriend’s medal? I pace the sidewalk.
Calm the hell down, man,
I tell myself as I move to the edge of the sidewalk near the curb.
She’ll get it. It’ll be there.
That she showed up this morning—that she’s the one helping me—feels weirdly like fate, like maybe God is giving me a sign that he’s going to let me get away again. I lit a candle at the church on my way home last night. Ducked in and struck a match, like one of the tias. Then I got here this morning and there she was, looking up at me, those blue-green eyes of hers, not exactly trusting but curious, and I just thought,
Okay, so here’s the answer to my prayer.
The medal’s in there, and she’s going to get it for me.
I can’t see much of the bank’s lobby from here, just the guard, the same guy who was there yesterday, looking more alert than he did before, staring at every person coming through the door as if they’re a threat. It’s weird to see the victims afterward. It kind of feels like another violation or something, like I’m hurting them twice—him and the girl. I don’t like it.
I look down at my phone. Five minutes. It’s only been five lousy minutes since she went in. My skin feels like it’s crawling off my bones. I can’t stay still.
I reach into my pocket and take the girl’s student ID out and stare at it. I swiped it when I helped her pick up her wallet. I didn’t really plan to do it; I just saw it and wanted a better look. I shouldn’t have, but I’m curious about who she is. Alexandra Scott. Sophomore class. Student number 5756439. Westwood Preparatory. Never heard of it, but obviously it’s one of those rich-kid schools, probably in Orange County somewhere. Figures. She’s got that rich-kid look. Nice clothes, the air of cool confidence that only comes from getting whatever you want, whenever you want. I must’ve totally flipped her out good yesterday. It had to be the first brush with crime this girl’s ever had.
Maybe that’s why she came back here this morning? To revisit the scene of the crime?
I’ve heard some people are into that, that they find it exciting or something. I laugh. Yeah, it’s exciting all right. Until you get caught.
I wonder what she told the police afterward. Did she notice anything in particular about me? Something that could help them? My nerves are getting the better of me. I stare at the ID again and rub the corner with my thumb.
Please, please, please. Hurry.
A few more minutes pass, and then she’s coming out, scanning the street for me. I wave her over, feeling suddenly anxious about more than just whether she found my medal. She’s tall, lean, and graceful as a dancer, walking like she’s on a catwalk. Her blond hair bounces with every step, falling over her shoulders in perfect, loose waves.
Alexandra.
It fits her. Guys passing by turn back around for a second look, and I have to laugh because I’m ridiculous to think she’d want anything to do with me. I feel out of place standing next to her in my faded jeans and white T shirt.
“Did you find it?” I ask, running my hand nervously through my hair and trying not to stare into those deep-ocean eyes of hers.
She smiles and holds up one hand, and dangling from it is my Saint Jude’s.
Holy crap. It was really there.
I go to take it, but she pulls it out of reach and turns the medal over in her hands. “Christian Ruiz? Is that your name?”
Actually my last name is Sims, like
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