emotion.
Step 5. Check, damn it.
***
Jamison had cash. No one would trace his purchase, and if the guy at the counter had been sober enough to remember any specific customer that afternoon, it would have been the blue-haired, nose-pierced, tattooed thirty-year-old-trying-to-look-eighteen who was standing in line behind him.
Besides, the store had been dim. Other than his blond hair, there was really nothing memorable about him, or his purchase, compared to the raunchy stuff everyone else was there to buy. Thankfully, Jamison looked a bit older than he was and the wasted employee hadn't asked for ID.
Step 6. Check.
The list was a great idea. Not only did it keep him from forgetting anything, it kept his head clear; there was no need to keep reviewing things he'd already worked out. He only needed to do everything as planned. An added benefit was that it kept him calm enough to choke down some food. The last thing he needed was for his stomach to growl at the wrong moment, or his strength to give out.
While pounding down a Big Carl and fries, he drove around town, looking for the right sucker to help him with step seven. It was just after four—plenty of time to walk if necessary—but he'd rather stick to the plan.
He was about to give up and head back to scour the mall parking lot for the second time, when he spotted her.
Miss Phillips from English class. Alone. Coming out of the old-fashioned music store.
Granddad's truck wasn't the sexiest vehicle, but it would have to do. Jamison pulled up behind her car and rolled down, by hand, a very unsexy window.
“Miss Phillips, I presume.”
She spun around and smiled. “Mr. Shaw, as I live and breathe. The Southern gentleman who is so humble he believes himself to be a coward.” She prowled over to the truck as seductively as any Southern belle, clutching her bag in both hands.
He realized she was pushing her boobs together on purpose. Interesting.
“It's not humility, Miss Phillips. It's honesty.”
“Uh huh.” She dropped the Southern belle act. “Can you believe that crap? Calling us Miss Phillips and Mr. Shaw? I think he does it so we'll think he's cool, like he thinks we're all just adults, sitting around shooting the breeze. As if.”
“I don't know. At least his class hasn't been boring. Yet. But I've only been in it a couple of times.”
“Well I heard,” she leaned on his open window, “that Mr. Evans likes to date eighteen-year-olds. My friend heard that Mr. E calls lots of his old students after they graduate. To. Hang. Out! Can you imagine? He's like almost 60!”
Again, Jamison toyed with the thought of getting his hands on Mr. E’s cell phone. Maybe it was watching a man his age so into texting that made something seem...off about the guy. If he was texting young girls, that was sick, as in...sick.
Suddenly Jamison wished he could keep Mr. E from reading his essay from that morning.
Ew, and he so did not want to be calling him Mr. E!
Someone honked.
“I gotta move.” He started rolling away and Miss P backed up, no doubt preparing to pounce on him as soon as he was parked.
Sure enough, as soon as the pickup stopped moving, she was back at his window.
“Miss Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is your name?”
She laughed. “Rachel.”
“Well, Rachel. I need a big favor, and I thought you might have the time to help me.”
“Oh, anything. Really.”
And he believed her. Really.
Step 7. Check and then some.
***
Step eight was easy enough. After he pulled the pickup under the carport of the shed, he ducked inside the tack room and shut off the breaker for the yard lights. When night came, the lights wouldn’t come on automatically, as they usually did. No one would notice, though; they'd just think the night was unusually dark, or so he hoped. He and his mom had turned them off plenty of times for star-gazing, and it was always days later, after a couple of comments about how dark it was outside, that someone
Step 5. Check, damn it.
***
Jamison had cash. No one would trace his purchase, and if the guy at the counter had been sober enough to remember any specific customer that afternoon, it would have been the blue-haired, nose-pierced, tattooed thirty-year-old-trying-to-look-eighteen who was standing in line behind him.
Besides, the store had been dim. Other than his blond hair, there was really nothing memorable about him, or his purchase, compared to the raunchy stuff everyone else was there to buy. Thankfully, Jamison looked a bit older than he was and the wasted employee hadn't asked for ID.
Step 6. Check.
The list was a great idea. Not only did it keep him from forgetting anything, it kept his head clear; there was no need to keep reviewing things he'd already worked out. He only needed to do everything as planned. An added benefit was that it kept him calm enough to choke down some food. The last thing he needed was for his stomach to growl at the wrong moment, or his strength to give out.
While pounding down a Big Carl and fries, he drove around town, looking for the right sucker to help him with step seven. It was just after four—plenty of time to walk if necessary—but he'd rather stick to the plan.
He was about to give up and head back to scour the mall parking lot for the second time, when he spotted her.
Miss Phillips from English class. Alone. Coming out of the old-fashioned music store.
Granddad's truck wasn't the sexiest vehicle, but it would have to do. Jamison pulled up behind her car and rolled down, by hand, a very unsexy window.
“Miss Phillips, I presume.”
She spun around and smiled. “Mr. Shaw, as I live and breathe. The Southern gentleman who is so humble he believes himself to be a coward.” She prowled over to the truck as seductively as any Southern belle, clutching her bag in both hands.
He realized she was pushing her boobs together on purpose. Interesting.
“It's not humility, Miss Phillips. It's honesty.”
“Uh huh.” She dropped the Southern belle act. “Can you believe that crap? Calling us Miss Phillips and Mr. Shaw? I think he does it so we'll think he's cool, like he thinks we're all just adults, sitting around shooting the breeze. As if.”
“I don't know. At least his class hasn't been boring. Yet. But I've only been in it a couple of times.”
“Well I heard,” she leaned on his open window, “that Mr. Evans likes to date eighteen-year-olds. My friend heard that Mr. E calls lots of his old students after they graduate. To. Hang. Out! Can you imagine? He's like almost 60!”
Again, Jamison toyed with the thought of getting his hands on Mr. E’s cell phone. Maybe it was watching a man his age so into texting that made something seem...off about the guy. If he was texting young girls, that was sick, as in...sick.
Suddenly Jamison wished he could keep Mr. E from reading his essay from that morning.
Ew, and he so did not want to be calling him Mr. E!
Someone honked.
“I gotta move.” He started rolling away and Miss P backed up, no doubt preparing to pounce on him as soon as he was parked.
Sure enough, as soon as the pickup stopped moving, she was back at his window.
“Miss Phillips?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell is your name?”
She laughed. “Rachel.”
“Well, Rachel. I need a big favor, and I thought you might have the time to help me.”
“Oh, anything. Really.”
And he believed her. Really.
Step 7. Check and then some.
***
Step eight was easy enough. After he pulled the pickup under the carport of the shed, he ducked inside the tack room and shut off the breaker for the yard lights. When night came, the lights wouldn’t come on automatically, as they usually did. No one would notice, though; they'd just think the night was unusually dark, or so he hoped. He and his mom had turned them off plenty of times for star-gazing, and it was always days later, after a couple of comments about how dark it was outside, that someone
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