GRETCHEN'S IN THE BATHROOM WHEN THE GUNMAN comes in.
Everyone else has gone home after tossing a bunch of crumpled bills on the table, saying good night and how they hope they'll see me tomorrow at the homecoming game. They were just being nice; Gretchen and the rest of her senior friends only invited me out because my older brother, Hunter, had to work, and she's only waiting around so she can grill me privately about whether he's seeing anyone.
If he is, he'll be done in an hour.
That's how long it took him to "date" Shelly Eppes, who was my best friend until three weeks ago.
I'm not going to say that, though.
No one's in the diner except the cashier and me. The table's been cleared and wiped down, but there are still bits of hash browns stuck to the corner of the lamination or whatever it is and some packets of ketchup scattered around. They were about to close, but Gretchen asked if she could use the bathroom first, so that's where she is when the gunman comes in, all twitchy and frenetic, with a black ski mask, long tangled hair, and a scruffy coat.
I see him from my position in the corner booth, but he doesn't know I'm there. I'm not close to the windows, so he must not have seen me when he was outside, deciding whether to come in. I see the bright silver glint of a gun in his hand, harsh and fake looking under the fluorescent lights. For a split second, everything seems unreal, like I've wandered onto the set of a horror film. For a split second, I don't register what's going on.
And then I get under the table.
I tuck my knees under my chin and wrap my arms around my legs until I'm a compact little ball. My heart bashes itself against the bars of my rib cage, trying to stage a prison break.
The table legs feel like widely spaced tree trunks in a field, leaving me exposed, so I contract further. I pull my breath in like I'm shoving and cramming it into a drawer that's already full, and then I lock the drawer before anything spills out.
That's when I notice someone else is there, under a different table, across the aisle. He's crouched the same way as me, he looks about my age, and he's got dark hair and dark eyes.
Slowly, slowly his index finger comes up to his lips. Shh…
I nod, never breaking eye contact. We don't blink because if we blink the other person might disappear, and then we'll be all alone.
My heart slams so hard I swear it's going to leave my body behind. (Take me with you.) My breath tumbles out in little puffs I fight to suppress.
Above us, the cashier argues with the gunman.
"What the hell are you doing, Daryl?" She sounds annoyed, not frightened.
"Just empty the register," he yells back. "Shut up."
"What the hell?" she says.
Please don't argue, I think, and I know my friend under the other table is thinking the same thing.
There's more yelling, and then a horrible noise, like a scream, but muffled. Worse than a scream, because we can't tell what's going on.
My friend and I look into each other's eyes and try to block out the fact that it sounds like the gunman has whipped the cashier across her face with the butt of his gun. It sounds like she's choking on teeth and blood. It sounds like she's pleading for her life. A high-pitched moan rolls toward us, piercing my eardrums.
It's horrible, the drawn-out moan, but it means she's still alive.
Please do as he says and maybe he'll go away and you'll be all right.
I've never looked directly into someone else's eyes for this long before. Definitely not a guy's. It would be weird under other circumstances. As long as we're looking at each other, though, we have hope. If the gunman comes near our section, he won't be able to get both of us. One of us will help the other. I know this in my muscles and tendons, which are poised, taut, alert. I know this in the snapping valves of my heart, trying to dislodge from my chest.
I think about Gretchen, willing her to stay in the bathroom, guilty that I haven't thought about her before now. Oh God, she has a bunch of little sisters. I think she's the oldest of five. She's like a nanny crossed with a drill sergeant, because she's used to herding groups of people. Even her friends tonight seemed to agree that sitting back and letting her take charge—of ordering appetizers for the table, deciding how to split the bill, figuring out how everyone should get home—was for the best. There was this sense that, with Gretchen around, things would get done and fun would be had.
Oh God. Let her be safe.
I don't realize she's already called the cops from her cell phone.
All I did was hide.
All I did was hide.
I don't remember what happens next.
There's a wall around that memory I can't climb.
So I'm gonna think about the shoes on my friend under the table. He's wearing clean, bright white sneakers, the kind hip-hop artists wear. They look brand-new. They're perfectly white all over, the laces and logo and sole, like they've been dipped in creamy vanilla, and then they're red because that's what happens next, and I can't—I don't—I don't want to remember it.
But neither of us is injured, which is more than the cashier can say; and neither of us is killed, which is more than the gunman can say.
When the cops finally cut me out of my clothes, which are weighing me down like thick red tar, all I can think is, Who will pay for this shirt? Who will pay for these jeans?
I rock back and forth and calculate their cost.
"I don't care if you never speak to me again," Hunter says at 3 a.m., kneeling by the side of my bed like he's praying. He's not allowed in my room anymore, but he crept in after we got home, after the cops let me go. "Imogen, I'm so glad you're safe."
His voice quivers on the last word, like he's twelve, and for a second his sobbing reminds me of the cashier, all woeful and pleading. I picture a cat on a windowsill, begging for scraps, not realizing the house is empty because everyone's moved away.
