Masked (3 page)

I'm almost at the end of the aisle. There's a gap of a couple of feet between it and the cases of pop. I'll have to cross it before I can hide. I draw in a deep breath as I get ready. I pray I won't be seen. I'm just about to dart across the gap when a pair of legs blocks me.

I look up—and see two eyes through the eyeholes in the mask. I also see a gun in a gloved hand.

“Well, well,” the masked man says in a deep voice. A second gloved hand reaches down and yanks me to my feet. My father is staring at me. His face is pale.

“Rosie,” he gasps. He turns to the masked man. “Please don't hurt my daughter. Take anything you want, but don't hurt her.”

The masked man shoves me in front of him as he advances toward my father. A funny thing—his grip isn't nearly as hard as his voice.

Chapter Six
Daniel

A gun.

The guy has a gun. I'm smack in the middle of a real-life armed robbery. The guy in the mask must be on drugs or something. He must be desperate. Why else would he be robbing a convenience store? My uncle's friend isn't paying me enough for this.

We've got our hands up—Mr. Mirelli and me. I glance at the front of the store, specifically, at the door. At the lock on the door. As far as I can tell, it's in the unlocked position, which means anyone could walk in off the street. That would be fine if it turned out to be a couple of cops. But I don't see any cops out there—not that this is proof positive that there aren't any. There are so many posters, advertising everything from a new type of gum and a deal on calling cards to a muffin-and-coffee combo, which store owners agree to put up because they get paid to. With all those posters on the windows, it's impossible to see much of the street. It's also impossible for anyone on the street, like the cops, to get a good look at what's happening inside.

At first I think the guy is a total amateur for leaving the door unlocked. But he's obviously not a complete idiot. Right away he asks if there's anyone else in the store, and he doesn't take Mr. Mirelli's word for it when he answers, “No.” He checks it out for himself, waving the gun at us to show us he's not kidding. He keeps the gun on us while he checks the aisles. He still has it on us when he ducks down for an instant. When he straightens up—the gun hasn't wavered so much as a millimeter—he's got Rosie by the arm. Her face is white and her eyes are enormous and fixed on that gun. She's scared. Well, join the club.

The guy in the mask shoves her along in front of him. He points the gun at her.

“You try anything, and she gets it,” he tells Mr. Mirelli. “You understand?”

Mr. Mirelli nods vigorously. He's like one of those bobble-head toys you see in the back of cars sometimes. He nods and nods and nods.

“You want cash?” he says to the guy in the mask. “You can have it. You can have all of it.”

He has his own store, but I bet he's had experience as a store manager somewhere else because he sounds like he's read the company manual of one of the big chain stores. I've thumbed through a few of them myself, for my job. Some of the details in each one are different, but most of the big items are the same, especially when it comes to situations like these. In situations like these, no one is supposed to act like a hero. What they're supposed to do is hand over the cash, let the robber make his getaway, and then, when it's safe—and
only
when it's safe—call the cops. Nobody wants their store to be the place where some innocent customers get killed because a manager or employee decides to try to save the few hundred dollars that are in the cash drawer.

Mr. Mirelli nods toward the cash register. He's trying to speed things up. The faster the robber is out of the store, the less chance there is that anything will happen to Rosie.

“I'll open the register for you,” Mr. Mirelli says to the robber. He raises his hands higher, a show of submission and good will. He even manages a shaky smile as he says, “We had a good day. It's all yours. Let me get it for you.”

The guy in the mask doesn't answer right away. The only thing I can see are his eyes, so I focus in on them. I'm stunned when I see hesitation in them. Mr. Mirelli is offering to empty the cash register for the masked man, and the masked man is standing there holding on to Rosie and looking like he's actually thinking it over—should he go for it or not? I'm totally confused. He came in here with a mask and a gun. He announced it was a stickup. He used that actual word. So what's he thinking about?

Then he waves the gun at Mr. Mirelli and me, telling us, okay, yeah, he wants the cash, and he wants us to go on ahead of him. In the instant before Mr. Mirelli turns away from me, I see the relief on his face. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking, If I hand over the cash, the guy will go away. I'm thinking the same thing.

We march up to the front of the store, and I take a closer look at the lock on the door. The guy in the mask has left it open. He's also left the sign turned to
Open
. Anyone could walk in, and that makes me nervous. If you introduce an unexpected element into a drama like this, anything can happen.

“I'm going to go around behind the counter,” Mr. Mirelli says. His hands are still up over his head. “Okay? Is that okay?”

The guy in the mask grunts and nods. He's still holding on to Rosie.

Mr. Mirelli starts to lower his hands and then thinks better of it. Up they go again.

“I'm going to have to put my hands down so I can get around there, okay?” he says. He nods at the hinged opening in the counter.

“Okay,” the guy in the mask says in that weird voice of his. It's a put-on voice for sure. He's disguising his real voice just like he's disguising his face, which I think is odd—until I think about it again. Maybe he's from the neighborhood. Maybe he's been in this store before. Maybe he's been in here a million times. Maybe he thinks that if he uses his real voice, Mr. Mirelli will recognize it.

Mr. Mirelli lowers his hands slowly, like he's afraid that any sudden movement will provoke gunfire. He reaches for the hinged panel and lifts it. His eyes are on the man in the mask the whole time. He slips behind the counter and raises his hands again as he slides sideways toward the cash register.

“I'm going to put my hands down again,” he says when he's finally positioned in front of the register. “To get the money.” His hands creep down again and he reaches out to the register to key in the code that will let him open it.

I'm relieved. It's almost over.

Chapter Seven
The Masked Man

I can't breathe. The mask is sticking to my face. My clothes are sticking to my body. How does anyone ever pull off a job like this?

We're at the cash now, but it seems to have taken about an hour to get here. Any minute now the old man is going to give me the money, and then I can get out of here.

I don't like that there's another guy in the store. I still can't figure out where he came from. I didn't see him when I was outside. And I was careful. I looked. Even with all those posters, I looked. I checked. I double-checked. I walked into a situation that I thought I understood, and all of a sudden there's someone there that I hadn't counted on.

Not only that, but he keeps looking at me like he's some kind of expert on how all this is supposed to go down and he's checking to see if I'm doing it right. He's making me nervous—and I'm nervous enough as it is.

But it's going to be okay. It has to be okay. All I have to do is take the cash, then take some getaway insurance, and it's all over.

I'm holding on to the girl, Rosie. She hasn't said a word since I grabbed her. Maybe she's in shock. That can happen to people, especially when they see a gun pointed at them. They freeze up. Their systems start to shut down. That's another reason I need to get this over with and get out of here.

The old man is scared too, but he's trying not to show it. He's trying to take charge. I can see the sweat glistening on his forehead and on his upper lip, but still he's telling me what to do. I'm not surprised. Guys like him are used to being in charge. But he's also playing it smart—and safe. If he needs to put his hands down, he tells me ahead of time. He tells me exactly what he's going to do.

That's because of Rosie. He really seems worried about her, like he thinks I'm going to off her or something. Now
that
surprises me. It's not how I pictured him.

If you look at him or if you study him through the store window, you see he's always got a lemon-sucking look on his face. He glowers at every teenager who sets foot in the place. His eyes are on them the whole time they're in the store. Or they're on the security mirrors above the aisles that give him a good view of most of the place.

He's nicer to adults. He exchanges weather talk with some of the women and sports talk with some of the men. But he never cracks a smile. Never. And he watches them as closely as he watches the kids. He tries to pretend that he doesn't, but his eyes keep darting up to those mirrors. They're sharp and bright, like he's trained them to take in every detail of what goes down in the store.

The way he looks and the way he acts with his customers, that's the way I thought he would be with Rosie. I even thought maybe he'd give me trouble, you know, like, “Go ahead and shoot her if that's what you want to do, but I am not handing so much as one dime over to a punk like you.”

I'm holding Rosie. I feel her tremble, and I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry I have to scare her. But there's no other way. I watch the old man lower his hands to the cash register. I wonder how much money is in there—not that it makes any difference. I try to ignore the other guy, the one I hadn't counted on. I try to pretend he isn't staring at me. I wish the old man would hurry up.

I can't breathe.

Chapter Eight
Rosie

I know it's stupid, but all I can think about is Corey. He's upstairs waiting for me. What if he gets impatient? What if he decides to come down here and see what's taking me so long? What if he startles the guy in the mask?

If only my father hadn't called for me. If only he had for once—just for once—left his precious cash register to look for those beans himself. But no. That would be like expecting a dog to pick up after itself. Instead, he did what he always does. He yelled for me.

In five minutes, it would have been a completely different story. I would have been gone. He could have shouted himself hoarse if he'd wanted to. I wouldn't have heard him. I would never hear him again.

But it wasn't five minutes later, so it didn't happen that way. He
did
call me. And because he's so impossible to live with, because he thinks he can control every second of every minute of my life, because I was afraid that he would come upstairs if I didn't answer, I came down here, like a servant running to do her master's bidding.

Oh god. Please don't let Corey come down here. Don't let him startle the guy in the mask. Open the cash drawer, Daddy. Open it and scoop out the cash. Give it to the guy in the mask. Give him anything he wants. Make him go away. And when he does go, call the cops. Call them and tell them what happened. While you're busy with that, I can go.

But my dad doesn't hurry. He's moving slowly, like an old man whose arthritis is acting up. It's taking him forever to get up to the cash, forever to lower his hands, forever to start punching in his stupid security code.

There's also a part of me that wants to run. I could too. The guy in the mask is holding my arm, but he doesn't have a tight grip on it. I could pull free easily. I could run for the door. It's not locked. I checked. I could race out into the street and dive to the pavement at the right or the left of the door. He wouldn't be able to see me. Not with all those posters in the window. Every poster brings in a little extra money—money, money, money. That's what it's all about for my dad. That and how to make my life miserable.

But if I run, if I break free, the guy in the mask might shoot. Maybe he'll shoot me. Or maybe he'll shoot my dad. I think about that for a moment. I'm ashamed because I actually imagine it. There's only me and my dad now. If anything happens to him, I inherit everything. All the money he has tucked away will be mine.

I glance at my dad. My face is burning. He's opening the cash drawer. He's about to hand over all of the money inside to the guy in the mask. He actually offered it to the guy. He told him, Take anything you want in the place but please don't hurt my daughter.
Please
. Do you have any idea how often my dad says please? Maybe once in a decade, and never to me. But he said it just now, to the guy in the mask. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he doesn't want anything bad to happen to me. But if that's true, if he really cares about me, he wouldn't be trying to control me all the time. He would let me do what I want for a change.

The cash drawer is open, and my dad is emptying out the twenties. Then the tens. Then the fives. He glances at the guy in the mask. He told the guy he's had a good day in the store. He told him there's a lot of cash in the drawer. But it doesn't look to me like there are more than five or six twenties in there and an equal number of tens. There aren't many fives either. And if I notice that, then the guy in the mask must notice too. Maybe he's staring hard at my dad right now. Maybe that's why my dad is just standing there, a flimsy little stack of bills in his hand. He sighs. I hear him. Then he lifts the cash drawer and pulls out all the bills he keeps underneath—a bunch of twenties and some fifties. He puts them all in a neat stack and sets the bills on the counter.

“There,” he says to the guy in the mask. “There's nearly a thousand dollars there. Take it. It's yours. Take it and leave my daughter. I won't call the police. I promise. Just leave my daughter.”