Jade
Stan pats me on the back after I return to the front desk. “Promise me a good night’s sleep tonight, okay?”
I nod. “I’m good, I’m good,” I assure him, wishing I’d waited longer to tell him the news. Granted, he would have needed to know soon; the appointments will probably affect my work schedule, after all. But I’d give anything right now if I could squeeze in just a few more days of normal.
As Stan heads out the door, I plop in the chair behind the counter, reach down to the floor, pull the cell phone out of my purse and text my dad. He’s at a continuing-education course in New Orleans with Lena and my little sister Sydney, but only because he’d scheduled it several months earlier—a lifetime ago. Thanks to a handful of mutated cells, he won’t be needing continuing-education courses anymore.
Everything OK? I text him.
It’s no biggie that he doesn’t respond right away; you’d think he was in the Witness Protection Program the way he’s so unreachable by cell phone, always accidentally leaving it behind or forgetting to charge it. His pager is much more reliable, but I don’t want him to worry that a patient might be having a problem.
I wait a couple more antsy moments (Chill, Jade), then forward the message to Lena. Thank heaven she responds right away.
We’re gr8! No worries. Sydney  Bourbon Street.
I curl my lip at Lena’s text slang.
Good, I reply. See you tomorrow. I refuse to use emojis with Lena. No need encouraging her.
I drop the phone back in my purse but pick it up again when I hear it ping. I look at the text on my screen and smile.
Jay-Shea, I miss you! Sydney writes.
Miss you more, Syd-Kyd! I text back. (My exclamation marks are reserved solely for Sydney.)
Look what I got you! she replies, texting a smiling selfie with a voodoo doll thrust in front of the camera.
Fierce! I respond. Can I use it to put a hex on Alicia?
That’s the former BFF who’s been dissing Sydney since they entered the Ninth Circle of Hell, also known as middle school, a couple of weeks earlier.
Yaaasss! she responds, then follows up with a dozen kiss-blowing emojis.
I send some back. My emoji supply for Syd is unlimited.
My poor baby sister: she’s so achingly adorable and smart that she’d gone her whole life without a single hiccup until sixth-grade sadism set in. Suddenly Alicia and her coven are too cool for Sydney, who’s still more interested in Barbies than makeup. But I’ve got my sister’s back. I’ll always have her back.
I’m still smiling as I drop my phone back into my purse, then gaze mindlessly out into the parking lot. Most of the stores in the strip mall close at six on Sundays, like us. But the anchor store next door, Food Champ, ensures a steady flow of traffic since it’s open 24-7.
I’m vaguely aware of Ethan puffing with each rep of his dumbbells a few yards away. He comes into the gym a lot, usually with his girlfriend, Brianne. The other customers’ heads routinely spin when their Ken-and-Barbie hotness graces the gym’s presence, the couple’s studied indifference a testament to years of double-takes. I’ve had some classes with them through the years, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard Barbie (fine, Brianne) utter a word, either at school or at the gym. She seems to communicate telepathically with Ethan, he obligingly leaning into her urgent eye contact when she has a message to convey. Her puffy, pink lips move, but damn if I’ve ever caught a word she’s said. When she comes into the gym, she flutters her fingertips when I greet her without so much as glancing in my direction. Ethan usually overcompensates with the most humongous smile he can muster, but I dislike him by association. Now, I dislike him even more for keeping me here late.
I glance toward the plate-glass window, then look again. That’s weird.
A guy in the parking lot is walking toward the strip mall in fast, jerky steps, wearing a fleece jacket and gloves.
My muscles tense slightly as I lean up and narrow my eyes for a closer look.
The guy’s got a buzz cut, and his chin is digging into his chest, like he’s freezing cold. He’s holding something balled up in his fist. What is that? Something woolen, like a cap . . . As he loosens his grip, still speed-walking, I see that it’s a ski mask. A ski mask and gloves in September? When it’s ninety degrees in the shade? I stand slowly to get a better look. Hmm. Why is he heading here, toward the gym, rather than the grocery store, which is the only store in the shopping center still technically open? And now that he’s opening our door, punching it with the heel of his hand, why is he pulling on the ski mask, adjusting it with a ferocious yank? It’s as if . . .
“Get your hands up!”
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