Katana (2 page)

I shook my head. “What are you talking about?”

The man put an aged hand on my shoulder. “Maybe ‘going after’ isn’t the right way to phrase it. But we saw you trip him. I know you were just trying to help, but you could have been hurt.”

That wasn’t possible. I remembered standing perfectly still with my eyes closed. I couldn’t have tripped the mugger without knowing I did. I shook my head harder. “No, you’re wrong. The mugger must have tripped and somehow I caught your purse.” My mind raced to make sense of it. “Maybe because it’s not very well lit here, you got confused.” I looked to Quentin for support.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe … ”

“Now wait just a minute.” The old man held his hands up in surrender. “We’re not trying to upset you, honey. We’re just worried, that’s all. We need to report this, so why don’t you two wait with us until we can get the police out here.”

“Wait? In the dark, empty parking lot?” I laughed, a high-pitched, nervous sound. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I’m just going to stand here and wait for that guy to come back.” Even as I spoke, the shadows around me seemed to grow bigger and darker. I shivered, and it felt like my skin wanted to slide itself free from my body. “Besides … I—I don’t feel right.”

“Are you hurt?” Quentin asked.

“No.” But I wasn’t okay, either. I tried to find the words to tell him what was wrong, but I didn’t know how to explain. A strange feeling pressed against me—like static in the air before a thunderstorm. It was a familiar feeling, almost
déjà vu.
I tried to place it, but the more I reached, the faster it sank into the recess of my mind.

Swallowing took more effort than it should have. “Q, I’m out.” I shot him a questioning glance as I began my backward retreat. “You with me?”

The old man said, “I don’t think you should go anywhere just yet.”

I refused to look at him. “Q?”

Quentin glanced from me to the old couple and back to me. He huffed. “Let’s go.”

Without waiting for him to catch up, I turned and ran as fast as I could, which wasn’t that fast considering the jeans I wore were meant to show the curves of my legs, not allow them to bend. By the time I rounded the second corner of the mall, my arms burned from carrying the toaster, but I spotted my blue Ford Fiesta. Relief deflated the tension that had ballooned inside of me. I’d never thought I’d see the day when I couldn’t get away from the mall fast enough.

When I reached my car, Quentin skidded to a panting halt at my side. “If the toaster relay was an Olympic sport, you’d get the gold.”

I ignored him as I sorted the keys in my hand, looking for the one that would open the door.

“Ri-Ri?” Concern wrapped around his words, making them thick like syrup. “Maybe we should hold off on the party. It couldn’t hurt to talk to the police.”

Was he crazy? “Actually it would hurt quite a bit if that guy came back and murdered us while we waited.”

Quentin opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a soft chuckling.

“What’s this—you’re talking about me?”

We wheeled around in the direction of the voice. From the side of a rusted conversion van, out stepped Weasel.

2

N
o one ever said that life was fair.

Maybe if I’d had more time, I could have figured myself out. But now, with my potential death a parking spot away, I realized I was nothing more than a jagged puzzle piece in a world of smooth edges. I had no place, no purpose. If Quentin died, his death would be a tragedy. I knew he’d make a great therapist someday, and the world would suffer from the loss. But me … I tried to think how my death would affect anything and came up blank. My list of aspirations ended just past getting more air on the ramps at the skate park and graduating high school.

Weasel took a step forward. I dropped the toaster and thought my heart might join the box on the warm asphalt. Blood rushed through my head, beating against my temples and drawing beads of sweat onto my forehead. I licked my dry lips.

“Rileigh, get behind me.” Quentin pushed me roughly against my car and stepped in front of me. He stared at Weasel. “Listen up, you can have my wallet.” He pulled it out of his back pocket, unclipped the chain, and threw it on the ground at Weasel’s feet. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Weasel folded his arms as a smirk spread across his face. “Whaddya know, the queer’s got balls.”

Quentin stiffened, but said nothing.

I peeked around his shoulder. “You got his wallet, now go away. Go away, or I’ll … ” I cringed inwardly as I left the unfinished sentence floating in the air. Or I’ll what? Throw a gigantic toaster at you? The man in front of me was not a piece of bread.

Weasel chuckled again and walked toward us.

“Don’t come any closer,” Quentin said, his voice wavering.

“Like this?” Weasel kept walking until he was directly in front of Quentin.

Quentin took a step back with his arms held wide, plastering me against the driver’s side window. “What do you want?”

“Payback.” Weasel balled a fist into Quentin’s shirt collar and yanked him forward.

Quentin thrust out his arm and wedged it against Weasel’s chest—but it didn’t pry him far enough apart. Weasel’s other arm reached back, his fist quivering in the air for just a second before striking out and connecting with Quentin’s temple. Quentin spun like a drunken ballerina in an awkward circle before he crumpled to the ground.

I finished a scream I hadn’t realized I began and dropped to help my unmoving friend.

“Shut up!” Weasel grabbed me by the back of my tank top and threw me against my car. The fiberglass popped inward from my hip and I tumbled to the ground in a heap.

Weasel smiled, exposing long, gray teeth. “She’s alone,” he called over his shoulder.

Two men emerged from behind the same van and joined Weasel. They looked alike—their skin was the same caramel color and their hair the same ash brown. Their eyes hung back in their skulls, casting dark shadows underneath. They had to be brothers. The younger one, who looked my age, seemed afraid.

My hair fluttered from a breeze that swirled around me. It seemed to rise from the very spot where I sat. I shivered as I inched my way back to my feet, using my fingers against the car door to guide me.

A very tiny voice in my head, one that I didn’t even know existed, spoke up for the first time:
The young one will go down with the least resistance.
It was barely a whisper, like a mother hushing a crying baby. The words brushed across my mind like icy fingertips and raised the hair on the back of my neck.

Fantastic. As if the night weren’t bad enough, now I was hearing voices inside my head. The car keys that I’d managed to hang on to until this moment slipped from my hand and fell on top of the toaster. The soft pretzel rolling in my stomach felt like it would soon join them.

The older thug—possibly in his late twenties—snarled at me. His features were harder than his brother’s, with scowl lines etched deep into his skin. “Stupid kid,” he said. “Whaddya think? You’re gonna stop a snatch and save the day?” He took another angry step toward me. “I think you’re going to pay for not minding your own business.”

My legs trembled and I tried to work up another scream, but my voice caught in my throat like a knotted balloon.

“Now wait just a minute,” Weasel said, stepping in front of him. “There are plenty of ways to teach her a lesson, and I’m more interested in the ways that are fun for us.”

Younger brother’s eyes bulged while his older brother smiled.

A whimper escaped my throat. I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth to keep the flood of other pathetic sounds from falling out. I was dangerously close to spilling the warm tears collecting in my eyes when the breeze returned, lifting my hair and swirling through my fingers.
For that last remark, we hurt Weasel first.

What? Hurt Weasel? That didn’t make any sense. But then again, it was a voice in my head that said it, so why should it make sense? I rubbed two fingers against my temple.

“Um, guys … ”

I looked up, surprised to find it was the younger brother who had spoken.

“I think we should go. Somebody might show up and … I think there’s something wrong with her.” He whispered the last part, as if worried it might upset me.

“Nah.” Weasel pushed the younger brother back. “We’re not going anywhere.”

His smile made my skin crawl. I couldn’t decide which I wanted to do more—pass out or throw up.

Weasel cocked his head to the side. “Don’t you worry, baby doll. You just might like it.”

This couldn’t be happening. Surely there was a security guard patrolling the lot nearby who could put a stop to this. I took a deep breath, ready for the scream I’d been waiting for to finally come out.

But instead, I opened my mouth and said, “You’re right. I am going to like this.” My eyes flew wide and I took a step back. I hadn’t meant to say anything. I sucked in another breath and tried screaming again; only, like before, words replaced my cry. “It’s been a long time, and I’ve been itching for a good fight.” Wide-eyed, I clamped both hands over my mouth before I could say more.

Weasel’s mouth dropped open.

“See,” the younger brother whispered. “I told you something’s wrong with her.”

“She’s screwing with us,” the older brother said, but his eyes danced nervously between me and Weasel. “She thinks she’s a badass.”

Me? Badass? That word and I didn’t even exist on the same planet. Skateboarding aside, I was obsessed with strawberry lip gloss and adding to my stuffed animal collection, and my idea of manual labor was washing the dishes by hand when the dishwasher was broken. Badass … I would have found it funny if I wasn’t so terrified.

Weasel snorted. “You think you’re a badass?”

I wanted to shake my head, but my neck refused to cooperate. I could only stare back.

“Sure she does,” the older brother said with a frown. “Look at her just staring at us like that.”

Weasel spit on the ground next to my shoe, which I’m sure had been his target. “So Little-Miss-Barbie-Badass, you’re itching for a fight, and I’m itching for something else. Let’s see if we can help each other out.” He moved toward me.

My stomach lurched and I felt sure that throwing up had won the battle over passing out. He was almost upon me, mere inches separating his cigarette-stained fingers from my bare arm, when it happened.

A tight pressure squeezed the inside of my chest, like firm hands holding a struggling rabbit. It enveloped my heart and forced it to return to its regular beat. Next, like silk sliding beneath my skin, I felt myself being tried on like a suit. I stretched my arms, flexed my fingers, and rocked back on my heels, only it wasn’t me doing those things.

I braced myself for the wave of terror that was sure to wash over me, but it never came. Instead, a smile that didn’t belong to me pulled at my lips.

“Rich!” the younger brother warned, but it was too late.

I dodged to the side, just beyond the reach of Rich’s grasping hand. As he moved past me, I hooked my right arm around his outstretched limb, pulling it behind his back and bending him over. Before I could stop myself I struck his extended elbow with my left hand, shattering the bone.

He screamed and dropped to the ground, landing on the toaster. He rolled off the crumpled box, cursing me as he cradled his forearm that dangled in unnatural angles.

Oh, gross. From far away, I felt the stirrings of nausea, but just as quickly a warm pressure wrapped around my stomach and the feeling left. I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure I was still smiling.

The older brother, his face drained of color, jumped back from the groaning man. He looked up at me with red veins webbed across his protruding eyes. “You’re gonna die!” he screamed. Flecks of spit foamed at the corners of his mouth. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a large switchblade, releasing the blade from the hilt with a click. From deep within the cotton comfort of my brain, I thought I should be concerned about this latest development, but my possessed body didn’t flinch.

I saw one of my eyes—large, blue, and serene—reflected in the blade as it fell toward my face. I wondered if everyone felt so at peace right before they died. I closed my eyes and waited for … I wasn’t sure exactly. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt.

“Donnie, don’t!” the younger brother cried.

I braced myself for the bite of metal, but it never came. Instead, a small wind brushed along my cheek, and I opened my eyes in time to see Donnie’s blade miss my face by inches. “You’re going to have to be faster than that,” I heard my voice taunt.

Donnie cried out, his pulse pounding in his temples. His second strike was a wide-open arc that I ducked with time to spare. “Faster still,” my voice teased. I felt my smile grow wider.

Donnie screamed again and charged at me with three rapid stabs.

I ducked to the left. “You missed.” And again to the right. “Missed again.” The third swing went wide and I spun behind his outreached arm, turned back, and kicked.

I heard a sound like a twig being snapped in two and saw Donnie’s blade fly through the air. He was too busy holding his hand to his chest and screaming to notice. More broken bones, and still I felt nothing. For someone who couldn’t watch a scary movie without throwing a pillow over her face, I thought I should feel something—horror, fear, disgust—
anything.
My smile twitched.