Shot Through the Heart

SHOT THROUGH THE HEART

Niki Burnham

Chapter One |
Connor

“T
wo thousand bucks on the line and you’re using your limited brain power to answer sappy texts from a girl?” Josh Lindor eyes my cell phone screen in disgust. “Geez, Connor. From the pathetic look on your face, I thought you received the name of our target. Senior Assassin e-mails are supposed to go out at five o’clock.”

I pluck my phone from his crumb-encrusted fingers and drop it into the grass next to my soda, behind the basketball hoop at the side of the Lindors’ driveway. I glare at him, daring him to steal it again. “I wasn’t answering the text, I was reading it. There a law against that?”

Ever since my parents handed me my first cell phone so I’d have it for emergencies way back in fourth grade, Josh has acted as if it’s his right to read whatever’s on there. Like it’s a privilege he gets for being my best friend.

Josh shrugs before grabbing another dozen or so Goldfish crackers from the oversize carton we brought outside with us. As he pops them into his mouth, one falls out the pinky side of his fist and skitters across the driveway where Josh’s dog, an elderly St. Bernard mix named Buster, snarfs it up.

“Why’s Molly Cannon still texting you, anyway?” He bounces the basketball in a lazy hand-to-hand rhythm, practically begging me to jump forward and steal it. I let him keep dribbling. “Didn’t you tell her you’re not interested?”

Only Josh would think it’s that simple. “I’ve tried, but there’s no good way to reject a girl. It’s even harder when it’s a cool girl like Molly.” When Josh starts to argue, I hold up a hand to stop him. “Reading her texts doesn’t mean I’m going to screw up Senior Assassin.”

“You’d better not,” he mumbles through his mouthful of Goldfish. A few orange particles land on the basketball but bounce off as he takes a foul shot. He misses—a rarity for Josh—allowing me to nab the long rebound and sink a perfect three-pointer. He pretends not to see and snags another fistful of Goldfish. Buster follows him at a lope, hoping more crackers will fall his way.

Normally, we head inside to raid the Lindors’ pantry the minute we finish soccer practice, maybe hang out and watch ESPN or play video games in his family room while we eat, but with only a few hours before the annual Senior Assassin tournament officially begins, we want to seize every possible minute of stress-free outdoor time. Once the game’s underway at midnight, we won’t be able to walk down the street without looking over our shoulders for squirt-gun snipers.

As Josh has been pointing out ad nauseum since this year’s prize amounts were announced, there’s a two-thousand-dollar payout for the team finishing in first place. I have nearly four grand set aside from mowing lawns the last three summers, and when I get to five, my parents said they’ll accept it as payment for the four year-old Toyota my dad currently drives. They even promised to cover the insurance and repairs until I graduate college.

I’m tired of working in the neighbors’ yards while they stare at me from their swanky patios, just waiting for an opportunity to find fault with my edging technique or the height of my mower blade. And then—when I finally finish—spending another ten or fifteen minutes picking itchy grass clippings off my sunscreened, bug-sprayed arms and legs before Mom will allow me back into the house. I’m doubly tired of relying on Josh and my parents for transportation despite the fact I’ve had my license for over a year. The Toyota’s nothing fancy, but it’s reliable and I want it with such an intensity that I have a recurring dream where I’m flying down the road with the windows open and beach tunes on the radio. In the dream, I’m not irritated by the smell of freshly-mown grass. I’m actually enjoying it, the way all those people sitting on their patios in the sunshine should be instead of spending their free time nagging me.

Winning Senior Assassin isn’t only about winning money. It’s about winning my freedom.

“Whatever you’ve said to Molly, she’s not taking the hint,” Josh says, finally sinking a shot now that his mouth is empty. “The longer this goes on, the worse it’s gonna get for both of you. Maybe you need to spell it out in all caps: I AM NOT INTO YOU.”

I roll my eyes. We both know Molly isn’t the kind of girl who would handle blunt rejection well, and with good reason. Her ex, Drew, humiliated her last spring by breaking up with her the week before Junior Prom. She’d already bought a dress and everything. He’d heard via the lunchtime rumor mill that Sofia Magaro, this incredibly hot girl who moved to another school district the summer before, was dying to find someone to take her to Eastwood’s Junior Prom. Drew practically bolted from the cafeteria to text Sofia and ask her. He dumped Molly less than an hour later, between fifth and sixth period, while Molly was standing at her locker in junior hall trying to figure out whether or not she needed her dictionary for Spanish class. He left her standing in front of dozens of people with a horrified look on her face and huge tears in her eyes. He claimed the breakup was in the works for weeks, that Molly knew it was coming, and that Sofia’s long, tan legs and D-cup bra had zero to do with it. We all knew better.

Most of guys didn’t blame Drew, though. I mean, Sofia’s that gorgeous.

I didn’t say anything, but I thought it was damned cold.

Worse, Sofia accepted Drew’s invite that same afternoon, then acted like she didn’t know Drew already had a girlfriend. That’s because Sofia’s one of
those
girls. The type Molly is not. Molly volunteers for the jobs no one else wants to do, like setting up the tables at six a.m. before a bake sale or staying late to calculate the receipts from a class fundraiser while everyone else is rushing off to watch a football game or to hit Sal’s Pizza. She’ll even extend the buy-one, get-one free hour when she’s working at Cumberland Farms if you show up five minutes late for your Chill Zone fix. She’s
nice
, which is why I’ve been extra friendly to her since the Drew incident.

Unfortunately, she apparently read more into my attention than I intended, so now I’m flailing with my answers to her flirty texts. How do you let a nice girl, one you hate to see hurt, know you’re not interested in her like that? Especially when she suffered an epic breakup in the not-too-distant past?

It’d be easier if I did like Molly. Not that she’s ugly or anything; in fact, she’s well up there on the hotness scale. But that jolt you get when the right girl starts talking to you? The one that tells you kissing her would pump adrenaline through your veins harder than drilling the winning goal in the final seconds of a soccer game? Yeah, that jolt’s simply not there.

“Maybe you should ask her out and see how it goes? Can’t hurt.”

“Forget it.” I dribble in for an easy layup, then tap the ball in his direction. “I’ve known her since we were two years old and in the same Gymboree class. Nothing’s going to change between us if we go to a movie together.”

“Don’t be too sure,” he says. “Ever watch those feel-good segments at the end of the news? They’re always showing couples who grew up together and didn’t pay any attention to each other for years and years. Then one day, maybe in high school, maybe during a college break or something—bam!—they see each other in a different light and end up living happily ever after.”

“It’s news for a reason, Josh: It doesn’t happen that often. Trust me, love at one-millionth sight isn’t in the cards for me. Not with Molly.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know—”

“If you think it’s such a great idea, you should troll our elementary school photos for a girlfriend. ‘Cause you sure don’t seem that interested in any of the girls who flirt with you now.”

That shuts his trap.

I plop down in the grass behind the hoop to take a swig of my soda as Josh’s sister, Peyton, turns her silver Honda SUV into the driveway and eases it into the garage. Josh is right about one thing: I need to use my brain power to focus on the Senior Assassin tournament and not on Molly. But her texts are driving me nuts. I don’t want to reject her in a way that sticks me with a rep like Drew’s. The guy may be popular, but he’s a jerkwad.

I glance at Josh, who’s lining up on the opposite side of the driveway to take a three-point shot now that Peyton’s out of our way. “Should I ask Peyton?”

He pauses mid-shot to make bug eyes at me. “Out?”

“No, you idiot. What to do about Molly. Peyton’s pretty level-headed. She doesn’t get all emotional about girly stuff. Maybe she’ll have a good idea.” Peyton’s only a year younger than Josh and I are, so she knows a lot of the same people we do and hears all the same gossip. I wouldn’t have to explain why I need to let Molly down easy.

Josh opens his mouth to respond, but at that moment his cell phone vibrates against the front steps, where he left it when we came outside. A beat later, mine buzzes, too. He jogs to the steps, leaving the basketball to roll into the garage and under Peyton’s car. “Targets!”

Since I’m already beside my phone, I’m able to get to the e-mail faster than Josh. “Yep. Return addy is Jayne Dover.”

Jayne, Molly’s best friend, is one of the two seniors organizing the tournament. Though they aren’t allowed to enter, the organizers receive a cut of the pot for collecting fees, entering team data into a program that randomly assigns targets, and then verifying hits. It’s become so desirable to be one of the organizers that the junior class has to vote on who’ll be awarded the position the following year.

I click on the e-mail and read the names we’ve been assigned, then let out a low whistle. “The Senior Assassin gods must have heard us talking about Molly Cannon.”

“We got Molly? Who’s her partner?” He’s clicking furiously on his phone.

I shake my head. “Not Molly. Better. Would you believe Drew and Grayson?”

“Sweet!” Josh pumps his fist once he’s opened the message on his own phone. “This hit will be the stuff of legend, my friend. They’re both such egomaniacs, they’ll think they’re invincible.”

I shove out of the grass to rescue the basketball, but Peyton’s still in her car with the engine running—it looks like she’s shuffling through papers—so I leave the ball and sit on the stairs beside Josh. Now comes the fun part: we figure out how to eliminate two of the biggest jerks in the senior class and move ourselves closer to the winners’ circle at the same time.

“Drew and Grayson are aggressive,” I say. “They’ll be focused on nailing their targets instead of watching their backs. That plays right into our plans.”

Josh and I have discussed our strategy since we were freshmen, refining it each year as we’ve watched the seniors in classes ahead of us make mistakes. In round one, we plan to strike early—as soon after the midnight start time as possible—then lie low so we can avoid being eliminated ourselves before round two. Since more than half the field is knocked out in the first round every year, smart defense is critical. To that end, we’ve agreed never to be outdoors or in a public place together once the game is underway. Not only does staying separate make us tougher to hit, if one of us is shot we can call or text the other. As long as one of us stays alive at the end of each round and we eliminate both our targets, we advance.

“So we’ll hit them before school tomorrow?” Josh asks.

“Definitely. How early can you get out of the house?”

“You know my parents. They aren’t thrilled with the whole idea of Senior Assassin, but if my homework’s done and I’m not breaking any laws, they’re all for me winning the cash. So I can get out whenever you can.”

I flick a piece of grass off my calf as I think through logistics. “Drew and Grayson probably wake up anywhere from six-thirty to six-forty five so they can leave for school by seven-ten. If we want to stake out their houses, we’d need to be set by six at the very latest so they don’t see us.”

“Agreed.” Josh says. “Sucks, but it’ll be worth it.”

“Do you know if either of them park in the garage?” Under the rules of the game, you can’t eliminate a target while they’re in a car or a private home—which includes the garage—unless they’re stupid enough to invite you inside. You can’t get them on school grounds, during sports practice or games, or when they’re at work or on their way to work.

“Don’t know about Drew, but Grayson usually parks at the end of his driveway. Problem is, he’s on a wide open street in a new development. Hardly any trees or bushes for cover.”

“Maybe crawling under his car would work? Shooting him in the ankles wouldn’t be as fun, but it’d count.”