Forty-five
Cake splattered the ground. A tart smeared into Jolie’s hair. Veins in his neck bulged. Sweat dripped down his face and mixed with the frosting stuck in every crevice. With one swoop, he grabbed a hunk of cake from the ground. Two seconds later, warm cake hit my eye. I gasped and wiped it off. Huffing and puffing, he took a step toward me but slipped in the confectionary delight. With a flutter of his arms, he fought gravity and lost, landing on his rump.
I hated the guy and the evil part of me surged forward and wanted to let him get killed. Aimee’s smile flashed in my eyes. And her laugh. I caught sight of dark hair. Malcolm. Use the revolver, the tiny voice commanded again. With my hand shaking, I reached toward my back and curled my fingers around the part sticking out. I couldn’t think about right or wrong.
Jolie spluttered and gasped, wiping frosting from his eyes. Three of the men in tuxedos pushed me aside and rushed to their boss. Two dragged my dad away toward the exit. I’d lost sight of Malcolm and the mime. But they were there. Possibly taking aim.
Shoot the revolver. Cause a distraction.
I pulled out the gun and aimed at Jolie. Maybe just shoot him in the knee. But what if I missed? Or hit someone else? My hands shook. Frosting made my fingers slippery. With a small sob, I let go. The revolver clattered to the stones and I kicked it under a table. But I still had to save him.
I grabbed an apple tart, somehow untouched in the chaos. With a battle cry, I leaped at Jolie and landed right on top of him. My knees landed on his stomach. I smashed the tart smack dab in the middle of his face. As I bent down to whisper in his ear, a shot rang out.
Everyone screamed and dropped to the ground. The bodies blurred around me, piling up like it was a mass murder. I couldn’t tell if I was screaming or not. My throat hurt. Frosting and tears stung my eyes. A sob poured out of me. It wasn’t me. I didn’t shoot it. Jolie shoved me off of him, and I landed on the cobblestones. My leg throbbed as if a thousand pastry knives were jabbing into it over and over again.
I crawled away from the scene, dragging my leg behind me because it refused to cooperate. I dug my elbows into the grit and pulled forward, my knees scraping the stones. I needed to get away, find my dad. That was it. He’d whisk me back to Pennsylvania and put me back together. He’d take care of my cuts and bruises, and then we’d play Chess. Or talk about how we’d work together to get Mom to come back.
“Dad!” I sobbed.
He had to be here. Not too far away. Just up ahead. The crowd ignored me. They focused on their beloved idol and their own safety. Most people made a mass exit toward the main streets. They hurdled over me and on me. Feet trampled, landing on my back, my head, my arms. My nose smashed into the ground. No one stopped to help. No one bothered. No one cared.
I struggled to get to my feet. Someone brushed into me. I collapsed to the ground and crept forward, painful inch by painful inch. The spots returned and my breath came out in gasps at the fire shooting through my leg. I shivered even as the sun beat down on me. I shouldn’t be here. I never should have been. I should have stayed in Pennsylvania.
I stopped moving and rested my cheek to the warm stone. I smelled dirt. I remembered gardening with Dad as he pointed out which leaves were weeds and which were the herbs. A raspy noise gurgled from my throat. I didn’t recognize it. My shoulders shook. Arms hooked under my shoulder and rolled me over. The face was fuzzy but I saw Dad’s dark hair. His face was blurred.
“Dad!” I sobbed. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you everything.”
My leg burned. I jerked away. But he held me tight and wrapped something around my leg.
“I’m sorry but this is going to hurt.” He put his arms underneath me and scooped me off the ground. Away from the crowds and the jabbing feet.
Dizziness and nausea rushed over me, and I cried.
“Shh. You’ll be fine.”
Through the pain, my mind locked in on his voice. It wasn’t Dad.