AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I picture those two gangbangers dropping to the ground in a spray of bullets and blood and broken glass. Then, I remember the horror I saw on Rain’s face the moment she realized that she was the one who’d pulled the trigger.
It’s the same look that’s on her face now.
Shit.
I reach over and give her arm a squeeze. I forgot that she’s not exactly happy about being a murderer.
Rain pretends not to notice as she places a new bandage on my upper arm, pressing the edges down with delicate fingers. Her touch makes all the other broken, hollowed-out places in me scream and beg for her attention too.
Goddamn, it hurts.
“Where’s your daddy, Lamar?” Rain asks, changing the subject away from the shooting.
“Home.” He punctuates his one-word sentence by spitting a wad of phlegm on the ground.
“He still alive?” Rain asks, trying to sound nonchalant, but I can hear her swallow that lump in her throat from here.
“I fuckin’ hope not,” Lamar grumbles.
She tucks her chin to her chest and begins shoving everything back into her backpack, probably to hide the fact that her hands are shaking.
Lamar opens his mouth like he’s about to ask her about her own piece-of-shit dad, but then he shoots to his feet and sucks a deep breath in through his nose. “Y’all smell that?”
“Smell wha—” I inhale and can practically taste scrambled eggs on my tongue. “Holy shit.”
“Breakfast time, bitches!” Lamar slaps the filthy counter and heads out the door.
I guess the only thing that can pull him away from his big brother is the promise of food that doesn’t come out of a can. Typical teenage boy.
“What about Quint?” Rain asks, her eyes shifting from the open doorway over to me.
“He’s not going anywhere.” I sigh, tossing the protein bars back into Rain’s backpack. “Come on. Let’s go see what your boyfriend made you for breakfast.”
Rain
Neither of us speaks as we walk through the atrium, following the smell of food.
I try to be tough, like Wes. I stand tall, take long steps to match his, but everything I look at reminds me of her. The escalators I used to beg Mama to let me ride over and over are just metal stairs now. The glass elevator with the big, glowing buttons I loved to press is stuck on the bottom floor—its only passengers a few Burger Palace wrappers and a plastic chair. The three-tier fountain that Mama and I used to throw pennies into is now full of weeds and baby pine trees. And, instead of Christmas music, all I hear is broken tiles clattering under our boots and the sound of voices coming from the direction of the food court.
Everything hurts. My eyes burn. My chest aches. My family is gone. The world I knew is gone. And all I want to do is curl up in that plastic chair in that broken elevator and cry myself to death.
But I know Wes won’t let me, so I keep going. I keep trying to breathe. I keep trying to remember what was on my survival to-do list. But mostly, I keep trying to figure out what I can do to get Wes back. My Wes. Not this detached tough-guy version.
As we pass through the atrium and approach the food court, I wish the walk had been longer. I’m not ready for this.
There are people everywhere. I was expecting Carter and his family and maybe a few other stragglers who had made their way here after getting stopped by the wreck, but this is at least twenty people, talking and laughing and sitting at tables that have been clustered into small groups. The left and right sides of the food court are lined with fast-food counters. The back wall has an exit that’s been barricaded shut with tables. The merry-go-round in the corner is still there, but it’s tilted to one side and blanketed in cobwebs. And in the center, Carter’s dad is standing next to a flaming barrel with a metal grate on top, cooking something in a cast iron skillet.
“Mr. Renshaw!” I cry, bounding over to the human teddy bear.
Carter’s dad looks like a lumberjack Santa Claus—all beard and belly—and he always gives the best hugs.
His face lights up when he sees me, which is half a second before I tackle him and burst into tears.
“Come on now …” He chuckles, his deep voice vibrating against my cheek. “I ain’t that ugly, am I?”
“Rainbow? Oh my goodness, child.” Mrs. Renshaw’s voice is husky and warm as she walks up and smooths her hand over my shorter hair.
She’s tall and heavyset, like Carter’s dad, but that’s where their similarities end. Mrs. Renshaw is a no-nonsense black woman who was an assistant principal at our school before the world fell apart. She used to have a sleek, shoulder-length bob, like a TV reporter, but now her hair is cropped in a super-short Afro, probably due to the lack of hair salons in the Pritchard Park Mall.
