Page 14 of The Intruder

I said the right thing, because Anton’s friends bust out laughing, and his face turns all pink. It seems like the perfect moment to make my exit, so I push past him to that empty table. Anton keeps staring in my direction, and for a moment, I’m sure he’s going to follow me and keep tormenting me, but then he just drops back into his seat. I pissed him off good, but I don’t care.

I’ve been eating alone for as long as I can remember. Well, when I was younger, I used to have friends, like maybe in second or third grade, but not anymore. Other kids don’t like me. And anyway, it’s better if I don’t have friends, because if I did, they might want to come to my house.

My lunch today is a turkey sandwich. Putting it together wasn’t as easy as you would think. We’ve got a lot of bread—in fact, an entire counter in the kitchen is brimming with loaves—but they are all pretty stale. I’d like to throw some of them away, but my mom would lose it. She says we aren’t rich enough to be throwing food away. The rule in our house is that unless food is making dangerous gas that causes the plastic to puff out, it’s still A-OK to eat.

The bread is stale and the turkey tastes a little funny too, but none of them were puffy, so I guess I’m eating it.

Brittany Carter and her friends are at the next table over. I didn’t even notice them over there. Brittany is eating a school lunch, which is hot dogs and beans today. The hot dogs smell really good. I wish there were a way I could have that instead of this yucky turkey sandwich.

Brittany leans in and whispers something to one of her friends. The friend does a quarter turn with her head, looking back at me, then quickly turns back to Brittany. Then the two of them start giggling hysterically.

I wonder if they’re laughing at me. Maybe they’re calling me Smella.

Well, whatever. As long as they’re not saying it to my face.

So I don’t feel like as much of a loser staring into space, I pull out the essay I got back in English class. I got a D on it, which isn’t surprising considering I wrote it while lying on my bed, which is half covered in crap. It’s definitely not a masterpiece—more like a disasterpiece. Not that I would have gotten an A if I had my desk, but maybe a more respectable C.

Mrs. Hecker told me she would give me extra points if I corrected the problems with my essay, and I’d do it, except what are the problems with it? She didn’t say. If I knew what was wrong with it, wouldn’t I have done it correctly the first time? So now I’m sitting here, ignoring the giggles behind me, trying to figure out what is wrong with my work and fix it somehow.

I put down my essay on the table and look over at Brittany again. I happened to notice that she got an A-plus on her essay. Not just an A, but an A-plus. That’s just showing off, seriously. Then again, her dad is some kind of professor at the local university, and I bet even if he doesn’t help her, she’s probably inherited his genius intelligence. I might not know who my dad is, but I’m fairly sure he’s not a genius.

Sometimes I fantasize about my father. My mom won’t tell me anything about who he was, but I definitely have one. I got an A-minus in life sciences last year, so I know for a fact that every person in the world has to have a mother and a father in order to, like, exist. So that means no matter what my mother says, I have a father.

I imagine he has reddish-brown hair like I do. And he has a nice job, like working in a bank. Maybe he’s the guy who gives you money when you make a withdrawal without using the machine. I also imagine him having a mustache, although I’m not sure why.

He probably doesn’t even know I exist. My mother never told him she was pregnant, and he doesn’t even know he’s got a daughter. I imagine finding him one day and telling him who I am and watching a smile spread across his face. Then he would ask me if I wanted to live with him, and I would say yes—definitely yes.

If only I knew who my father was. My life could be completely different.

11

NOW

CASEY

According to the radio, winds are now gusting at thirty miles per hour, so I need to dress properly if I’m leaving the house.

I tug on my waterproof jacket as well as my boots. These are not the girlie boots from DSW that I used to wear back when I was living in an apartment and gainfully employed; these are heavy galoshes that I can use to walk all the way to the shed without my feet getting waterlogged. I consider bringing an umbrella, but I have a feeling that it will instantly be turned inside out and perhaps fly away the second I leave my cabin. Between my coat and my boots, I should be able to stay…well, not dry, but maybe slightly less than drenched.

And there’s one more thing I want to bring.

I enter my small bedroom, where the covers are neatly tucked under the mattress. Every morning, I make my bed as if I’m expecting company at my remote cabin in the woods. However, right now, I’m much more interested in the contents of my dresser. I open the top drawer and sift through the folded shirts inside until my fingers close around the cold metal object underneath the stack.

It’s a gun.

It’s a Glock G43X, which the person in the store informed me is the most popular gun on the planet right now. It’s lightweight and compact, fitting easily in my coat pocket. When I moved out to the middle of nowhere, I figured I needed either a gun or a dog. I didn’t feel like I was up for taking care of a dog, so I bought the Glock.

I know how to shoot. My father taught me. When I was a teenager, he said to me, A girl’s got to know how to shoot. Then he drove me to a firing range so we could practice with his rifle.

The first time I held the gun in my hand, I was shaking like a leaf. I didn’t hit the red bull’s-eye. I missed the target completely. But my father was patient about it. He explained about the proper stance, keeping my grip high and tight, and lining up my sights. After going to the firing range for a few months, I was able to hit that red bull’s-eye every time.

I thought once I got good at shooting, he’d take me hunting. But my father was never interested in hunting.

Now, so many years later, those years of training have come in handy. If there were an intruder on my property, I would be able to defend myself, thanks to what my father taught me. If I’m going to investigate, I feel secure having it in my pocket.

And now I’m ready to go.

The wind has picked up considerable strength. The trees are shaking, and I hear the wind whistling as it passes through the cracks in the window frame. I just have to hope it’s not strong enough to blow me away.