sick to my stomach, with a pounding headache forming at my temples. But traumatized? What did that feel like?
“Sorry, ma’am,” the officer said, though he didn’t sound sorry. “But we need a complete statement before any of the details are lost.”
“I only saw him from the side,” I said. “He was wearing—it was a baseball cap, Cincinnati Reds.”
“Race, hair color, eye color, height?” the officer with the notebook pressed, tapping his pencil obscenely loud on the plastic spiral.
“He was white. Brown hair, I think. He was tall….” I shook my head and stared at my hands again. They were shaking. “He was really strung out. High on something. He was shaking, and his pupils were—y’know?” I made a gesture with my hands that the policeman seemed to understand.
“Had you seen him before?”
“Yes.”
The word came out before I’d even processed the question. I had seen him before. There was a certain familiarity, even recalling him, that I knew the man with the gun. I closed my eyes, tried to place him. He was too old to be a classmate. He didn’t work at the school. He didn’t work at the drugstore.
“Where?”
“I don’t know ,” I groaned, still running through possibilities. He wasn’t one of Mom’s defendants. He didn’t volunteer at any of my initiatives. “But I think I know him.”
“Was he hanging around outside before you went into the diner?” the other officer piped up, glancing at my mother as though to make sure he was allowed to speak. She inclined her head slightly.
“No, there wasn’t anyone outside.” I began picking at my fingernails, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. My nail polish was chipped on the tips. I really should have gone for that third coat of polish. “But I know that I know him from somewhere .”
“From school? A classmate?” The officer with the notebook stopped tapping his pencil.
“No, he was too old. In his twenties, I think. I don’t know .” I wanted to pull on my hair or rub at my face, but the image of blood on my hands was too strong. I didn’t want to spread it anywhere. “I don’t know if I know him. It’s just a feeling. He was familiar .”
In any other situation, I would have had the opportunity to carefully examine his face. I would have time to imagine a name passing through his lips during introductions, whether it was weeks or months or years since we’d last met. I would have whizzed through yearbook pictures, mug shots, volunteer timetables, work uniforms in my head until something sparked the recognition and I would say, “Oh, you’re so-and-so!” He would smile, tilt his hat and say, “Wow, you’ve got a great memory,” and I would know his voice and face and be able to reconcile them with our previous encounters.
Instead, I was trying to grind uncooperative gears in my head, left with only a face in profile and a baseball cap to help guide me. “It’s so close, but I just can’t remember,” I sighed, looking back at the police officers and biting my lower lip. “I’m sorry. It happened so fast. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“And thank God you didn’t,” my mother said, a line I would have expected from my father. He clutched me a little closer, refusing to end the side-hug. “If you had, you might’ve have been killed too.”
Too. As well. Also.
My friends were dead on what was supposed to be one of the best nights of our lives. We had three days until we were supposed to walk across a gaudily decorated stage and receive our high school diplomas. Jessa, Kate, and Ricky would never get to do that now.
June 21st
M Y BIOLOGY class was the last group to be ushered from our desks to the auditorium for the graduation rehearsal. We were marched through the school in a rather disorderly fashion and I felt more like a sheep being herded than a valedictorian, but the little gold sticker they would add to my diploma said otherwise.
I joined the throng of confused future
“Sorry, ma’am,” the officer said, though he didn’t sound sorry. “But we need a complete statement before any of the details are lost.”
“I only saw him from the side,” I said. “He was wearing—it was a baseball cap, Cincinnati Reds.”
“Race, hair color, eye color, height?” the officer with the notebook pressed, tapping his pencil obscenely loud on the plastic spiral.
“He was white. Brown hair, I think. He was tall….” I shook my head and stared at my hands again. They were shaking. “He was really strung out. High on something. He was shaking, and his pupils were—y’know?” I made a gesture with my hands that the policeman seemed to understand.
“Had you seen him before?”
“Yes.”
The word came out before I’d even processed the question. I had seen him before. There was a certain familiarity, even recalling him, that I knew the man with the gun. I closed my eyes, tried to place him. He was too old to be a classmate. He didn’t work at the school. He didn’t work at the drugstore.
“Where?”
“I don’t know ,” I groaned, still running through possibilities. He wasn’t one of Mom’s defendants. He didn’t volunteer at any of my initiatives. “But I think I know him.”
“Was he hanging around outside before you went into the diner?” the other officer piped up, glancing at my mother as though to make sure he was allowed to speak. She inclined her head slightly.
“No, there wasn’t anyone outside.” I began picking at my fingernails, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. My nail polish was chipped on the tips. I really should have gone for that third coat of polish. “But I know that I know him from somewhere .”
“From school? A classmate?” The officer with the notebook stopped tapping his pencil.
“No, he was too old. In his twenties, I think. I don’t know .” I wanted to pull on my hair or rub at my face, but the image of blood on my hands was too strong. I didn’t want to spread it anywhere. “I don’t know if I know him. It’s just a feeling. He was familiar .”
In any other situation, I would have had the opportunity to carefully examine his face. I would have time to imagine a name passing through his lips during introductions, whether it was weeks or months or years since we’d last met. I would have whizzed through yearbook pictures, mug shots, volunteer timetables, work uniforms in my head until something sparked the recognition and I would say, “Oh, you’re so-and-so!” He would smile, tilt his hat and say, “Wow, you’ve got a great memory,” and I would know his voice and face and be able to reconcile them with our previous encounters.
Instead, I was trying to grind uncooperative gears in my head, left with only a face in profile and a baseball cap to help guide me. “It’s so close, but I just can’t remember,” I sighed, looking back at the police officers and biting my lower lip. “I’m sorry. It happened so fast. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“And thank God you didn’t,” my mother said, a line I would have expected from my father. He clutched me a little closer, refusing to end the side-hug. “If you had, you might’ve have been killed too.”
Too. As well. Also.
My friends were dead on what was supposed to be one of the best nights of our lives. We had three days until we were supposed to walk across a gaudily decorated stage and receive our high school diplomas. Jessa, Kate, and Ricky would never get to do that now.
June 21st
M Y BIOLOGY class was the last group to be ushered from our desks to the auditorium for the graduation rehearsal. We were marched through the school in a rather disorderly fashion and I felt more like a sheep being herded than a valedictorian, but the little gold sticker they would add to my diploma said otherwise.
I joined the throng of confused future
Similar Books
