Read Online Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl by Carolita Blythe - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolita Blythe
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broom closet, I’m not too confident. Even if I could surprise him and maybe get a whack at him or something, the way my hands are shaking, I’m not so sure I’d do him any harm.
I shut my eyes and make a promise to God that if he lets me live, I will try my best to be a better person. I won’t say things under my breath to Mama, and I’ll even try not to wish I had a different mother altogether. If he lets me live, I will figure something out to make up for what I did to that old woman. I don’t know what, but something.
I’ve never been so scared. I open my eyes and try not to breathe, but that only lasts about thirty seconds. I wonder how long the greatest breath holder in the world could hold his breath. Probably should have paid attention in science class that day. I think Mr. Glenn said the human brain can go without oxygen for four minutes. Something like that. But suppose the robber takes longer than four minutes to leave the apartment? I wouldn’t want to pass out with him still in the house and then fall out of the closet right in front of him. But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I’d probably scare him half to death, and maybe he’d drop his gun or knife or shogun sword or whatever weapon he had and just run on out.
The sound of the wooden beads that hang from the living room doorway knocking together snaps me out of my thoughts. It’s not loud enough for him to have walked through them, but it’s loud enough for him to have brushed past. And the living room is almost directly across from the kitchen. And now my breath won’t come the way it should, and I realize my inhaler is in my schoolbag and my schoolbag is on the kitchen counter. I don’t have really bad asthma, so I hardly ever have to use it, but every now and then, I’ll have an episode. And this situation definitely qualifies asone of those every-now-and-thens. But if this robber is standing where I think he is, he has full view of the kitchen. And if he has full view of the kitchen, I’m sure he can see my bag. Oh man.
With my winter coat and knit hat on, and with the radiators humming with steam, I’m starting to get overheated. I can feel a bead of sweat drip into my left eye. And another. But the broom closet is so narrow I just barely fit into it, so I don’t dare try and take the coat off. I don’t dare move an inch. And I’m wondering if this was how that old lady felt when we were in her home. Was her heart beating the way mine is now? Did everything she had ever done in her life come rushing forward,
Speed Racer
fast? Every good thing? Every bad thing?
And so I try to go to my calm place. I try to think of Michael Jackson again and the words to “Billie Jean,” but all that comes to mind are the ones to “Thriller.”
It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark.…
Man, that’s not the right song for this moment. I have to force myself to stop thinking. And suddenly, there are another three or four footsteps, and they sound as if they’re close to the doorway to the kitchen. They stop. Again. And I grasp the knife handle even tighter. Maybe he’s coming to steal my schoolbag, or to check all the cupboards to see if anyone is hiding in there. So I try to be as still as possible. And I wait.
Silence. The longer this goes on, the harder it is for me to control my shaking. And I begin to wonder if he can hear my knees knocking.
There’s the sound of movement again, but this time, the steps seem to be getting farther away. I wait for the sound of a door slam, but it never comes. And then that unnerving silence returns. I try to count to twenty, try to will my lungs lighter, but between the heat and the sweat and the fear and the narrow closet, I freak out and barrel through the door.
I start running, not remembering to grab my schoolbag or my inhaler. I run past Mama’s ransacked room. I brush against the wooden beads that hang from the living room doorway. I don’t look in the
I shut my eyes and make a promise to God that if he lets me live, I will try my best to be a better person. I won’t say things under my breath to Mama, and I’ll even try not to wish I had a different mother altogether. If he lets me live, I will figure something out to make up for what I did to that old woman. I don’t know what, but something.
I’ve never been so scared. I open my eyes and try not to breathe, but that only lasts about thirty seconds. I wonder how long the greatest breath holder in the world could hold his breath. Probably should have paid attention in science class that day. I think Mr. Glenn said the human brain can go without oxygen for four minutes. Something like that. But suppose the robber takes longer than four minutes to leave the apartment? I wouldn’t want to pass out with him still in the house and then fall out of the closet right in front of him. But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I’d probably scare him half to death, and maybe he’d drop his gun or knife or shogun sword or whatever weapon he had and just run on out.
The sound of the wooden beads that hang from the living room doorway knocking together snaps me out of my thoughts. It’s not loud enough for him to have walked through them, but it’s loud enough for him to have brushed past. And the living room is almost directly across from the kitchen. And now my breath won’t come the way it should, and I realize my inhaler is in my schoolbag and my schoolbag is on the kitchen counter. I don’t have really bad asthma, so I hardly ever have to use it, but every now and then, I’ll have an episode. And this situation definitely qualifies asone of those every-now-and-thens. But if this robber is standing where I think he is, he has full view of the kitchen. And if he has full view of the kitchen, I’m sure he can see my bag. Oh man.
With my winter coat and knit hat on, and with the radiators humming with steam, I’m starting to get overheated. I can feel a bead of sweat drip into my left eye. And another. But the broom closet is so narrow I just barely fit into it, so I don’t dare try and take the coat off. I don’t dare move an inch. And I’m wondering if this was how that old lady felt when we were in her home. Was her heart beating the way mine is now? Did everything she had ever done in her life come rushing forward,
Speed Racer
fast? Every good thing? Every bad thing?
And so I try to go to my calm place. I try to think of Michael Jackson again and the words to “Billie Jean,” but all that comes to mind are the ones to “Thriller.”
It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark.…
Man, that’s not the right song for this moment. I have to force myself to stop thinking. And suddenly, there are another three or four footsteps, and they sound as if they’re close to the doorway to the kitchen. They stop. Again. And I grasp the knife handle even tighter. Maybe he’s coming to steal my schoolbag, or to check all the cupboards to see if anyone is hiding in there. So I try to be as still as possible. And I wait.
Silence. The longer this goes on, the harder it is for me to control my shaking. And I begin to wonder if he can hear my knees knocking.
There’s the sound of movement again, but this time, the steps seem to be getting farther away. I wait for the sound of a door slam, but it never comes. And then that unnerving silence returns. I try to count to twenty, try to will my lungs lighter, but between the heat and the sweat and the fear and the narrow closet, I freak out and barrel through the door.
I start running, not remembering to grab my schoolbag or my inhaler. I run past Mama’s ransacked room. I brush against the wooden beads that hang from the living room doorway. I don’t look in the
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