Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  He started to back up, as did Cargo Shorts, but to Hanna’s horror, Robbie refused to move.

  “Last chance.”

  Robbie held the new girl’s stare for a couple of seconds longer before finally releasing his grip on Hanna’s arm.

  Hanna gasped and immediately started toward the girl.

  “And drop the bag,” the girl with the gun ordered.

  Hanna’s bag and her credit cards fell to the sidewalk as the boys finally turned and started to run.

  “Thank you,” she sobbed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  It was all Hanna could do to stop herself from jumping into her savior’s arms like the little girl that she was.

  Chapter 30

  “Are you hurt?” the girl asked.

  Hanna sniffed and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Then she looked down at herself. She was likely to get a bruise from where her arm had been squeezed, and she felt exposed, but other than that, she was fine.

  “No,” Hanna admitted.

  “Good.”

  Realizing that she had traded a boy with a knife for a girl with a gun, Hanna took a step backward. Her legs were weak, however, and she wobbled.

  “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Trying to get a read on her savior, Hanna stared at the girl’s face. She was pretty, with petite features and a smallish frame that was disguised, perhaps purposefully, in the bulky sweatshirt.

  “Thank you,” Hanna repeated as she started to collect her belongings off the road where the boys had dropped them. Her eyes drifted down to the gun in the girl’s hand and for some reason felt the need to state the obvious. “You—you have a gun.”

  She’d never seen a gun before, at least not in real life.

  The girl grinned.

  “This ol’ thing?” she asked, raising the pistol.

  Hanna cowered and held her backpack out in front of her face.

  “Just take it—just take it!”

  When Hanna heard nothing for several seconds, she looked through the arm loop of the backpack.

  “I don’t want your bag,” the girl said, her voice suddenly hard. Hanna watched as she adjusted her aim and then her finger tensed on the trigger.

  Hanna screamed and she closed her eyes. She felt warm wetness on her skin, but it wasn’t coming from her chest where the girl had pointed the pistol. Instead, it was between her legs.

  I’m dead, she thought. I was killed by the girl who saved me.

  The girl laughed.

  “Get up. It’s not real.”

  Hanna opened her eyes and patted her body. She couldn’t find any bullet holes. Nor could she see smoke coming from the end of the barrel.

  “W-w-what?” she whimpered.

  “It’s just a cap gun,” the girl informed her, now sounding bored.

  Hanna could barely breathe.

  A cap gun?

  As if she’d voiced this question out loud, the girl strode forward and held the gun closer for Hanna to inspect, thankfully with the barrel pointed away this time.

  “See? All toy guns have an orange rim around the barrel so that some jacked-up cop doesn’t shoot a six-year-old who’s just fucking around. All it takes is a little bit of black nail polish and ain’t nobody gonna know the difference.”

  Hanna was trembling.

  “Take it,” the girl urged. “Here, just take it.”

  Hanna shook her head. She didn’t want to have anything to do with this gun, toy or not.

  “Come on, just take it.”

  Thinking that this girl wouldn’t leave her alone unless she did as she asked, Hanna reached up. The gun that was thrust into her palm was clearly plastic.

  Hanna wasn’t sure if she was relieved or appalled.

  “But… but… but what if they’d come at you with the knife?” Hanna asked as she turned the gun over in her hand. She raised her eyes and looked at the girl’s face.

  “Then I’d deal with it, that’s what I do,” she replied with a grin.

  “What? What do you mean? If they’d—”

  “I’d deal with it. Besides, guys like that… guys like that just want to scare a girl. They’re the type that goes to the pharmacy and makes a scene about buying XL condoms that wouldn’t even fit their fist, let alone pecker. They weren’t going to do nothin’.”

  Hanna contemplated this for a moment.

  She felt that this was true of Cargo Shorts and Muscle Shirt, but there was something different about Robbie, the boy with the knife. His eyes were dark, dull. Even when the gun had been pointed at them, his expression hadn’t changed.

  “Here,” Hanna said suddenly, holding the gun out.

  The girl waved her hand dismissively.

  “Naw, you keep it. This place…” she gestured around them, “…well, you might need a little protection.”

  “I’m not coming back here to this shit—” Hanna stopped yourself, but it was too late.

  “Shit hole?” the girl chuckled. “Yeah, it’s a shit hole.”

  Hanna looked down.

  “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” There was no disdain in her voice, she was simply stating a fact. “I could tell by your fancy clothes and designer backpack. If you do come back to this shit hole, however, I suggest leaving those at home.”

  Hanna frowned. She was wearing dark jeans, a now torn white T-shirt, and high-tops. Even her backpack was just run-of-the-mill generic.

  “None of this is designer,” Hanna said, and then immediately felt stupid.

  “Fine, whatever. Listen, there’s a bus stop at the end of the street. Won’t come for another hour or two, but I can wait with you if you want.”

  Hanna felt uneasy in the girl’s presence but the prospect of dealing with those boys—with Robbie—again tonight, or ever, greatly outweighed her discomfort.

  “Thanks,” she said. Hanna jammed the fake gun into her backpack and was about to zip it up before changing her mind. She discreetly removed two twenties from her wallet and then raised them for the girl to see.

  “Here,” she said. “These are for you.”

  The girl eyed the bills.

  “For what?”

  “A present. A present for saving me.”

  The girl looked at the money, then Hanna, and then the money again.

  “I’m not gonna take money for saving you from those fucking creeps,” she said defiantly.

  “Fine, then—then—then this is for the gun. I’m buying the gun off you.”

  “It’s a dollar store piece of—”

  “Just take the money, please,” Hanna begged. If there was one lesson from her mother that she’d taken to heart, it was this: never owe anybody anything. No matter how small the favor, make sure you offer them something in return.

  The girl didn’t need to be told a third time; she grabbed the cash and shoved it into her pocket without so much as a thank you. They walked in silence to the bus stop, which was thankfully situated directly beneath a streetlamp that actually worked.

  “My name’s Hanna,” she blurted after they had both taken a seat on the small bench littered with cigarette burns.

  “I know,” the girl replied. “I heard.”

  “What’s your name?”

  The girl kicked an empty bottle across the sidewalk.

  “Robin,” she replied tentatively, as if ashamed by her own name. “Just call me Robin.”

  Chapter 31

  “Hanna, what did you do to your shirt?”

  Hanna looked up from her bowl of cereal and stared at her mother. The woman’s red lips were twisted in a sneer.

  “What?”

  “Your shirt, Hanna. Is this some new sort of style?”

  Hanna was too tired to follow along.

  “Style? Mom, what are you talking about?”

  Lucy Whitmore rolled her eyes, and she went back to pouring her coffee.

  “I’m not going to spend good money on clothing for you if
you’re just going to cut it up. There’s no way—Hanna? Hanna? You listen when I speak to you.”

  Hanna was too busy inspecting her shirt to pay any attention to her mother. While waiting for the bus, Robin had graciously removed one of the thick safety pins from her torn jeans and used it to keep the two halves of her sleeve together.

  “Hanna!”

  She finally looked up and was unsurprised by her mother’s grim expression.

  “I like it,” Hanna said flatly.

  “Well, I don’t. Change it and put some make-up on, you look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.” There was a snap to the woman’s tone that suggested there was no room for negotiation.

  I didn’t sleep, ma. I was nearly raped and stabbed and shot and who knows what else. All because of you.

  “Change your shirt, Hanna.”

  Hanna’s eyes went from her mother to her father, the latter seated at the far end of the table with a newspaper covering his face.

  Can’t even look at me, can you, dad?

  “I don’t need you to be my parrot, Dave.”

  The newspaper ruffled, but the man behind it said nothing.

  Hanna held her mother’s stare for as long as she dared. Then she shoved the bowl of cereal away from her and stood.

  “Fine, I’ll change my shirt.”

  As she stormed off, Lucy Whitmore’s words followed her.

  “Keep it up, Hanna, and I’ll ground you for more than just this weekend. Try me.”

  Hanna hesitated at the landing, her hand gripping the wooden newel post at the bottom of the stairs.

  Grounded… there she goes again, treating me like I’m just a child. A fucking baby. Who gets grounded at sixteen?

  Hanna took two steps and then stopped again.

  No!

  She had completely forgotten about this weekend.

  “Mom, it’s Brett’s birthday this weekend. He’s turning sixteen. Can I please—”

  Lucy Whitmore’s response was immediate and unforgiving.

  “You’re grounded, Hanna. You’re grounded because of that stunt you pulled yesterday.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You should have thought about that before you acted up. And, besides, you know the rules. No parties.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t care if it’s his fortieth birthday. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Hanna growled and gripped the banister so tightly that her fingers turned white.

  She can’t do this. She can’t fucking do this. This is my one chance to make up for what happened with Nancy. It’s my only chance.

  “I’m—I’m sorry, mom,” Hanna said in a voice just loud enough for her mother to hear.

  “I bet you are,” Lucy hollered from the kitchen. “But you’re still not going to any party. Now hurry up and get changed, you’re going to be late for school.”

  “Bitch,” Hanna swore.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, then, under her breath, added, “but I’m going to that party, mom. You bet your ass I’m going.”

  ***

  “There’s money on the counter for pizza, but on Saturday you’re on your own. Make a salad or something.”

  Hanna’s eyes drifted from her mother to the two twenty-dollar bills on the counter.

  “Your father and I will back on Sunday evening. If you have any problems, call Mrs. Alvez—her number is on the counter.”

  Hanna pursed her lips and observed her parents.

  They were heading away on another of her father’s business meetings for the second time this month. Hanna wasn’t entirely sure what her father did for work—something in finance, and something incredibly boring—but she didn’t think that whatever it was operated on the weekend.

  Swingers… I bet they’re part of some swingers’ club for old people.

  She shuddered at the thought.

  “And no party,” Lucy said, wagging her finger in Hanna’s direction. “If I find out you went to Brett’s birthday, I swear, what happened with Mrs. Culligan will pale in comparison to what I do this time. I’ll call every—”

  “Luce, we gotta go,” David Whitmore said. He checked his watch for effect.

  “No party,” Lucy repeated.

  “No party,” Hanna confirmed, her lips pursed so tightly now that she could barely get the words out.

  “Love you, hon, see you in a few days,” her father said. For a moment, it looked like he was going to lean in and kiss her on the forehead, but when Hanna pulled back, he changed his mind. Instead, the man with the clean-shaven face and deep lines flanking hazel eyes tipped his cap like some old-timey servant paying homage to his master.

  Only Hanna wasn’t the one in charge and neither was he.

  Lucy Whitmore was the one with all the power, the one who made Hanna’s life miserable.

  David was just the lackey who let it all happen, just a simple Nazi grunt following Hitler’s orders.

  “Bye,” Hanna said with a snarl as she watched her mother and father make their way down the steps toward the waiting cab. “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

  Chapter 32

  Hanna paid the pizza guy the forty bucks even though the total only came to less than twenty. He offered change, but she told him to keep it. Her mom never tipped pizza delivery boys, other than to say that they should stay in school.

  Condescending cunt.

  She was excited about the newest X-Files episode but sitting alone on the couch chewing on a slice of overly salty pepperoni pizza, Hanna couldn’t get through the opening scene without her mind wandering. Sure, she was pissed at her mother, but she was also thinking about the party.

  Everyone was going to be at Brett’s, which was the allure as well as the problem. If her mom ever found out she’d gone, Lucy Whitmore would stay true to her word, only this time she wouldn’t just call every single parent from Hanna’s grade but the whole goddamn school. And if Hanna thought the Culligan fallout had been bad, this would be worse.

  Much worse.

  But then again, like her own, Brett’s parents were out of town and he’d managed to convince his brother to get him a keg.

  How would Lucy ever find out?

  The X-Files episode came to a close without Hanna taking note of anything that had happened. Mulder and Scully could have made out on screen and she wouldn’t even have batted an eye.

  Everyone is going to be there…

  If she didn’t go, however, then her position as a narc would be entrenched and she would never get another invite again.

  But if she attended and nothing happened, if nobody found out about the party, Hanna could see her reputation start to make a comeback.

  With a sigh, she switched off the TV and threw the rest of the pizza—she’d only had a slice and a half—in the fridge. Then she made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

  “I can’t go,” she said to herself even as she rooted through her drawers for something to wear.

  Typically a T-shirt and jeans kind of girl, for some reason, Hanna found herself digging beneath her stacks of denim for something a little more… special.

  And she found it. A floral skirt that, despite coming nearly to her knee, her mother had told her was far too short to wear in public. Lucy had demanded she return it, but Hanna hadn’t. She’d kept it.

  For tonight.

  Hanna slipped it on and turned sideways inspecting her figure in the mirror.

  Her legs had always been her best feature—tanned and lean from years of playing soccer and sitting out in the sun.

  “Not too bad, Hanna.”

  Finding a shirt proved more problematic. Unfortunately, like her legs, her chest was also long and lean. None of the shirts she tried on either matched the skirt or complimented her body. Frustrated, she balled each one of them—from low cut V-necks to puffy blouses—and threw them into a pile on the bed.

  Maybe I should go just in a sports bra.
r />   Hanna pushed her breasts upward, trying to achieve some semblance of cleavage. Then she frowned.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go at all.

  Hanna kicked a pair of jeans across her room uncovering a T-shirt that had been buried beneath. It was the one that Robbie had sliced, and Robin had repaired.

  Robbie and Robin…

  Without thinking, Hanna had picked up the shirt and thrown it over her head.

  This time when she looked in the mirror, she liked what she saw. The T-shirt looked trendy and was a good contrast to the more upscale skirt.

  There was still the matter of the dark circles beneath her eyes, which hadn’t quite recovered yet from her little soiree earlier in the week, but foundation took care of that. A little red on her lips further gave the impression that she was well-rested.

  Hanna brushed her medium-length blonde hair straight and even though it fought every brush swipe, she came out on top.

  And the results were more than satisfactory.

  The only good thing her mother had given her was her looks.

  But you’re still not going to that party, Hanna heard Lucy say in her head. You are not going to that party.

  Once again, Hanna turned and looked over her shoulder at her reflection in the mirror.

  To hell, I’m not.

  After slinging her backpack, which was still full, over her shoulder, Hanna hurried down to the kitchen. She was reaching into the fridge for the filtered water when the phone mounted to the wall rang, startling her.

  Hanna instantly knew who it was; it was her mother. It had to be her.

  How did she know? How the hell did she know?

  Heart racing, Hanna just watched and listened as the phone rang a second and then a third time. The last thing she wanted was to speak to her mother now, but she knew that the repercussions of letting it go to the machine would be worse.

  Shit, Lucy Whitmore might haul ass to the airport and fly straight home just to further ruin her life.

  Clearing her throat, Hanna reluctantly picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, who’s this?” The voice was muffled, hard to make out.