Jeraline's Alley

by Becca C. Smith

  Without thinking, I hugged Rachel tightly. I needed to. I wanted to. And what shocked me more was that Rachel hugged me back just as fiercely.

  “I’ll see you at work,” Rachel said kindly in my ear.

  I pulled away, trying to hide the distance that crept up inside of me as I realized what I had to do. Waving the book gently, I said, “Thank you for the book.”

  “Of course,” Rachel answered.

  Leaving without another glance at Rachel, I started my trek home.

  It was time.

  I had to do it.

  There was no other choice for me.

  I had to turn myself in.

  I headed toward the alley one more time.

  It didn’t take long to get there and find what I was looking for: the Wanted poster for my attacker. The name had been ripped off, presumably years ago, but at least his face was clear. The first piece to my confession. I tore it from the brick, and it came off surprisingly easy, as if it were meant to be, because it was meant to be.

  A deep resounding snicker boomed from the alley, and I tried to ignore it. It mocked me. It thought it had won the war. Maybe it had. But I didn’t care anymore. I had to take responsibility for what I had done, and if that meant the alley had beaten me, then so be it.

  My legs shook as I forced myself to walk back home to gather the last two items I’d need to own up to what I had done.

  Trembling hands opened the door to my building, legs heavy as if made of stone climbed up the stairs, numb fingers placed the key in my front lock and turned the knob.

  I reached my bedroom, placing Hank’s painting on the bedside table and my book on the bed itself, then stuffed my attacker’s wanted poster inside my backpack.

  I collapsed to my knees, my body no longer able to support me.

  Arms weighed down by terror pulled out the box holding the gun from under the bed. Lifting the revolver carefully, I placed it on my lap. I grabbed the shirt from under the mattress and shoved it into my backpack on top of the Wanted sign.

  Why couldn’t I do that with the gun?

  Hank’s painting began swirling into a black hole. I wished it would suck me into its vortex.

  I knew what I had to do, yet I couldn’t seem to move.

  Olivia appeared, dangling her feet off the bed in front of me, gently holding the first edition of The Gateway to Winterbrook that Rachel had given me. “You finally got your prize, and now you’re going to be locked up for years. I wonder if they’ll let you bring the book?”

  I didn’t answer.

  She wasn’t real.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” she continued, trying to get me to look at her.

  “How can something feel so violently wrong and still be the right thing to do?” I asked, giving in to my imagination.

  Olivia shrugged. “It’s the way life is, I guess.”

  Not good enough.

  “Maybe I should get rid of the gun and block the whole thing out of my memory. It could work.” The words were empty. I knew I had to go. If only my legs would work.

  Jumping off the bed, Olivia held her hand out for me to take.

  I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to.

  After a few long moments, I gently held her hand. Olivia bent her head down, forcing my eyes to meet hers until I was completely focused on her. “I’ll go with you. I’ll be your Marta. She saved me by helping me find myself again. Turning yourself in is the key. You know it. You feel it.”

  I did.

  My legs moved.

  I let go of Olivia’s hand and grabbed my backpack, placing the gun inside, the last ingredient. Standing up, I threw the backpack over my shoulders and headed out the door.

  One last thing.

  Before I could chicken out, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed.

  “Hello?” Josh’s voice sounded tired and groggy. (Probably because it was six in the morning.)

  But I had to tell him.

  I had to let him know I was a killer.

  “Josh, it’s Jeraline.” My voice shook.

  “Jeraline? It’s so early. Is everything okay?”

  “I shot someone.”

  “What?” He was awake now.

  “I shot someone by the alley. I’m turning myself in.” You told him, now hang up.

  “Jeraline . . .”

  “I thought you should know.”

  I hung up.

  There. Done. Now he could move on. Not that he had much to move on from, but I’d never forget him.

  I walked out of my room, my apartment, down the stairs, until I was outside again.

  Punching up the police station’s address in my phone, I began to follow the map like Frodo trudging toward Mount Doom, but instead of a ring, I was throwing in a revolver. The closer I got to the police station, the more I wanted to run back home.

  Olivia held my hand, reminding me she was still there and that she’d lead me to my destination.

  Step by step, my fate sealed before my eyes until I was in front of the entrance to the police station.

  Glass double doors stood before me. Reaching for the metal bar on the left door, I pushed it open and entered.

  Olivia was gone. I had to finish the rest of this journey alone.

  An almost empty lobby sprawled out before me with a metal detector about ten yards away with three police officers manning who came in and out of their castle.

  No other people were around.

  The squeak of my shoes was the only sound in the room as I walked slowly toward the looming door-frame-shaped security detectors and the X-ray conveyor belt platform next to it. I didn’t want to be shot on sight pulling out a gun, but I wanted to turn myself in along with the gun, so I took my backpack off my shoulders and readied the Wanted sign of the man who attacked me.

  As I arrived at the front of the conveyor belt, the officer with the name tag “T. Cortez” motioned to my bag. “Open your backpack, please.”

  I was going to puke.

  Please don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me.

  With shaking hands, I unzipped the backpack, then handed it directly into Officer Cortez’s hands.

  I placed my hands up in surrender to show them I didn’t have anything else on me.

  Here I go.

  “Officer Cortez, my name is Jeraline Arnold, and I’m here to make a confession. There’s a gun in that backpack, and I shot the man in that Wanted poster with it. His blood is on the shirt inside.” My voice shook, but I hoped I sounded sane and calm.

  Officer Cortez’s body tensed at my admission, and he motioned for the other two officers to stand next to me while he examined the interior of my backpack. He carefully pulled out the giant revolver and raised an eyebrow in surprise, then checked the bullet chamber all without comment. Glancing at my attacker’s Wanted poster, he showed it to the other two officers, and to my horror, they nodded in what I could only describe as recognition.

  “We’ve been looking for you,” Officer Cortez said solemnly.

  “I thought so.” Time was up.

  “Follow me.”

  Holding back tears, I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat made it impossible.

  Making our way past the metal detector, I followed Officer Cortez into the belly of the police station, which basically was a bunch of cubicles, not as intimidating as I had imagined. Wending past the main area, the officer led me down a hallway with a line of closed doors. Picking one in the middle, he unlocked the door, opened it, and held his hand out for me to enter.

  An interrogation room.

  Deep breath.

  I was expecting this.

  One table, two opposing chairs, stark and empty. No two-way mirror though. That was different from every TV show and movie I’d ever seen. Motioning to either chair, Officer Cortez almost looked . . . friendly? I must be imagining things. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  I sat down on one of the seats as the officer shut the door behind him, lock
ing me in alone. Okay, I didn’t hear him locking the door, but maybe since I turned myself in, I wasn’t a flight risk.

  Placing my hands on the table, I tried to get them to stop shaking.

  Both Edmond Dantès and Hercule Poirot popped in across from me, leaning against the wall.

  Poirot spoke first with a nod of approval. “I’m proud of you for turning yourself in.”

  Edmond sneered in disgust as he eyed Poirot, then turned toward me. “Now you’ll be in prison and completely helpless. At least with your freedom you had options.”

  Poirot huffed. “Looking over her shoulder forever? What kind of life is that?”

  Crossing his arms, Edmond said, “The kind where the bad guy got what he deserved and the good guy wins.”

  I had to stop him. “But shooting him makes me the bad guy.”

  Edmond scoffed. “That’s absurd.”

  Poirot nodded emphatically. “It’s the truth.”

  Sighing, I answered, “I don’t know what it is, but turning myself in was something I had to do.”

  Both Poirot and Edmond appeared to concede to this, and they disappeared as Officer Cortez walked into the room with a handful of paperwork. I was sure I was about to be handcuffed, so I placed my hands out in front of me to make it easier on him.

  Officer Cortez sat across from me, took an envelope off the top of his paperwork, and slid it over. “Open it,” he advised.

  “Aren’t you going to cuff me?” I wasn’t sure what was happening.

  Was that a smile? Did he just smile at me? A murderer?

  I opened the envelope, not sure what to expect, but a check written out to me for a hundred dollars was not on my radar. “What is this?”

  “It’s a reward for the capture of Alex Peters,” he said frankly.

  “What?” What?

  “A neighbor saw the whole thing. You being attacked, Alex hitting his head and passing out on top of you.” Officer Cortez fumbled through the paperwork until he found what he was looking for and slid it over.

  A witness statement. Stating exactly what Officer Cortez had told me.

  I didn’t understand.

  “But I shot him,” was all that came out.

  The officer shook his head, obviously not sure how to respond. “No bullet has been fired from your gun. It’s brand new, no residue, and the chamber is empty. I don’t think bullets have ever been loaded into it. You didn’t shoot anyone.”

  “But I heard it.” What was happening?

  Officer Cortez shrugged as if that very shrug solved everything. “I’m not sure what you heard, but it wasn’t a gunshot. Alex was still unconscious by the time we got there, but he’s been yapping ever since, claiming you were a six-foot monster that attacked him.”

  “He’s . . . he’s okay?” My brain was having trouble processing the information.

  “Oh yeah, no concussion. He’ll be fine. We’ve been after him for a while now . . .”

  At this point, the officer continued to talk, to explain, to chuckle, but it all became a warbled jumble in my brain. I didn’t shoot him. The shot I heard was from my imagination, from my terror, from the part of me that needed to get away, that felt helpless as he tried to hurt me. It all made an alarming kind of sense. Grandma didn’t buy any bullets. She just bought the gun, and I didn’t know anything about guns other than they shoot and kill people. She had wanted me to take lessons, so of course she’d never hand me a loaded weapon I could accidentally discharge. I was so wrapped up in the sheer and utter terror of being near a gun, I hadn’t thought about any of it logically.

  Officer Cortez’s voice slowly faded back in as my thoughts began to clear. “So there’s your reward. We’ll need your statement as well, and I’m assuming you’ll be pressing charges. Did you want your weapon back?”

  “No. You keep it. I don’t want it anymore.” And that was the truth.

  Officer Cortez seemed to be taking in my frazzled state because he nodded, his expression gentle. “Probably for the best.” He slid over a small stack of the paperwork along with a pen. “If you could sign those forms, you’ll be all set to go.”

  I read through the paperwork, and the more I read, the lighter I began to feel. This was real. This was happening. My attacker, Alex Peters, was alive, not even injured.

  Signing the last piece, I slid it back to the officer. He gathered the paper into a pile, stood, then extended his hand for me to shake. I took it awkwardly, but a part of me wanted to leap across the table and give him a hug.

  “Someone will call you if we need you to testify, but honestly, the case against him is as solid as they come. We probably won’t need you.” He took his hand back and motioned to the reward check with a nod and a wink. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  I was dazed, but I managed a smile as he left.

  I didn’t kill anyone.

  I wasn’t a murderer.

  I was alive.

  And I was free.

  The warmth of the sun hit my face as I walked out of the police station. It had never felt as calming as it did in that moment. I basked in its rays, closing my eyes, letting what had happened truly sink in.

  “Excuse me.” A woman’s voice brought me out of my reverie.

  I opened my eyes. Not a good idea to stop and stand still right near the entrance doors. “Oh, sorry.” I moved away from the entrance.

  But the stranger smiled. “No worries. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d been able to open the door without hitting you. You looked really . . . happy.” Without waiting for an answer from me, she entered the building.

  Happy.

  Yes.

  I was . . . happy.

  The vibration of my cell phone buzzed in my pants pocket, and I pulled it out. Not recognizing the number, I answered it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jeraline Arnold?” A cheery woman’s voice sounded on the other end.

  “Yes.” I almost asked it as a question, surely her overenthusiasm had to mean she was a telemarketer.

  “I’m from Cassiopeia Design School. I’m calling to tell you that your designs won first prize in our contest!” she practically shrilled with excitement.

  Heart drop.

  “What?” I squeaked. Yup. I actually squeaked.

  “Congratulations! You just earned yourself a full scholarship!” She squeaked too.

  There was all sorts of squeaking going on, feeding off of each other’s excitement.

  “But what about what happened with my dress?” Why did I bring that up? Self-sabotage much?

  But her tone went from peppy to sympathetic in an instant as she said, “That was horrible. I’m so sorry that happened to you, but it wasn’t your fault.” The pep came back full force as she added, “Besides, the modeling is just for show. It’s the designs that matter.”

  “And you like them?”

  A genuine, hearty laugh. “We love them! Your ideas are . . . magical. That’s the word we all thought of when looking through them.”

  Magical.

  My entire being lit up, and my body flushed with the intensity. “Thank you,” I managed to stutter. “Thank you so much.” I choked back a cry of joy.

  The woman’s voice bubbled with happiness. “Listen, come down to our office next Friday, and we’ll set everything up, okay?”

  I let out a whoop of excitement, not caring if I looked stupid, not caring that the man who walked past me cringed. “I will. Thank you again.”

  The woman’s laugh was what I imagined a twinkling fairy to sound like. “Can’t wait to have you at our school. Have a great day, Jeraline.”

  “You too.”

  And she hung up.

  I won.

  I really won.

  And I knew exactly what I needed to do. What I wanted to do.

  Racing home, I was on a mission.

  I threw my bedroom door open, gathered the broken dress still on my floor, and began to sew. I fixed every seam and replaced every bead that had fallen off, unt
il finally I only had one more bead to add, the largest of them all: the star my parents named after me. The place where I knew they waited for me a long, long time from now.

  The dress was finished. Complete.

  I put it on along with the petticoat, then turned toward the mirror.

  It was just as stunning as it had been before I stepped foot on the runway that day. I could admit it without flinching from self-doubt. And I looked stunning too. Because . . . because I was me, and for the first time in a really long time, I found that I truly liked me.

  Picking up the unframed picture of my parents on my bedside table, I hugged it fiercely, then placed it back.

  One last hurdle to jump.

  Putting on some lipstick, fussing a bit with my hair, I left the apartment.

  I arrived at the alley quicker than I expected. Things we fear are often like that. But I had to do this. I had to move forward, and this alley was a part of that.

  I had let it become the center of everything I feared in life, and now, as I really looked at it: it was just an alley. A grotesque, dirty and dark alley, but no longer the embodiment of what scared me.

  Taking a step forward, my foot disappeared in the darkness.

  Maybe I spoke too soon.

  I’m not afraid.

  I’m not afraid.

  I’m not afraid.

  Or, I didn’t want to be afraid.

  That felt right.

  I took another step forward, and light began to seep in, slowly, but enough that shadowed outlines of fire escapes and dumpsters materialized in front of me instead of the fog of black.

  The further I walked in, the brighter it grew, until I heard footsteps and a silhouette of a man coming toward me.

  Old instincts crept in, and I almost ran.

  Emma appeared next to me though. “You got this,” she said with a smile. “Don’t be afraid.”

  And suddenly . . .

  I wasn’t.

  “Jeraline?”

  Emma disappeared as the figure turned into Josh, materializing out of the shadows of the alley, his face wracked with worry as he approached. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I went to your apartment after your phone call, then I went to Buster’s . . .” His eyes widened in awe as he truly saw me. “Jeraline . . .”