Girl on Point

by Cheryl Guerriero

  Natice laughs. “Trust me, she ain’t gonna 9-1-1 the cops.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she was the one who had the fucking gun.” Natice lowers her voice. “Look, Cracker’s just trying to scare you with the po po and all that shit.”

  “Well, it worked.”

  “Girl, really? You put a loaded gun to your head, and now you’re worried ‘bout going to jail?” She raises both eyebrows. “This is why I didn’t want to get you involved.”

  “You’re right,” I say, worried Natice will have second thoughts about including me. “I just don’t want Cracker showing up again and scaring my grandmother. You know how she is. And my grandmother thinks I hang out with nice girls.”

  “Well, we know that ain’t true,” Natice says with a smile. She looks past my shoulder. “You got company, girlfriend.”

  I turn around, and Mark Silva walks through the door.

  “What up?” He grins at me.

  I take a break and go sit with Mark in the back room. He stares down at his sister’s initials, L.S., carved into the table then looks up at me. “I have a confession to make.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I lied.”

  “So soon in our relationship?”

  He smiles. “Yo, I’m serious. You asked me if there was anyone. And I lied. I had a girlfriend, which is why I didn’t call you.”

  “So when’d you break up?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” I shoot him a look.

  He laughs. “Yo, it was a long time coming.”

  “So I’m a rebound?”

  “You’re too pretty to be anyone’s rebound.” He sounds genuine.

  “So why do they call you Romeo?”

  “Yo, you heard that?” His face turns red, and he takes a step back, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “It’s just a stupid nickname. That’s all.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why they call you Cheerleader?”

  “Cracker made it up. It’s not a compliment.”

  Mark nods, aware if Cracker nicknames you anything, it’s not likely to be a compliment. “Ah, she ain’t all bad.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “She’s not. She got a heart. It’s small. Tiny. And hard to find. But it’s in there if you look hard enough.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. The last thing I want to do is look for Cracker’s heart. I’ll pass. Thanks.”

  Mark laughs then looks at me seriously. “So when you kickin’ back to Seattle?”

  “Not anytime soon. Why?”

  “Don’t wanna get attached if you’re gonna be takin’ off on me.”

  “Attached, huh? I doubt that, Romeo.”

  He smiles, revealing his dimple. “Yo, it’s true. I’m a Cancer. Sensitive. Look it up. You’re probably a Taurus.”

  I smile. “I am.”

  “Shit. Figures.”

  “Why? What’s a Taurus like?”

  He looks at me, matter of fact. “Stubborn.”

  We share a laugh, and it feels safe to be around Mark. He is nothing like Lori. After fifteen minutes of talking, Mark walks me back to the front of the pizzeria. As we reach the counter, Mark stops. “Almost forgot.” He pulls a CD from his shorts pocket and hands it to me. “It’s the band I was listening to that day in my bedroom. Goldfish. I burned it for you.” He watches for my reaction.

  I smile. He remembered I liked it. “Sweet, thanks.”

  “Lemme know what you think.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m gonna call you for real. Show you some of Jersey.”

  “Whatevs, Jersey boy. Don’t take too long. I won’t be in Cantor forever.”

  He smiles. “Don’t worry. I won’t.” He turns to Natice. “See ya, Natty.” He raises a hand and disappears out the door.

  Natice walks up to me and takes the CD from my hand. She examines it and smiles. “Romeo must be into you. He only burns for the ones he likes.”

  “Yup. He’s hot for my heat,” I say, motioning to a part of my anatomy. Natice shoves me with a laugh.

  An hour later, I’m thinking about Mark and cleaning the bathroom when Natice appears in the doorway. “You feel like making some extra money tonight?”

  Chapter 34

  “Skank, bitch, motherfucker, ho, catch a crackhead by her fro…” Lori says, her finger alternating between a Camry and a 4Runner. We’re sitting inside the Oldsmobile in a parking garage in Woodbury that’s mainly used by people who live in New Jersey and commute into Philadelphia by train. Thanks to a friend of Vince’s, Lori knows there aren’t any cameras in the building, and the only security is an obese guard who randomly does walk-throughs but who mostly sits in a small office watching TV and eating. It’s almost three in the morning when Lori’s finger lands on the 4Runner. “Shit, let’s take the Camry too.”

  Cracker and Ronnie laugh as they run out of the car, each carrying a hammer and a Slim Jim, the long, thin metal bar that mechanics use to pop open locked car doors. In their back pockets are wire cutters. Natice chases after them, clutching a handful of pebbles. She’s the lookout. If she sees anyone, she’ll throw a pebble onto the windshield of the car to let Cracker and Ronnie know. I sit in the car with Lori, waiting for them to hot-wire the vehicles. Once they finish, Natice will hop back in the Oldsmobile, and we’ll all drive off.

  I watch nervously as Cracker slides the Slim Jim between the windowpane and the door of the 4Runner. It doesn’t take her long before she pops open the lock and hurries behind the wheel. Ronnie, though, hasn’t slipped the tool into the door of the Camry.

  Natice stands hidden behind a cement column, keeping an eye on both vehicles.

  “What the hell is she doing?” Lori says as Ronnie runs back to us.

  “I got a bad feeling!” Ronnie jumps into the backseat.

  “What the fuck do you mean, you got a bad feeling?” Lori turns back and looks at her.

  “I got a bad feeling. I ain’t doing it.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Lori’s face turns red.

  “You know if I get a bad feeling, I don’t do it.” Ronnie says.

  I’m curious if Ronnie got a bad feeling the night my sister was shot and killed.

  “Gimme the damn Slim Jim. I’ll do it!” Lori grabs it out of Ronnie’s hand and is about to step out of the car when the fat white security guard appears from behind a door.

  “Lori!” I grab her shoulder.

  Lori ducks back inside. “Fuck. Be cool.”

  The three of us remain perfectly still as we watch the security guard yawn, stretch, and look around as though he’s bored.

  Natice has noticed him as well and throws a pebble onto the windshield of the 4Runner.

  Cracker glances up and sees the guard but doesn’t get out of the car. She’s still trying to hotwire it.

  Natice runs back to the Oldsmobile and hops inside. “Fuck! Fatty never walks out!”

  The guard stretches for a few more seconds, and just as he’s about to walk away, a ringing cell phone startles him. He looks up and sees Cracker inside the 4Runner. The ringing silences, but from the look on the guard’s face, one thing is certain—Cracker does not belong in that vehicle.

  “Get out of the car, Cracker!” Lori says, panicked.

  But Cracker keeps trying to get the engine started.

  The guard walks straight toward the 4Runner, bringing a walkie-talkie to his lips.

  “I told you I had a bad feeling!” Ronnie yells.

  I hit the gas and head toward the exit. The guard hears my car, looks up, and runs to the middle of the aisle, planting his body right in front of the exit. He talks rapidly into the walkie-talkie as he looks down at my license plate.

  I want to scream at the guard, “You’re going
to get yourself killed for nothing!” Before we left Cantor, Ronnie used electrical tape to make the letter O on my plate look like a B and the number one look like a seven.

  I floor the accelerator and hit the horn, but the guard just stands there, feet planted.

  “Go around him!” Natice shouts.

  “How?” I yell.

  There is nowhere to go around. I keep my hand pressed against the horn, blasting it and praying he will move. At the very last second, the guard dives out of the way. I crash through the exit, sending the wooden arm flying. I hit the road with a screech and then burn to a quick halt.

  “Get in!” Lori yells to Cracker, who escaped out a side door and onto the street.

  Cracker jumps inside the car. “Where was the fuckin’ cover?” she asks Natice.

  “I gave you cover! Why the hell’d you bring your phone?” Natice yells back.

  I speed down a two-way street with no idea where I’m going. I just know I need to get off this road, fast, before I get caught. Adrenaline rises, and I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack.

  “Slow down!” Lori yells.

  I let off the gas.

  Up ahead, heading straight toward us, I see flashing lights closing fast. I keep to the speed limit as a police car whizzes past.

  Everything seems cool until a second later, I see the cop pull a U-turn, and the flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror.

  “Fuck!” Lori shouts.

  Tension quickly fills the car. I peel off to the right and down a side street. The cop car gives chase, and I floor the pedal.

  “Lose ‘em!” Lori screams.

  The speedometer climbs from forty to fifty, when I see headlights coming at us. I am going the wrong way down a one-way street.

  “Fuck!” I slam on the horn, hoping the car will somehow get out of my way.

  Behind us, the cop car reappears. Its flashing lights become brighter and bigger. The siren blares. The cop is hot on our ass. Everyone is yelling, telling me what to do. A head-on tragedy is seconds away. I swerve to the right and barrel into an alley. Garbage cans go flying, and the car scrapes the side of the building. I punch the gas and turn onto another side street. I drive like a maniac, blindly turning down one street after the next.

  Finally, we reach a highway. I blow through a yellow light, thinking any moment flashing lights will appear in my rearview mirror. But when I look back, there is no cop car. No lights. No siren.

  Another traffic light up ahead changes from yellow to red. But this time, I hit the brake. I haven’t even noticed, until then, that I am dripping with sweat. Natice keeps looking back for the cops, and each second feels like an hour. We wait anxiously for the light to change to green. When it does, I lift my foot of off the brake and squeeze the gas pedal. The car stalls and dies.

  I turn the key in the ignition. Nothing. “Shit!”

  The rest of them start to panic.

  “What the fuck? Get it going!” Cracker yells.

  “C’mon, Cheerleader!” Lori demands.

  I turn the key again. Nothing.

  Another pair of headlights approaches from behind. Nobody says a word, and I silently pray in the dark, Please God, if you’re ever going to answer my prayers, answer them now. I pump the gas—one, two, three times. I turn the key, and varoom!

  “Go! Go!” Lori shouts.

  I hit the gas, and the car explodes forward. The pair of headlights grows dim in my rearview mirror. It was just another car.

  “Turn there! There!” Lori yells, pointing to the turnpike entrance.

  I approach the tollbooth and with a shaking hand, take a ticket from the automated machine and head toward Cantor. Any second now, I think a cop car is going to appear. I drive paranoid for at least a mile. Or two. Finally, it becomes clear that I’ve outrun the cops. We’ve gotten away.

  “Fuck!” I yell.

  “Good job, Cheerleader!” Natice says, smiling.

  I pound the dashboard and scream. It’s a weird mixture of fear and exhilaration. “Haaaaaaa! Ha!” I yell in victory. Then all together—Lori, Natice, Ronnie, and even Cracker join me—we fill the car with howls of excitement.

  That night, I do my first line of cocaine. “1, 2 Step” plays on the hi-fi system in Lori’s kitchen.

  “Cheerleader, come here.” Lori waves me over. She holds out a key with a bump of white powder on it.

  Once again, because it is Lori Silva offering me drugs, I don’t refuse. I lean my nostril over the key and snort hard. I almost choke as I feel it drip down my nostril and into my throat.

  Lori grins. “That’s some good shit.”

  The drug takes effect almost immediately. A sudden burst of euphoria and energy, along with my high from outrunning the cops, has me feeling invincible. I’m no longer worried or afraid. I’m beautiful and strong and confident and complete. My sadness and pain are gone. The girls start dancing around me, and this time, I am no longer a bystander. This time, I join in and dance.

  Natice sings along with the song.

  “Sing it, Natty! Sing it, girl!” Ronnie chimes, grinding up against my side.

  We may not have stolen a car tonight, but thanks to me, Lori, Cracker, Ronnie, and Natice escaped the police. It’s strange to be celebrating and dancing with the girls I’m trying to send to prison, but I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time. I feel alive in the world.

  Chapter 35

  It amazes me how many people leave the keys in the ignition of their cars while they go inside a store to buy milk, cigarettes, soda, candy, whatever. It takes me less than ten seconds to run across the street, jump behind the wheel of a Pathfinder, and drive away. Natice beat me across the street and is riding shotgun. She’s definitely fast, much faster than I am.

  The owner of the Pathfinder has SiriusXM Radio set to classic rock, and Elton John’s “Rocket Man” blasts from the speakers as I merge onto a highway. I know by now that Lori and the girls only target towns they know well, towns with 7-Elevens, WaWas, and Quick Checks and are in close proximity to highways that lead directly to the turnpike.

  “Goodbye, EZPass.” Natice plucks the electronic device off the windshield and tosses it out the window.

  By the time we reach the turnpike, “Rocket Man” is at its crescendo. I grab an entrance ticket and head north toward Cantor. Natice opens the sunroof and raises the volume. A rush of wind messes up our hair.

  Natice looks over at me and smiles. “How you doin’, Cheerleader?”

  “Livin’ the dream.” I smile back at her. I’m also high, thanks to the bump of coke we did before running out of the Olds.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  I think a rush of excitement—I think a warm summer night—I think a full moon—I think wind on my face—I think that poor bastard whose car I just stole—but mostly, I think, I haven’t felt this good in a long time.

  A week later, I rob my first house with the girls. The house is in a suburban Pennsylvania neighborhood. A girl Ronnie is friends with on Facebook posted pictures of her and her family in South Carolina. Loving Hilton Head! the girl wrote on her wall.

  I know somehow Detective Thoms is monitoring their pages, except for Natice, who, as I suspected, isn’t on Facebook. In the case file, there were notes that Cracker’s Facebook page had all four of them checked into Lori’s house watching Game of Thrones the night of my sister’s shooting, which I know is bullshit. The night I outran the cops, Lori had gone onto Facebook earlier and posted some comment about us all playing poker at Vince’s. And right now, Cracker has us checked into “Tray’s Crib.” I wonder if she included me.

  “Man, this is one butt-ugly family.” Ronnie looks at a framed photo as if she’s trying to decipher a math problem.

  The girl is someone Ronnie went to grammar school with and who moved out of Cantor several years ago.
The girl found Ronnie on Facebook and sent her a friend request. It was just by chance that Ronnie saw her posting. Lori suggested we rob the house while they were away. And within minutes, we steal jewelry, an iPad, a Louis Vuitton handbag, and at least six hundred dollars hidden in a closet.

  “Oh shit!” Ronnie laughs as she holds up a huge penis made of purple rubber.

  We’re in the parents’ bedroom, and Ronnie has just discovered it in a bottom drawer filled with pajamas and sex toys. “What the fuck!” She laughs hysterically.

  “Oh, these people are freaky!” Natice pulls a black dildo out of the same drawer. “Take that!” Natice slaps the black dildo against Ronnie’s purple one. The two start dueling.

  “You know where they’ve been, don’t you?” Lori eyes the dildos with disgust.

  Ronnie thinks about it and chucks it. “Eww!”

  I laugh.

  “Ally, catch!” Natice tosses the black one at me.

  I duck, and it hits Cracker.

  “Hey!”

  We play around in the parents’ bedroom for a while before returning downstairs to the kitchen. Ronnie searches through the cabinets and finds a bag of Doritos that she takes for the road. Natice and I help ourselves to a couple of fruit-flavored ice pops from the freezer, and we casually stroll out the back door of the house.

  A day later, we rob another home in the same neighborhood. This time, the girls don’t seem to mind as I break out my iPhone and capture our moments on camera.

  “No Instagramming!” Lori tells us.

  “No shit. I have an aversion to handcuffs and broads in orange jumpsuits,” I reply.

  “Hey, Cheerleader! In here!”

  I push open a door, and Ronnie is sitting on a toilet bowl, taking a crap while posing with a copy of Good Housekeeping. After that, I take a photo of Lori pocketing a gold bracelet from a bedroom, another one of Natice and me lounging on the family’s living room couch, then a group picture of us sitting at the kitchen table eating a frozen pizza we heated up.

  Later, when I’m alone in my motel room, I go through the photos. I’m definitely getting a charge out of doing all this and may even be growing addicted to committing these crimes, but then it hits me. I suddenly feel bad for the people we are robbing. My excitement evaporates into guilt, and I have to remind myself there is a purpose to all this. An endgame.