Wanted

by Kym Brunner

  “Why? What did he do?” Dad growls.

  I wave in the air dismissively. “Nothing horrible. Just asked me out.”

  “Jerk.” Dad shakes his head in disgust. He picks up the wallet and casually glances inside, like he’s looking for identification, but I see him check the dollar bill part. My heart sinks. He obviously thinks of me as criminal first, daughter second. He stands. “I’ll be right back. Going to see if Percy can track this guy down. Maybe I’ll have a word with him when he shows up.”

  “Dad, don’t,” I call out, but he heads down the hall toward his general manager’s office.

  I can’t help smiling. Typical Dad. Always wanting to protect me from the world. I turn the display case over, noticing that the back of the poem is filled with doodles of clouds and flowers, just like I do to my spirals. I imagine a girl my age in a jail cell lying on a cot, writing this poem.

  “Hello, Bonnie,” I whisper. “Did you have a lot of stuck-up chicks at your school, too? Is that why you dropped out?” I laugh, feeling silly talking to a dead girl. I pull the slug box toward me, thinking how cool it would be to touch one. Like touching death head-on. When I don’t hear footsteps, I think, why not? You only live once. Look at my poor mother and how much she missed out on. I dive for the box, pulling at the clear plastic seal. It’s stuck tight. I slide a fingernail under the edge of the sticker and slowly pry it up, careful not to rip the seal itself.

  A rush of bubbling nervous energy makes my fingers tremble as I lift the cover. A puff of stale air with the scent of rancid meat assaults my nose. I breathe through my mouth as I pull out one of the silver gnarled bits. Is this the bullet—the one that actually killed Bonnie Parker? I spy a tiny spot of dark brown nestled between two twisted nibs of steel. Is that her dried blood? Could it be locked inside here after all this time? I lick my finger and touch the spot.

  It smudges, turns brownish red. Holy shit—it is her blood! I rub it a bit harder when something sharp pierces my fingertip. A bright red dot from a tiny jagged cut sprouts on the pad of my index finger. I ram my wound into my mouth and glare at the slug. That’s when I realize that Bonnie Parker’s blood was on my finger and is now on my tongue.

  Gross! In a flash, I yank my finger from my mouth and vigorously scrape my tongue on the inside edge of my shirt, hoping to remove all of Bonnie’s rehydrated blood cells. A tingling sensation that I’d gotten away with something big rushes through me. I quickly wrestle a Clyde slug out of its slot, close the lid, and smile at my palm. Bonnie and Clyde. Together again. Seconds later, my vision blurs—as if someone smeared Vaseline across my eyes. The slugs in my hand become a swirling mess of flesh and metal. I close my eyes, trying to clear the mess, when a vivid scene floods my mind—one so clear it’s like I’m witnessing it live.

  I’m riding in the passenger seat of a car, an old-fashioned one too, judging by the three large dials in front of the steering wheel and the long skinny gearshift knob rising up out of the floor. A sleek gray fishtail skirt hugs my legs perfectly, matched with a gorgeous, cream-colored peasant top. The driver looks to be my age, or maybe a couple years older at the most. He’s got slicked-back dark brown hair, revealing ears that tip slightly away from his head in a cute, elfish way. He’s wearing mocha brown dress pants, a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a striped tie loose around his neck. Like a businessman on a lunch break. Very sexy.

  “How ya doing, doll?” He grins at me, his golden brown eyes lighting up his face. He reaches over, a tattoo of a woman’s face on his forearm, and pats my knee. “Sure was fine sleeping in a bed for a change last night, huh?”

  “Yep. Except now it’s already hotter than heck and it’s barely nine o’clock,” I say in a strange Southern accent. I reach for the crank handle and lower the window partway. A gust of wind blows strands of strawberry blonde hair into my face.

  My elf-eared date takes his hand off my leg and thumps the oversized black steering wheel. “Aw, for crying out loud. Will you look at that? Some dumb hack lost his load.”

  I look ahead of us and see a pickup truck stopped right in the middle of the road, crates of melons scattered everywhere. “Poor sap prolly forgot to latch the gate,” I say.

  “I ain’t stopping either, or we’ll be here all day.” He grips the wheel harder.

  “Don’t lose your temper now, Clyde. It might be faster if you help.”

  As we approach the pickup truck, the intense rat-a-tat-tat of hundreds of bullets whizzing through our car has me ducking for cover. Tiny missiles whistle past my head, leaving penny-sized holes all around me. Clyde’s limbs flail uncontrollably as sprays of red blood hit the windshield, my white silk blouse, the cracked leather seat. Shards of glass pelt my neck as I cross my arms in front of my face, screaming. The car careens off the road toward the bushes, bobbing and jerking like an old wooden roller coaster as all four tires get shot out. It makes a final heave of exhaled air and comes to rest ten yards further. I collapse against Clyde’s shoulder, my skirt at a jaunty angle halfway up my thigh, but I don’t make a move to fix it. I’m left peering through a crumpled mass of tangled hair and torn flesh, staring at Clyde’s blood-soaked forehead.

  The sound of snapping fingers startles me out of my daydream. The image of Dad’s face blends with Clyde’s as his office comes into focus. “Earth to Monroe,” Dad says, loading his treasures back into the cardboard box—including the velvet-lined bullet case.

  I sit up in a flash, inhaling sharply, the slugs still nestled in my palm. How could I have fallen asleep so quickly? It seemed so real, like I was in one of those movie theaters with enhanced sound, scent, and motion. I swallow hard, trying to think of something logical to say as to why I took the slugs out of the box when it was clearly sealed shut, but my mind goes blank.

  Dad interlocks the flaps of the box so the top stays closed. “I’m going to lock these babies up now. Don’t want dust or moisture to get inside. Ruins their value.”

  A cannonball of guilt lodges in my chest, knowing I messed up yet again. I can’t bring myself to tell him what I’ve done. After he walks away, I slip the slugs into my pants pocket. I’ll guard them with my life tonight and find a way to return them in the morning.

  I call out, “By the way, Clarissa invited me to a party tonight.” I twirl a lock of my hair, hoping he’s not mad. “She’s leaving for L.A. soon and we wanted to hang out before she leaves.”

  He stops walking and turns to me, his forehead heavily creased. “You sure that’s a good idea, Monroe? The judge said you needed to stay clean for a whole year or you could—”

  “I know,” I interrupt, unable to bear hearing another reminder of my fate. “But I learned my lesson, I promise.” I look him in the eye, wanting him to trust me again.

  He frowns. “You need to make this decision for yourself. But I want you to know that I’m not bailing you out if you get arrested again, nor will I foot the bill for college. Are we clear?”

  I glance down at my hands, feeling the heat of his stare. “Yeah. We’re clear.”

  “Okay, then.” He sighs, manages to smile. “Have fun and wake me when you get home.”

  “I will. Bye, Dad.” I kiss his cheek and race down the hall to where Clarissa stands waiting for me. Seconds later, I hear a high-pitched squeal of laughter.

  I glance over my shoulder, but no one’s there.

  Clarissa pushes open the door to the parking lot. “Ready for the party of a lifetime?”

  “You know it,” I say, secretly hoping the party’s not too crazy. If it looks like it’s getting out of control, I’ll just take a cab home. I’d rather die than get arrested again.

  Be careful what you wish for, girlie.

  How odd, I think, as I dash out into the night. My conscience had a Southern accent.

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday, May 20th // 9:24 P.M.

  Clyde

  A sudden jolt runs through my bones, swift as lightning and strong as a Texas twister in May. I blink twice, three t
imes, but I can’t see nothing. I must be in the bottom of a mineshaft on a moonless night because it’s dark and I’m cold. Real cold. I concentrate hard as I can to move my body, one finger even, and finally, after what seems like forever, I give up.

  I search my brain trying to figure how I got trapped down here. Last thing I remember was me and Bonnie heading down Potter Lane to go pick up Henry at his pa’s house in the middle of nowhere. We’d all visited our kin for two days but we needed to get back on the lam. I slowed down to drive around a fool truck driver who lost his load, when—Christ. It’s all coming back.

  As I veered past the crates, rounds of gunfire blasted through my head, my neck, my arms and legs—jolting me right outta my seat. Bonnie’s spine-chillin’ scream was the last thing I heard before blackness came. It’s obvious to me looking back now that the sheriff’s posse brought along enough ammo to shoot a herd of buffalo. Cold-hearted bastards never even offered us a chance to surrender.

  Not that I would, but they dint know that. At least I coulda taken down a few of the laws before me and Bonnie got smoked.

  I realize then that I ain’t in any mineshaft—I’m in my final resting place. I have a foggy memory of being told I’d need to stay here until my time was up, but I didn’t know where “here” was. Then I blacked out. I should prolly be screaming in horror as a man is wont to do when he finds out he’s dead, but cryin’s for sissies. Don’t solve nothing neither. I’d rather plan my revenge, because it’s as clear to me as Mama’s crystal earrings that my execution wasn’t no accident.

  My anger festers like an infected wound until I reach a place of pure hatred for the son of a bitch who set me up. Someone tole the feds where I’d be and what time, which narrows it down to about ten people or so, most of ’em family. Soon as I learn how to escape this hellhole I’m in, I’m going to figure out which rat squealed and I’m going to kill the bastard. Make ’em suffer too.

  An eye for an eye, my daddy always tole me, and I’ve always been a dutiful son.

  Even if it turns out that it’s him that did it to me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Friday, May 20th // 10:04 P.M.

  Monroe

  As Clarissa and I walk up the sidewalk to the party, a girl runs out of the front door and leans over the porch railing, puking into the bushes. It’s barely 10:00 and there’s already a drunk chick? Not good. Clarissa breezes past her, but having been in this same position many times, I stop to pat the girl on the back. “You need anything, hon?”

  “Nooo,” she moans.

  I repeat my mantra: no drinking, no stupid decisions. I’m here to flirt with some football players for a few hours and then go home—alcohol- and hickey-free.

  Once inside, the floorboards vibrate from the bass beneath our feet as a party song blasts below us. We head down a flight of wooden stairs to the basement. By the second step, the earthy scent of weed hits my nose. The fourth step adds the obnoxious laughter of drunk kids into the mix. At the bottom, my worries skyrocket. At least fifty people mingle throughout the finished basement, a pack of them huddling around the two kegs. Normally I’d be psyched to be here, but this party has “nosy neighbor police call” written all over it. I’m already queasy and I haven’t had any alcohol. I take a deep breath. I am not drinking tonight. Not a drop.

  Why not? I bet they got good hooch here.

  I look left and then right, looking to see who said that. Before I can process what’s going on, Clarissa grabs my hand and pulls me through the teenage wasteland. “Isn’t this awesome?” she shouts over her shoulder. Every few seconds she announces, “Hey everyone, this is Monroe!” A couple of people raise their beers in acknowledgment, but most are too involved in their own conversations and beer pong games to care to meet someone new. Suits me just fine. Blending into the background is a welcome change.

  Clarissa lets go of my hand and squeals, “Hankster!” She races across the room toward a scruffy, bearded, olive-skinned guy with a sleeve of tattoos. He’s wearing jeans and a simple gray t-shirt. He holds his muscular arms out wide, grinning widely.

  Wait. That’s her boyfriend? Not at all what I imagined her type to be.

  He lifts her off her feet and pulls her into a bear hug, his face beaming with such glee it’s as if he hasn’t seen her in months. I can’t tear my eyes away as he cups her head gently between his hands and gives her one sultry kiss on the mouth. That’s so sexy. He’s so sexy. After he sets her down, she gives me a little finger wave goodbye before getting swallowed up by the crowd.

  So much for hanging out with Clarissa tonight.

  Of course, if I had a hot boyfriend who gazed at me the way Hank gazed at Clarissa, I wouldn’t want to hang out with me either. Before I can decide what to do next, two guys appear in front of me. Right in front of me. One guy is blond, has bad acne, and is wearing a t-shirt that says I’m Higher Than You. Given that he’s so tall he has to duck to avoid hitting the ceiling vents, he’s correct no matter how he’s defining “high.”

  The other guy is slim, average height, super cute… but ultra preppy. He’s got dark brown hair with bangs in his eyes, a big silver watch, and of course, signature rich boy attire—a blue Polo with a white t-shirt underneath, designer jeans, and Sperry Top-Siders. By appearances only, neither guy strikes me as my type, but we’ll see. Chemistry works in mysterious ways.

  “How’s it going?” the tall one asks. “I’m Kyle and this is my friend Jack.” He hits his friend in the chest with the back of his hand. I recognize Kyle’s name—he’s hosting the party we’re at. He leans in close to my ear and says, “Jack’s kind of shy, so I’m helping him out a bit. He thinks you’re cute.”

  I’m dying to ask if we’re back in middle school, but my friend Anjali’s declaration that my sarcasm scares guys away finds me smiling instead. “Hi, I’m Monroe. Nice party, Kyle. Are your parents home?” Prior party experience shows kids stay more chill if parents are around.

  Kyle’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding? They’d never allow this! They’re at a wedding in Texas. Left my brother Turf in charge. That’s him in the green shirt.” He nods to my right.

  I look to see a stocky college-aged guy in a green shirt standing on the coffee table. He’s surrounded by a group of people and has a full shot glass in each hand. After a loud whoop, Turf tilts his head back and pours both shots into his mouth at once. He opens his arms wide and points to himself. “Oh yeah! Double-decker!” His friends cheer him on.

  “He seems very responsible,” I say matter-of-factly.

  Kyle laughs, but Jack flicks his hair out of his eyes in what has got to be a rehearsed maneuver. “I never heard the name Monroe before,” he says, squinting at me. “Except, you know, Marilyn Monroe.”

  My chest swells with pride. My name never fails to be a conversation starter. “You’re on the right track. My parents love old movies. I have two older sisters—one is named Ginger, after Ginger Rogers, and the other Audrey, after Audrey Hepburn. And obviously me after Marilyn Monroe.” I point to the tiny diamond in my upper lip. “Note the Monroe piercing.”

  “Did it hurt?” Jack asks, wincing.

  “No, not really,” I answer, thinking that the only other person who ever asked me that was a little girl at Walgreens.

  “Shouldn’t your name be Marilyn then?” Kyle takes a sip of his beer, smirking.

  “Touché,” I reply, thinking the smartass might be my type.

  “I’m named after someone famous too,” Jack says. “Jack Daniel, at your service.” He bows at the waist as if meeting royalty.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Guess it’s a good thing your parents weren’t into Wild Turkey.”

  Kyle cocks a thumb in Jack’s direction. “Wild Chicken would fit him better. Dude’s scared of everything.”

  Jack smacks Kyle’s hand away. “Shut up. I’m not scared of everything—only your dad’s creepy company.” Jack looks at me. “His dad runs a ghost bus tour that takes you around Chicago to locations where lots of people died. I
saw his dad’s schedule on the fridge upstairs. There’s a group called ‘The Half-Dead Society’ going on a private tour tomorrow. If that’s not scary, I don’t know what is.”

  “The Half-Dead Society?” I ask, amused. “Is that where a group of zombies sit in a circle eating decaying body parts while the therapist asks questions?”

  Kyle laughs out loud. “You never know. Lots of groups go on his tours—mystery book clubs, historical museum societies, stuff like that. His company’s tagline is ‘Where the Dead Come Alive.’” He wiggles his fingers in my face and opens his eyes wide, trying to look scary.

  “Sounds fun,” I say, intrigued by the idea. Maybe a little by Kyle, too.

  Jack wrinkles his nose. “Fun if you like hearing about how people offed themselves.”

  “Hey guys. What’s up?” A pretty Asian girl slips under Kyle’s arm.

  “Ah, speaking about getting off, here’s my little geisha girl now.” Kyle leans in to kiss her and she playfully slaps his face. So much for that. He looks over his shoulder at Jack as they walk away. “Good luck tonight, bro!”

  If that last comment means that Jack’s hoping to hook up with me tonight, he should move along. “Well, it was nice—”

  “Wait!” Jack does one of his bang-flipping moves. “You want a beer?”

  “Um…” I hesitate, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. This is harder than I thought.

  Before I can answer he adds, “Because it’s five bucks a man if you do.”

  My face flushes with embarrassment. So that whole conversation was a ruse to get beer money? “Not interested,” I blurt out quickly before I change my mind.

  “No problem,” he says with a head nod. “I stopped after two beers because I have a killer practice in the morning. My team is in the state golf tournament this week. I could get kicked off for even being at a party like this.” He stares, as if waiting for my reaction to that newsflash.

  “Wow.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I can tell by his expression that he was expecting me to say something nice about his achievement, but forget that. Not only am I not sure if I’m being played, but golf is so boring that the TV commentators have to whisper because they know everyone at home has fallen asleep. I search for Clarissa. Where is that girl?