Drama Dolls: A Novel: [Dark, Suspenseful, Fast-paced, Exhilarating] (20 page)

“After we hit this,” one boy said, referring to the weed.

“And the girls?” another boy said.

The one with the pot, he said, “We’re gonna hit it too.”

Then there was laughter. Passing around the joint, they each inhaled deeply, their bodies becoming relaxed.

Clearing her throat, stretching out the rumbling inner burp, Barb glared at Brittney.

Brittney’s hollow expression turned to address the Drama Doll. She was welcomed by an angry look. “Sorry,” Brittney said.

Staring at Brittney, Barb’s eyes pierced through the plastic mask.

“Sorry,” the delusional cheerleader said again. “No more fucking around.”

The duo continued with the burglary, filling bag after bag after bag with all kinds of possessions. They weren’t just packed with jewelry anymore. Anything of value, Brittney stole.

Barb, though, she had other plans.

Picture frames shoved into pillowcases, the glass breaking on one in the process. Half-filled lotion bottles, perforated condom chains, DVD remote control, anything that could be stolen easily, was.

Barb pulled out pajama bottoms from the dresser, a woman’s size, petite with cartoon characters splattered on them, and shoved them into her bag. Mismatching socks were lifted. Anything that she could grab, Barb did.

The anxiousness started to bother Brittney.

Old magazines, they were rolled and slid into the sides. Entertainment magazines showing couples divorcing, car publications with models on the hood, an outdated
TV Guide
.

A lemon scented candle, almost at the end of its life, lifted for no particular reason. Seeing the pillowcases being filled at a rapid pace, Brittney said, “Be more selective!”

Car doors opening and then closing, ignition starting, the three buddies fled the scene. The cloud of marijuana smoke dispelling in the air.

Barb stopped all motion, her back toward Brittney as she held a bag in her hands. Dropping the goods, she pirouetted, her white tennis shoes stomped into blue jeans. “Excuse me?”

“We’re only here to take the valuables,” Brittney said. A brief stare down ensued. “In and out. That’s the plan.”

On the bed, sprawled out like a dead body, the passed out Drama Doll separated them. Barb, she said, “In and out?” Gesturing to Emily, she said, “But you bring
this
thing?”

Defensive, her body clenching, Brittney said, “You take that back!” Breathing in and out, heavy breaths, they filled her lungs. A contact high hitting her, she said, “Take. It. Back!”

Pointing her finger to the ceiling, accusing Brittney, Barb said, “You, my friend, need fucking help.” Then she left. A pile of a mess on the floor, shirts mixed with socks mixed with hairbrushes. Bags were falling down and emptying.

“Take it back!” Brittney screamed. Her head getting dizzy, the weed was enveloping her.

Barb’s footsteps receded down the staircase. On the wood, her stomping was getting louder and louder. Steps in a straight line. The front door opened. Then it slammed.

“Take it back,” Brittney whispered, her eyes now pink and watery. “Take it back.”

Standing in the darkness, Emily on the bed, Brittney broke down in tears. Sinking to her knees, her hands covering her face so Emily wouldn’t see. Pieces of clothing were scattered everywhere. The television shattered on the stand next to Brittney. Screams exited her body.

“FUCK YOU!” Echoing down the halls.

“MOTHER FUCKER!” Bouncing off the walls.

Hysterical, the tears were a garden hose shooting out of her eyes.

“BARB!” Screaming in the dark. “BARB!”

Drawers were pulled back from the walls, crooked in spots. The vanity was cleared and empty. Makeup bottles were on the floor. There were books everywhere. Bags filled with goods, crumpled down on the wood.

Crying on the hardwood, Brittney’s body was shaking uncontrollably.

----------

The shooter who took Her life also took his own. Barricaded in the classroom, his classmates hiding under their desks, crying, they were praying to see tomorrow. The shooter’s barrel pointed at Her head. A strong woman, protecting her students from the gunman, she offered up herself when the shooter’s plan became compromised.

Sitting in a chair at the front of the classroom, with police surrounding the school and more outside the room in the hall, She begged him, saying that he could get help. That he could change his life. Could make it better.

“What do you know about me?” he said, his arm stiff in the direction of the teacher. “Your life, Mrs. Taylor, is perfect.”

Picking up the framed photo on her desk, a married couple smiling in the center, the shooter said, “Look at you. Mister and Missus Taylor. A perfect couple.” Grazing his thumb across the honeymooners’ faces, he slammed the photo frame onto the classroom floor.

Students ducking under their desks, their heads buried into their chests, they muffled their cries to avoid attention. A scream coming from a girl under a first row desk. Tears down her cheeks, her face red, she was weeping uncontrollably.

Turning to address the student, the gunman, he said, “Shut the fuck up!” He pointed the gun toward her. The teenager cried louder.

Desks shifted, the metal legs scraping on the floor, moved to furnish more protection. A couple desks fallen over, the tabletop used as a shield.

Jeffrey’s wife, she kept her cool. Her body calm, relaxed, not displaying any emotion that the shooter could use. Adjusting herself on the chair, the leg scratching the floor, she again was faced with a barrel to her head.

“Don’t move,” he said. His body shaking, he looked out at the lineup of police men ready to shoot. A voice from the hall, through the door that separated the classroom, asked him to surrender. It said, “Let them go and turn yourself in.”

The shooter, he started to pace, never taking his aim off Her. Back and forth, a few steps one direction, several more the other, he scratched his forehead with his free hand.

A boy, he poked his head up slow, surveying the scene. His gaze to Her, the shooter, and then to his fellow students. Mouthing words to himself, he closed his eyes tight, praying that the nightmare would end.

“We have the building surrounded,” the voice said. “Let the hostages go and surrender yourself.”

On the lawn, an officer waved to a policeman, motioning him to proceed.

Running to the window, the shooter watched the policeman move toward the school. Another followed. Then another.

Students hiding, their eyes followed the shooter as he moved from the window to Mrs. Taylor.

“We are counting to three,” the voice in the hall said, “and then we are coming in.”

Walking in a circle, his gun in the air, the shooter pointed to the ceiling. He returned his aim to the teacher, back to the ceiling, and then to the floor.

All of this transpired while Jeffrey was at work. The news broke live to the scene. Loretta, she told her supervisor to turn up the radio. Every station, radio and television, broadcasting the ordeal. “Isn’t that Emily’s school?” she said.

Sitting together, Jeffrey and Loretta listened to the reporter describe the scene as it unfolded. Calling Her on the phone, ringing and ringing, Jeffrey listening to the news girl as she said that at least twenty people, one teacher, were being held hostage.

The reporter, broadcasting through the speaker in the office, said, “Police have surrounded the school. As many as fifty officers, their weapons drawn, are in place.”

At the school, the voice said, “…3.” The door kicked open, officers in position. Their guns were pointing toward the gunman.

Two shots.

One into Emily. The other into himself.

Students screamed out loud, the desks moving so they could escape. The shooter collapsed on the floor, his head hitting the tile. Blood trailed out of his skull, flowing into a puddle.

Emily Taylor fell over in her chair, her body crashing down, her brain splattering the wall and desks nearby.

The reporter said a shot was heard. “We’ll bring you more on this story as details come in.”

The silence was an eternity.

Loretta, calming Jeffrey down, she said, “It may not be her. They probably moved everyone to safety.”

Coming back on the radio, the reporter, she said, “This just in.”

Students ran out of the school. Screaming, crying, their hands covering their faces. The line of policemen entering the school as ambulances arrived on the campus.

“The gunman and a teacher, whose name was not released, are dead from single gunshot wounds. Eyewitnesses said that a shooter, who was also a student at the high school, entered the classroom and held the teacher hostage.”

Helpless, screaming at the radio, Jeffrey dialed Her phone.

“Students hid under their desks in fear as police officials talked the gunman into coming out. When he did not comply, police officers rushed into the classroom. The result was a murder suicide. Live here at the scene, I’m—”

Loretta turned off the radio. “They said they’re not releasing the name, I’m sure, until the family is contacted.”

Heart beating, panic building, Jeffrey breathed in and out. Calming down, his eyes closed, he could feel his body coming to a rest. Nodding his head, buying fully into Loretta’s reasoning, Jeffrey opened his eyes.

Then, his cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

Jeffrey’s life used to be something. Without her it became nothing.

----------

Lena pulled around the alley. The getaway car filled will bags from prior heists. There were always bags full of jewelry. Barb/William was the only one waiting.

The alley was an aroma of discarded meals. The smell of egg rolls over sweet and sour in the air. Thick gravy poured into the dumpster, spilling down into the bottom of the trashcan. The birds, they were eating rice and then flying away. A bum sleeping against the wall, he rolled over and covered himself with his blanket.

William was standing alone, looking back toward the botched burglary.

And Lena, she was saying, “Where’s Brittney? Where’s Jeffrey?”

Hopping into the passenger seat, William said, “He’s still back there. He’s fucking crazy!”

“What do you mean he’s still back there?” she said. Dressed in cheerleader garb, Lena addressed Barb’s face. “Where the fuck is your mask?”

William looked straight out the window. He was silent.

“You knew he was on edge!” Leaning in close to William, pulling off her disguise, she said, “Unpredictable!”

William, never looking at the getaway driver, said, “Just fucking go!”

Frantic, her mind running amok, Lena said, “Where’s—”

Interrupting, William said, “Go!”

Driving back to the scene, the same route as before, through the historic district of houses, with balustrades wrapped around the front porches and towers shooting up toward the night sky, Lena said, “Why isn’t he with you?”

Bus stop signs passed, the bases littered with fast food containers. A multi-unit house, half of the residents awake by the living room illumination through the curtains. A blinking yellow light from the television played a program. The rest of the complex, the residents were dreaming until the next shift of work.

Rocking back and forth, tapping his foot, William said, “I’m guessing you talked to him.”

The speed of the car increasing, bags of gems falling over each other with every turn, Lena sat quiet. Her hands were on the steering wheel, gripping so tight her fingers were numb. The escape vehicle rushed toward the house.

“Did you talk to him?” William said, calmly.

Lena’s lip curled downward. Sniffling, she nodded. “Um hmm.”

“You told him everything?”

Her head nodding in short, quick motions, she sniffled. “Yes.”

“Everything?”

Her face turning red, tears fell down Lena’s cheeks. The car jerked to a stop. A pillowcase toppled over the back seat, onto the floor. Various bead, wheat, and byzantine chains spilled onto the floor mats. Bangle bracelets followed. Tiaras were rolling off the seats. Pins sliding to the floor. Brooches displayed themselves.

“Lena!” William said.

Crying, weeping, her head buried into her knuckles on the steering wheel, she said, “I’m sorry!”

“You’re part of the fucking problem!” William was screaming. The “loot” in the backseat was going in between the cushions, rolling underneath the front seats.

“This is all your fault!” William said. Breathing in heavily, he said, “I can’t believe you talked me into such a bonehead plan!”

“I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry?” William said. “This was the dumbest— ”

Her face covered in tears, Lena said, “I’m sorry!” Sniffling, she said, “I’m sorry! Stop yelling at me.”

The story of the jewels, they were bought by Lena as a stay at home wife, packed together in pillow bags and brought to each scene.

“I’m an idiot for actually agreeing to this bonehead plan!” William said. Shaking his head in disgust, he said, “Un-fucking-believable.”