Masked
Masked
Norah McClintock
o
rca s
o
undings
ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS
Copyright ©
2010
Norah McClintock
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
McClintock, Norah
Masked / written by Norah McClintock.
(Orca soundings)
Issued also in an electronic format.
ISBN 978-1-55469-365-8
(bound).--
ISBN 978-1-55469-364-1
(pbk.)
I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings
PS8575.C62M38 2010 Â Â Â Â Â Â JC813'.54Â Â Â Â Â Â C2010-903619-0
First published in the United States,
2010
Library of Congress Control Number:
2010929070
Summary:
Rosie walks in on an armed robbery in her father's convenience store.
Who is the masked man? And why is that loser from school there?
Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed
this book on paper certified by the Forest Stewardship Council.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images
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| po Box 5626, Stn. B | po Box 468 |
| Victoria, BC Canada | Custer, WA USA |
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www.orcabook.com
Printed and bound in Canada.
13   12  11  10  ⢠  4  3  2  1
To Li-Hsien, to whom I owe more
than I can ever repay.
Contents
Chapter Thirteen:
The Masked Man
“Uh, do you have a bathroom I can use?” I'm ready with an excuse for when the man behind the counter says no. I thought long and hard to come up with it. You have to when you're asking to use the bathroom in a convenience store, which doesn't have to provide one the way restaurants do. I have to get yes for an answer if my mission is going to be a success.
The man behind the counter scowls. He peers at me from under gray eyebrows that look like steel wool. Is he on to me? Does he suspect?
“What about your coffee and taquito?” he says. “Are you still going to want those?”
“Yeah. And a two-liter cola and the latest
Wrestling World
, if you have it.” I throw those in to improve my chances of getting a yes.
“We have it. What about
Wresting
Today
? You want that too?” His piggy little eyes drill into me. I see immediately where he's going. If I want to use the facilities, I'm going to have to cough up some more money. I take another glance at the magazine rack.
“And
Wrestling Connoisseur
,” I say. What the heckâI'm getting paid enough. A few magazines aren't going to make a dent in my paycheck.
“Through the door beside the coolers and down one flight,” the man behind the counter says.
As I head down the narrow aisle toward the coolers, I glance in the security mirror at the back of the store. The man at the counter, the owner, is watching me.
Going through the door beside the big Coke-sponsored cooler is like stepping from Oz back into Kansas. The tile floor in the store sparkles. The wooden floor on the other side of the door is dingy, scuffed and slightly warped. The lights in the store are blindingly bright. On the other side of the door there is only a single naked lightbulb that makes the places it doesn't hit look inky and a little spooky. The walls of the store are chockablock with neatly displayed and colorful products. The walls of the small room are bare except for a car dealership calendar that hangs from a nail directly above a battered old table and chair. On the table is an adding machineâI didn't even know those still existed. Next to it is a two-drawer olive-green filing cabinet. On the wall, in an ancient fixture with a pull chain, is another naked lightbulb. This is where the store owner does his accounts. To the left of the door is a flight of wooden stairs. But I don't go down it.
Instead, I listen. It's quiet in here. It's also quiet out in the store. I tiptoe over to the desk. I'd been expecting a computer, but there isn't one. I open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. It's jammed with files. I thumb through them, looking for the one I've been sent to find. I don't see it. I close that drawer, open the next one and thumb through more folders.
Bingo! There it is, neatly labeled.
I pull it out and scan the sheets inside. They look like the ones that were described to me. I dig the miniature cameraâa spy camera, if you can believe itâout of my pocket and photograph every sheet. I put everything back into the folder and replace the folder in the file cabinet. I tuck the camera into my pocket. I start back to the door.
Before I get there, I hear the man behind the counter yell somethingâ a name. I'm about to push the door open and go back into the store when I hear a different voiceâa familiar one. I decide to wait. If I go out there, I'll be recognized. If I'm recognized, I'll be exposed. If I'm exposed, I'll have to abort my mission. And if I abort⦠let's just say I don't want to kiss my paycheck goodbye.
“What's taking so long?” Corey calls.
“
Shhhh!
” I dart out into the living room, my finger pressed against my lips, and glower at him. I must have told him a million times to be quiet. Shouting does not constitute being quiet. “If you have something to say, you have to come to where I am and say it.”
Corey blinks at me. He's standing near the stereo, his head sideways as he reads the titles in my dad's cd collection. I don't know why he's bothering. They're almost all jazz, and as far as I know, Corey doesn't like jazz.
“I'll be ten minutes,” I say. “Do you think you can keep quiet for ten minutes?”
“Sure. Whatever.” He shrugs, like it's no big deal.
“My dad is right downstairs, Corey.”
“So?” Another shrug. Suddenly I want to strangle him. “You said that once he goes downstairs, he's there until the store closes,” Corey says. “You said he never comes back up here.”
“Unless there's a reason. I said he doesn't come up unless there's a reason. If he hears shouting, that's a reason.”
Corey looks irritated, and that scares me a little, so I dial it back. I don't want this to go wrong. I can't afford it to.
“Just ten more minutes, I promise,” I say.
“You said you'd be ready when I got here,” Corey complains. “I've been standing out here doing nothing ever since I arrived.”
“I'm sorry. But it's all my dad's fault. He had a bunch of stuff he wanted me to do in the store.” That's the number-two thing I'm not going to missâthat stupid store. The number-one thing is my dad. All he cares about is his store and his profit margin, which is why he watches kids and single moms like they're criminals who only come in to rip him off instead of customers he should be glad to have. It's why I never let my friends come near the place. If my dad treated any of them the way he treats other kids, it'd be all over school.
I run to Corey and kiss him on the cheek, hoping it will calm him down. Hoping, too, that it will make him remember the good times we used to have and the good times that are ahead for us.
“I'll be ready before you know it,” I say. I scurry back to my room and continue to stuff clothes into a green plastic garbage bag. The suitcase I planned to take is already full. So is my backpack. And I'm determined not to leave anything behind, even though I'm going to have to buy a lot of new clothes pretty soon.
I work as fast as I can, and not just because I promised Corey. I want to be gone in case Leon comes by. I tried to discourage him. I told him it wasn't a good idea, that my dad was in a bad mood, and he knows what that means. I told him that I had to work in the store, so there was no point in showing up. Usually he does exactly what I tell him, but today I'm not so sure. There was something different in his voice when he called. There was something different in his face all day at school too. But he wouldn't tell me what the matter was.
So, fine, let him come even after I told him not to. Let him ring the bell in the back and get no answer. There's no way he'll dare go into the store to see if I'm there. There's no way he'll ask my dad where I am. Neither of them will know I'm gone until it's too late.
I jam the last sweater from the bottom drawer of my dresser into the bag and close it with a twist tie. There. Done.
I pick up the bag and the suitcase, sling the strap of my backpack over my shoulder and drag everything down the hall to the living room. That's when I hear it.
“Rosie!”
My dad's voice rises through the floor like he's holding a bullhorn and has pressed it right up against the ceiling of the store.
“Rose, get down here! Now!”
Corey looks at me, annoyed, and waits to see what I'm going to do.
“I have to go down there,” I say. “If I don't, he'll come up here.”
“So? You think I'm afraid of your old man? You think I'd be here if I was?”
“He probably just needs me to find something. I'll be right back.”
Corey scowls. He's been in a sour mood ever since he walked through the door, even though he wasn't in a sour mood last night. This isn't going at all the way I imagined it.
“I'll be as quick as I can.”
I slip out the door that leads from the kitchen into the hall and run down the stairs. When I slip into the store, I lock the door behind me. I don't want to take the chance that Corey will decide to come down. I hope I'm right about my dad. I hope he just needs to ask me something and that he hadn't heard Corey's voice. I also hope that Leon hasn't shown up.
When the old man calls her name, which I hear as a rumble from behind the door, I think that Rosie is probably his wife. A lot of these places make it because the husband and wife both work there. The kids, too, as soon as they're old enough. The money stays in the family that way.
But just as I'm about to open the door and go back into the store, I hear her voice loud and clear: “What's up, Dad? I was just about to take a shower, so⦔
