Authors: Kimberly Reid

My Own Worst Frenemy (24 page)

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy

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Coming up next . . .

CREEPING WITH THE ENEMY

A Langdon Prep Novel

Turn the page for a preview of Chanti's next adventure . . .

T
he line in the bodega is five deep because it's Freebie Friday and the tamales are buy one get one. I don't mind the waitâthe scent of green chili reminds me how lucky I am to live on Aurora Avenue, just two blocks from the best tamales on the planet, or at least in a thirty-mile radius. Seeing how it's smack in the middle of Metro's second worst police zone, there isn't a lot to appreciate about The Ave, so that's saying something about these tamales. Since they only let you get one order, I always find someone to go along who doesn't love them like I do so I can get one extra. Today my tamale pimp is Bethanieâwe're numbers six and seven in lineâand she's calling me some choice words for making her wait for a free tamale when she can afford to buy the whole bodega. I'm trying to explain to her that there's no sport in being rich (not that I would know) when a guy walks in from a Ralph Lauren ad and becomes number eight in line.

I don't know how a person could look so out of place and seem completely at ease at the same time, but this guy is pulling it off. He's also checking out Bethanie so hard that even though he's a complete stranger, he makes me feel like I'm the one who crashed the party.

“What's so good in here that people are willing to wait for it?” he asks Bethanie. He pretty much ignores me, so I almost laugh when his line goes right over her head.

“Supposedly the tamales are,” she says, “but I wouldn't know.”

I'm no pro at the flirty thing, but I'm sure he wasn't expecting her answer to be
tamales
. I move forward in the line, ignore their small talk and study the five-item menu as though I don't know what to order. Now there are only two people in front of me. Some Tejano music and the smell of cooking food drifts into the store from somewhere behind the clerk. I imagine somebody's grandmother back there wrapping corn husks around masa harina and pork. Yum.

I check out Preppie Dude like I'm not really looking at him but concentrating on the canned peaches on the shelf behind him. Cute. Not so cute he couldn't at least say hello to me before he starts fawning for my friend. He's still the last person in line even though tamale happy-hour runs from 4 to 5 and the line is usually out the door until 5. Weird, because it's only 4:30. I'm about to mention how weird that is to Bethanie, but she's finally figured out Preppie is flirting with her and has apparently forgotten me, too.

Now there's just one person ahead, Ada Crawford, who lives across the street from me and who I'm pretty sure is a hooker even though I don't have any proof. If we lived in a different neighborhood, I might say she was a call girl since her clients come to her. But we live in Denver Heights, so she doesn't get a fancy title. Luckily she hasn't noticed me behind her because I'm not supposed to be here and I wouldn't want her to tell my mother she saw me. Not that Ada ever has much to say to my mom.

Still no one else has come in. Along with the clerk I don't recognize, maybe they've also changed the cut-off time to 4:30. I suppose the owners would go broke if all people did was come in for the Freebie and not buy anything else. Or worse, get a friend to pimp an extra Freebie. I place my orderâfeeling slightly guiltyâwhen I hear the bells over the door jangling a new arrival just as Ada walks away with her order. I look back to see a man holding the door open for Ada. He stays by the door once she's gone, and just stands there looking at the three of us still in line. He's jumpy. Nervous. He looks around the bodega but doesn't join the line and doesn't walk down the aisles of overpriced food. His left hand is in the pocket of his jacket, and my gut tells me to get out of the store. Just as I grab Bethanie's arm, the man brings his hand out of his jacket. It's too late.

“Alright, everybody stay cool. Don't start none, won't be none. Just give me what's in the drawer,” he says to the clerk, pointing the gun at him.

I'm hoping the clerk won't try to jump back and pull out whatever he has under the counter. Every owner of a little mom-and-pop in my neighborhood has something under the counter. Or maybe it's in the back with the tamale-making grandmother. But no one comes from the back and the clerk isn't the owner. From what I can tell, it's his first day and he doesn't care about the money or the shop, and opens the cash drawer immediately. Bethanie pretends she's from money, but I know she's a lot more like me than she lets on. She knows what to do in a situation like this. Stay quiet and let it play out. We steal a quick glance at one another and I know I'm right. Either she's been through it before, or always expected it to happen one day.

I'm trying to stay calm by thinking ahead to when it will be over. Ninety seconds from now, this will just be a story for us to tell. The perp will be in his car taking the exit onto I-70. Hopefully I will not have puked all over myself by then. Or worse.

But then the cute guy speaks.

“Look man, just calm down.”

What the hell? Just
shut up
, I want to scream. The clerk has already put the money into a paper bag and he's handing it over right now. This will all be over in thirty seconds if Preppie will just shut up.

The perp turns the gun in our direction. I lock eyes with him even though I know it's not the smartest thing to do. He realizes I can identify him, I can see him thinking about it, wondering what to do next. Suddenly, the smell of tamales sucker punches me and my stomach lurches. The wannabe-hero turns his back to the perp and shields Bethanie, pushing her to the ground and sending the contents of her bag all over the bodega floor. That move is like a cue for the perpâhe breaks our gaze, grabs the paper bag from the clerk and takes off.

I was rightâit's over in just about ninety seconds. None of us wants to stick around to give the cops a statement. Preppie, who might have gotten us all killed, helps Bethanie grab the stuff that fell out of her bag while I scan the store for cameras. There aren't any that I can tell. As the three of us leave the store, the clerk is picking up the phone to call either the owner or the police, depending on how good the owner is about obeying employment laws and paying his taxes. I manage not to puke until I reach the parking lot.

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7458-8

BOOK: My Own Worst Frenemy

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