Entry 2

I thought that Tuesday was going to be like any other day, and during the school day it pretty much was. I went to my classes and tried my best to pay attention. My first period French class went well as we reviewed some of the irregular verbs. Second period I had Algebra II. We had a homework due, and my Algebra II teacher is slightly evil. Instead of having us turn in our homework she calls on each of us for one problem. If you're answer is right, you get full credit for the homework. If it's wrong, you get a zero. Lucky for me, I have a brother who's great at math. John always checks my answers, so I don't worry about these stupid homework checks.

After Algebra I headed to AP European History. It was the first AP class I had ever taken, and I loved it. Our teacher was young and great about getting the class excited. Everyone loves him and that class. After that I had band. Good old band. It went as well as can be expected, working on the marching band music. The music for marching season is never particularly challenging. The challenge is being able to march while playing it. Afternoon classes of English and Chemistry went by in a blur. I just have a hard time paying attention after lunch. I can only think about how in a few hours I will be out of class.

Granted on Tuesdays I have marching band practice while John has football practice. The marching band practices on the baseball field while the football team practices on the football field. Our baseball field outfield is painted like a football field. It's not quite as large, the ten yard line is the fence, but I'm not required to go out that far this year. Last year I definitely had to stand against the fence for a few parts. Oh the woes of playing the clarinet. They always throw us in the back or in the end zones.

Football practice and band practice end at the same time, so John and I get to ride home together. John asked me about my day and listened to me babble about my friends or class or some such nonsense. I don't remember anymore what exactly I was talking about. The events that followed completely eclipsed it.

"I'm going to stop for gas," John said, glancing at his gas gauge. I probably shrugged in response, not caring if we stopped for gas or not. As long as we were home in time for dinner it did not matter to me.

John pulled into the gas station we normally stopped at, the one by the Publix. He got out of the car and I did too. “I’m going to get a coke,” I informed him. “Do you want anything?”

“Dr. Pepper,” he answered. “You should probably get Scott and Ellen something too, so we can drink them with dinner.” It was a good idea, so I skipped into the convenience store. Yes, I said skipped. I like skipping, and John doesn’t judge me.

John followed me. He had to pay first since he was using cash. I ignored him and went straight to the back of the store to study the vast array of soft drinks. John was fumbling with his wallet and making small talk with the cashier while I pulled a Dr. Pepper and a root beer from the large fridge.

When another man walked into the store, I did not even notice. I was trying to figure out what Scott and Ellen might want to drink with dinner. I did not know anyone else was there until I heard a line I had only ever heard in movies, “Everyone down now. Empty the cash register.”

I swear my heart stopped.

I dropped the two cokes I was holding and turned to look at the cash register. The cashier was pale as he stared down the barrel of a gun. The gunman looked even more nervous than the cashier; he could not have been much older than John.

Neither the gunman nor the cashier noticed me in the back, standing in a pool of soda from the bottles I had dropped. John saw me. He was standing a few feet away from the gunman. He had probably finished paying and was on his way out when the man pulled the gun. John’s eyes met mine, and I felt my heart drop.

John was going to play the hero.

I wanted to shout at him, to somehow dissuade him to stop, but I thought any sound I might make would alert the gunman to either of our presence. The gunman was already twitchy. A shout from me might make him accidentally kill the cashier.

John looked away from me and his eyes became very calculating. The gunman, as if pulled by the power of John’s calculating gaze, realized that John was standing not three feet away from him. The gunman turned, waving the gun, “I said get down!”

“You don’t want to do this,” John said, his voice completely calm. I stared at him, my mind screaming. How could John be so calm? How could he not be doing exactly as the gunman said? He should be down on the ground, not trying to talk the gunman out of his actions.

“I said get down!” the gunman shrieked, his voice cracking. I wished I was telepathic. I knew what John was thinking. He was thinking he could overtake the gunman with his athleticism instead of just doing as told. I bit my lip in fear until it was bleeding. John was just a football player, not a member of the SWAT team.

Suddenly John lunged at the gunman. The gunman looked surprised and in his surprise he pulled the trigger. I heard a scream fill the air and it was not until my throat began to hurt that I realized it was me screaming.

John stumbled back, looking down at his chest. His t-shirt was turning red as it soaked up his blood.