CRIMINAL.

PROLOGUE

I sit in the bank with my legs crossed, my yellow ear phones covering my ears. I'm sitting in a chair near the window since all of chairs by the walls were taken. I've been sitting here for a few minutes, but they feel like hours.

I heave a sigh, sinking lower into my seat. Why did Mom ask me to come to the bank? It's Saturday! It's not like she's busy even though when she called me downstairs and into the kitchen there were papers and charts spread out on the kitchen table.

My mom is what some call a workaholic which means she's addicted to her work. She pays more attention to her work more than her own two daughters. She even goes into work on weekend days sometimes to make up for missed work or some crap like that. I understand she's just trying to support us, but I just wish she would lay off work for a little bit and spend some time with her sixteen year old and nine year old daughters.

Even though I don't want to admit it, I'm actually glad she sent me down here. I couldn't stand hearing my little sister, Kristen, sing "Firework" by Katy Perry one more time. Even though she's nine years old, her room is still decorated with pink paint, unicorns, and glitter. Mom says that it fits Kristen's personality, but I really think it's just because she doesn't feel like changing it.

I look down at my phone and check my Facebook status as Mom's words pop up in my head; "Go down to the bank and take a small amount of money out of our bank account. Let's say forty or fifty dollars. That'll gets us through the summer." After that, it was a full on war. I don't see why I had to come down here and take some money out. I'm working two summer jobs which is just washing cars on Friday after school and my favorite store, Charlotte Russe, trying to save money for college which Mom has another bank account for. "It'll give you a chance to finally learn something you'll have to do in life," Mom said to me, but I knew she just didn't feel like going there.

And why did she have to make me walk there...and in this kind of heat? Walking here felt like walking in the desert for five years. Even though the bank is only eight blocks away, my sneakers were already soggy with sweat and I had to peel my ponytail away from the back of my neck. Thank God the A.C. is on. When I first stepped in, I felt like I was being dipped from head to toe in a bucket of ice.

I know it's strange, but the cold always makes me want to sleep. It makes my brain fuzzy and my eyes flutter. I know I should stay awake and wait until the line shrinks, wait until they call my name, but I can slowly feel myself slipping away. I'll just close my eyes for five minutes. One...two...three...four...

There's a loud crashing sound that jostles me awake and the scream of a lady next to me. Or is she in front of me? I can't tell.

I look to my left to see a group of people standing in front of the glass doors and windows with black ski masks and black jumpsuits on, carrying guns and trash bags. The one in the front points his gun at the front desk.

"Nobody move!" he yells. "This is a stick up!"

I follow as everyone in the bank drop to the floor. I hit the floor in a flash, hiding my phone and Mom's wallet under my stomach and quickly slipping my ear phones under the chair I was sitting in. I look over at the eight bank robbers while keeping my head low. Three of them are at the front desk, shouting orders as the workers behind the desk hurriedly put bundles of money into the trash bags. "Move your ass!" one of the robbers yells. I can tell by voice that she's girl and by the strains of black hair with the tips dyed purple splayed along her back.

The other four bank robbers are robbing the people on the floor. I feel my heart stop when one of the bank robbers presses the barrel of their gun to the head of the woman next to me. Silent tears fall down her cheeks as she opens her wallet.

Instead of watching this terrifying scene, I look at the glass from one of the windows littering the floor, looking like glittering diamonds.

When I hear the thundering steps of the bank robber next to me, and heart speeds up and my pulse quickens. I can feel Mom's wallet digging into my stomach, but I don't move. One twitch and my brains are blown.

I feel the barrel of the cold gun press against the side of my head and I go still. "Give me your money now," the bank robber growls to me, his breath hot on my face. My face twitches towards him a little and my heart thumps even faster. He's wearing a ski mask and a black jump suit like the rest of his group, but he's wearing Nike sneakers with them with ink blue laces.

I look up into the two holes that were cut for his eyes and look into them. His eyes are brown. No, not brown. They're hazel. I can see brown, but I also see green and gold swimming in them. He pulls the gun away from my head an inch as he stares down at me. My heart is beating so loud I can hear it pound away in my ears. Can he hear it too?

I swallow, saying a silent prayer as I reach for Mom's wallet when I hear the wail of police sirens.

I turn my head towards the window, where the noise is coming from, and see the glass on the floor flash from red to blue.

"Shit," the bank robber mutters under his breath and takes the gun away from my head, but I can still feel the coldness of it on my skin.

I hear the group of bank robbers' panicked voices and their shoes hitting the floor as they jump over the front desk and run the back of the bank. But the bank robber next to me stays with his eyes on me. I have the sudden urge to tell him to go, to push him towards the front desk, but I resist it and push the thought down. What do I care if he's arrested? He should be. Let them throw him in jail.

"Ricky!" one of the bank robbers behind the desk yells. "What the hell are you doing?! Let's go!" 

Ricky. So that's his name.

He turns back to me and suddenly yanks me by my arm towards him. I let out a surprised gasp as his lips connect with the outside of my ear.

"Wait for me," he whispers. "I'll come for you."

Then he's gone, over the front desk and out the back.

I don't even hear the yells of the police and the scared and shocked chatter of the victims in the bank. I don't even hear the announcement the chief makes. I don't even feel the hand of one of the police men helping me up. All I feel is the cold ring around my forehead from the gun and the sound of the bank robber's words in my head:

"Wait for me. I'll come for you."