Tor Maddox: Disarmed

Tor Maddox: Disarmed (complete)

None of this would have happened if I hadn't walked in on my parents in the family room. No—not at all what you're thinking. Everyone was fully dressed, feet on the floor. I walked in on them having a heated discussion about me and my future. After I'd listened for a minute from the kitchen, just out of sight.

Mom was saying, "When I was their age I could sling a burger with the best of them."

Dad replied, "I'm sure you could, Sunshine, and drain a basket of fries with that. Is that really what you think Tor and Rody should be doing with their last gasp of freedom?"

From the yelp, I think Mom swatted Dad. "Last gasp? At fifteen?"

"You know what I mean," he said. "Look, I know. I volunteered as a mini-paramedic all through high school. I'm just reluctant to accept that a carefree childhood's becoming a thing of the past. It's a—"

"Rody's got a job all lined up," Mom said with unconcealed pride.

That's when I burst in. "Rody's got a job? Since when? Doing what?" A full nine and a half months younger than me, what was my little brother qualified to do?

A loud descending thump on the stairs signaled that Rody must have been listening from a different vantage, that is, a conveniently sneaky spot.

"As soon as school's out, he'll be working days at the garden center," Mom reported. "It pays well over minimum wage."

"So does babysitting," I said, stung that Rody's potential earning power for the summer was likely much higher than mine. "It's just not as regular."

Mom's mouth twisted in a half smile. "It's not about the money, sweetie. It's more about the responsibility and, well to be honest, thinking ahead to college applications."

I was responsible. I was pulling in straight A minuses. I danced ballet fifteen hours a week. What was she so worried about?

At that Dad flumped into a chair. "Suze, college planning? Already? They're just freshmen."

"Only for one more week," Rody put in to straighten the record.

"Well, I guess I could do that, too, Mom," I suggested. "I mean, I like flowers." I could probably name at least eight kinds. Roses, daisies, gardenias, carnations...oh spit. Maybe not.

Rody snorted. "Hauling bags of mulch and planting mix is more like it." He poked my right bicep. "Feel like watering two thousand specimens? Loading cars with eighty pound bags of decorative rocks?"

"Oh. Ew." I rubbed my arm. "That glamorous job is all yours, bro." Manual labor? In the heat of San Diego summer? Not so appealing.

My original plan for the next twelve weeks of my last gasp of freedom had been to volunteer at dance camp, hang out at the mall with my girls, go to the beach a lot, and do the odd babysitting job for the neighbors. In the end, under the potential cloud of being thought a shirker or an unworthy college applicant some day, I got a summer job at the closest convenience store, working the cash register. I figured on my resume I could put that I'd worked in small business finance. Yes. Close enough.

So that's how I happened to be on my own at 8:12 pm on June 19 when two armed gunmen burst through the door. Okay, only one was armed, and they were more like gunboys. And they didn't so much burst as nervously shuffle in, avoiding eye contact, elbowing each other, searching the shelves. And I didn't see the gun at first.

"Can I help you find something?" I asked from behind the counter.

The first boy spun around, eyes wide, all pupils. "Yeah," he said, with a little voice crack. Then stronger: "Yeah. You can give us everything in the cash register. And beer."