Page 18 of Wounded Dance
Blitz sits up, both feet down. “All right, let’s hit it. Should we put on our ninja warrior clothes?”
“I think you’re enjoying this a little bit too much,” I say.
“You keep my life very interesting, Princess,” he says. “I like it.”
We head inside. I want to blend in as we walk into the church, so I switch to a simple skirt and light sweater. Blitz puts on khakis and the purple shirt I rejected before the parent dinner. He hasn’t mentioned when we might see his mom and dad again, but I’m guessing it won’t be soon.
“Let’s get our church on!” he says.
We head down to the lobby. This time, a plain silver Mazda waits for us with the valet.
“Your rental?” I ask.
“Boring as I could get it,” he says. “If you like it, I’ll buy you one.”
“I can’t even drive,” I tell him. My parents never let me have that freedom.
“Right,” he says. “We need to fix that.”
We take off down the sunny streets. I try to steady my nerves.
The last time I showed up at church, we waited in the parking lot for my parents to come out. So I didn’t see anyone else or revisit the places I once knew. This time, we have to actually go in.
We arrive just as the service begins. A few latecomers hurry across the lot. “Park on the curb,” I say.
“Your wish is my command,” Blitz says. “I’m just the getaway driver.”
His light manner helps calm me. “I’m going in alone,” I say. “You might be recognized and attract attention.”
“I would never jeopardize the mission,” he says with a wink. “I’ll just sit here with my best movie mafia look.” He smacks the steering wheel. “I knew I should have brought my mustache collection from LA.”
“Oh, Blitz,” I say.
“What? You don’t think I’d look sexy with a mustache?”
I stare out the window. The parking lot is empty now. It’s five after the hour. My stomach flutters with nerves.
Which is ridiculous. I know everybody here. But I’m going in to steal something. I don’t think I can risk the time it would take to make a copy at the ancient machine behind Irma’s desk.
Actually, I have my phone. I can just take a picture of the documents.
“I’m going in,” I say. “I’ll text you if anything goes wrong.”
Blitz grips the steering wheel and hunkers down low. “I’ll be ready.”
This makes me laugh as I open the door. Blitz helps, always.
One more latecomer parks as I cross the lot, and I feel anxious that it might be someone who knows my family well enough to approach them about seeing me. I don’t want anyone to tip Dad off that I am here.
I try to surreptitiously glance at the car as an elderly husband and wife get out. We know them, but not well. I can’t think of their names. Should be safe enough.
They will go through the main door to the sanctuary. I’ll be going in the side to the office.
I pass Mom’s white minivan and run my fingers through the dirt on the side. They are here, of course. They never miss a Sunday.
The couple moves toward the front of the building. I approach the side and take a deep breath. The office should be deserted. If it’s not, I’ll think of something.
My hand tugs the handle forward. When the door swings open, I peek in. Irma’s desk is just inside, her seat vacant. I feel a pang as I look around the room I used to work in every week.
