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    I would never dream of going looking for trouble. Trouble usually ends in a trunk of a car or an old lady’s basement. Trouble involves discovering… there I go again. Giving it all away. Pft. I’m terrible, aren’t I?

    I had made it two more beautiful months without any incidents, to my greatest relief (unless you count accidently locking myself in the janitorial closet... I was so ashamed of myself, until the janitor told me that it happened to teachers all the time). Life, at last, was the way it should be.

    “Keep up,” Chloe, my sister said, leading us down a tiled hallway of her student building. “You still want lunch, don’t you?” Chloe had somehow convinced my parents to let me hang out at her college for the day. (I’m still trying to get the secret out of her—I never got to leave the house on my own anymore except for work, school, and soccer). I had only recently recovered from an astronomical cold, and moving around still left me nauseated.

    We passed the book store, and a swarm of students fell in step beside us. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying enough attention to Chloe to realize she had split off from the group I was surrounded by. I hardly noticed anything at all until I found myself outside. Lunch was supposed to be inside. Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

    I should have gone straight to the information desk. It was right by the door. I should have stayed there until my sister came back to find me. Y’know: It’s only after so many “should have” moments that humans begin to lack faith in their own judgment. But really, these kinds of things don’t happen to people like me. I shouldn’t have to worry for my life every time I go to the john.

    Instead of doing what I should have, I did what any teenager would have done: I went to go look for her. I had confidence in my sense of direction, and there were plenty of wholesome people. (I have no doubt that my pride, outfitted in its shiny new battle armor, had something to do with my need to find her myself). Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten since six thirty that morning, and hunger plus recently recovered cold equaled a bit of a headache. Headaches often leave me disoriented. As such, it wasn’t too long before I was completely lost.

    The hallways were darker, lit by windows rather than conventional means. I hadn’t seen a student for at least ten minutes. Normal people wouldn’t be worried. They’d just search rooms until they found someone. However, my normalcy had begun fading three months ago at the Sheep and Stork Pizzeria. Now would be a very good time to try texting Chloe

    What I should have done in the first place. I scavenged in my pockets, realizing with a sinking feeling that I had left my mobile in the car. Plugged in. It’s a fact of life: if you own a flip-phone, even if you know its importance, you are never going to remember to bring it anywhere.

    I continued wandering, growing more nervous by the minute. It took thoughts of Alyssa (and of my pride rattling his brand new shield) to keep me walking forward. After about thirty minutes, my fear had vanished. I still had an impressive headache, and there was no ignoring the cramps in my empty stomach, but it had been this long. I was fine. There was nothing wrong with my luck.

    I spoke too soon.

    Down the hall, an older man (Fifty? Fifty-five?) was fiddling with a doorknob. Salt and pepper (mostly salt) hair poked from beneath his hat in erratic patches, and his beard had tiny strands pointing straight up. The jeans he wore were patched, and his jacket was faded. He had a hoe propped up against the wall, and I could see a bulge at his ankle. Gardener and security guard? He glanced around, saw me, and went white.

    Great. Just Great. I had managed to stumble upon another person doing something they shouldn’t. If I turned now, I’d look like a liability. Instead, I continued at my same pace until I reached him.

    “Which way is the lunch court?” I asked, deciding, “What are you doing?” was a bit too brash and much too nosy for my own good. “I’m lost.” Really, I should have stopped and sprinted the other way. (Once again, “should have”)

    “Two lefts and a right,” he replied gruffly. His nametag identified him as Ricky Tour, gardener. He wore blue cleaning gloves, and the plaque on the door read, David Scoots Human Resources. There was no light coming from the room, and Mr. Tour didn’t have a key.

    “Thanks.” I continued in the direction he indicated, hoping he’d return to his work and pay me no mind. And for a while, I believed he did just that.

    When I checked behind, once around the corner and sufficiently down the hall, he hadn’t followed me. Satisfied, I didn’t look again. If he had cared about me seeing his doing something he shouldn’t, he could have gotten me then. I was an easy target. (This thought elicited a hearty negative shout from my pride).

    As I followed the instructions, I found that they had led me to a hallway just as dim, if not more so, than those before. Had the gardener been mistaken? What I did see, however, was an open door. And through said door there was a desk. With a phone. At least I could call my sister, and she’d be able to come to my aid.

    I came up beside the desk, checking the room number, and lifted the phone from the cradle. A blue-gloved hand came from behind, taking it from me and putting it back. I jumped, swinging around and accidentally slamming my lower spine into the desk. Mr. Tour stood not three feet from me, tired face pulled into a nasty scowl.

    “Thought you could pull the wool over my eyes with that little ‘lost’ act?” He demanded, sounding very much like a normal crotchety old man. However, his appearance, plus the gun that was in his left hand, left me nothing short of terrified. How? How had this happened AGAIN? The last two times I might’ve spilled a secret, they took me with them. I didn’t know if this time he’d just shoot me. I decided to do the smart thing and run for it.

    “Stand and fight, you COWARD!” my pride screamed as I tried to dodge to the left (mine—not his). It choked off as Mr. Tour clothes-lined me with killer reflexes, and I stumbled back, holding my throat. I prepared for another break for it as he moved back three steps to block my exit. To my surprise, he holstered the gun and held up his hands.

    “I won’t hurt you. No need to be so worried.” I could see he tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I didn’t say anything. My pride, painstakingly trying to return to its horse, told me to retort with something witty, but I ignored it.

    I doubted he would let me leave. Not after I saw the gun, and certainly not after my attempt to flee. I knew he knew I knew something was up (say that ten times fast), but we were at an impasse. He couldn’t leave his spot to come get me because it would risk me slipping around him. Nor could he shoot me (or threaten to shoot me) because a gunshot would attract a ton of attention on campus, and I couldn’t attempt to run past him or I’d risk getting caught (he looked pretty sturdy).

    Was it a good time to shout for help? Would they even believe me? (Seriously: the week after Dennis’ basement had nearly gotten me into a therapy session. Everyone would just think I had PTSD). But I couldn’t just stay here forever. I had to risk it.

    “CHLOOOOEEEE!” I barely dodged Mr. Tour as he angrily lunged for me. My pride collapsed, crawling for cover. I had sounded like a dying goose. And it hadn’t been extraordinarily loud, either. I had miscalculated, too: Mr. Tour was pretty fast. My head pounded as I ducked under his arm and staggered. “CHLOOOOEEEEE!” My second shout wasn’t any louder.

    Tour chased after me as I escaped into the hall. Apparently, he had anticipated this. I tripped headlong over his hoe, hitting the ground with my right shoulder. Faster than I could even lift my head from the floor, he was on me, fisting a hand in my hair and dragging me to my feet. I shouted again.

    “Quiet,” Tour ordered, pinning my arms to my side and covering my mouth. As if I would. Really: Why do they always tell you to be quiet like they expect you to obey? Who’s just gonna shut up and get kidnapped without a struggle? I bit his hand, like I should have done the last two times. He let go with a howl of pain.

    “CHLO-mmm!” He replaced his hand, this time protected by the sleeve of his jacket. Tour kicked the hoe into the room and closed the door with his foot. He forced me to walk sideways. I tried to kick him, but he pulled my head painfully to the side.

    “Do you want me to hurt you?”

    I stopped fighting, barely keeping my feet as he let me out of the maintenance entrance several doors down. We emerged into afternoon sunlight, and I scoured the surrounding area for anyone to help me. No luck. Only a beat-up truck with a cover over the bed greeted my eyes.

    Releasing my arms, Tour unlocked the back of the bed and opened it, shoving aside some large clay pots. I clawed at the jacket over my mouth, but to no avail. He lifted me by the waist, trying to get me inside, but I planted my feet just above the opening, pushing away.

    “Brat,” he growled, cursing. He removed his hand from my face to force me in. I used the opportunity to scream my head off (like a goose) and hope that someone would hear. Tour locked me in and sprinted to the front of the vehicle. It roared to life beneath me, drowning me out. I pounded on the windows as he drove from campus, but no one paid the old pick-up any mind.

    After I had screamed myself completely hoarse, I collapsed on my back, panting. My head swam, my lungs burned, and my stomach growled. Hard to think I was still hungry after the excitement. It had happened again. AGAIN. My parents were going to start thinking I went looking for this kind of thing. Once was a fluke. It might happen to anyone. Twice is less common: reserved for kids with money or a knack for investigation. Three times is unbelievable.

    Alone with my thoughts, I wondered what on earth the gardener really had been up to.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

    I would never dream of going looking for trouble. Trouble usually ends in a trunk of a car or an old lady’s basement. Trouble involves discovering… there I go again. Giving it all away. Pft. I’m terrible, aren’t I?

    I had made it two more beautiful months without any incidents, to my greatest relief (unless you count accidently locking myself in the janitorial closet... I was so ashamed of myself, until the janitor told me that it happened to teachers all the time). Life, at last, was the way it should be.

    “Keep up,” Chloe, my sister said, leading us down a tiled hallway of her student building. “You still want lunch, don’t you?” Chloe had somehow convinced my parents to let me hang out at her college for the day. (I’m still trying to get the secret out of her—I never got to leave the house on my own anymore except for work, school, and soccer). I had only recently recovered from an astronomical cold, and moving around still left me nauseated.

    We passed the book store, and a swarm of students fell in step beside us. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying enough attention to Chloe to realize she had split off from the group I was surrounded by. I hardly noticed anything at all until I found myself outside. Lunch was supposed to be inside. Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

    I should have gone straight to the information desk. It was right by the door. I should have stayed there until my sister came back to find me. Y’know: It’s only after so many “should have” moments that humans begin to lack faith in their own judgment. But really, these kinds of things don’t happen to people like me. I shouldn’t have to worry for my life every time I go to the john.

    Instead of doing what I should have, I did what any teenager would have done: I went to go look for her. I had confidence in my sense of direction, and there were plenty of wholesome people. (I have no doubt that my pride, outfitted in its shiny new battle armor, had something to do with my need to find her myself). Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten since six thirty that morning, and hunger plus recently recovered cold equaled a bit of a headache. Headaches often leave me disoriented. As such, it wasn’t too long before I was completely lost.

    The hallways were darker, lit by windows rather than conventional means. I hadn’t seen a student for at least ten minutes. Normal people wouldn’t be worried. They’d just search rooms until they found someone. However, my normalcy had begun fading three months ago at the Sheep and Stork Pizzeria. Now would be a very good time to try texting Chloe

    What I should have done in the first place. I scavenged in my pockets, realizing with a sinking feeling that I had left my mobile in the car. Plugged in. It’s a fact of life: if you own a flip-phone, even if you know its importance, you are never going to remember to bring it anywhere.

    I continued wandering, growing more nervous by the minute. It took thoughts of Alyssa (and of my pride rattling his brand new shield) to keep me walking forward. After about thirty minutes, my fear had vanished. I still had an impressive headache, and there was no ignoring the cramps in my empty stomach, but it had been this long. I was fine. There was nothing wrong with my luck.

    I spoke too soon.

    Down the hall, an older man (Fifty? Fifty-five?) was fiddling with a doorknob. Salt and pepper (mostly salt) hair poked from beneath his hat in erratic patches, and his beard had tiny strands pointing straight up. The jeans he wore were patched, and his jacket was faded. He had a hoe propped up against the wall, and I could see a bulge at his ankle. Gardener and security guard? He glanced around, saw me, and went white.

    Great. Just Great. I had managed to stumble upon another person doing something they shouldn’t. If I turned now, I’d look like a liability. Instead, I continued at my same pace until I reached him.

    “Which way is the lunch court?” I asked, deciding, “What are you doing?” was a bit too brash and much too nosy for my own good. “I’m lost.” Really, I should have stopped and sprinted the other way. (Once again, “should have”)

    “Two lefts and a right,” he replied gruffly. His nametag identified him as Ricky Tour, gardener. He wore blue cleaning gloves, and the plaque on the door read, David Scoots Human Resources. There was no light coming from the room, and Mr. Tour didn’t have a key.

    “Thanks.” I continued in the direction he indicated, hoping he’d return to his work and pay me no mind. And for a while, I believed he did just that.

    When I checked behind, once around the corner and sufficiently down the hall, he hadn’t followed me. Satisfied, I didn’t look again. If he had cared about me seeing his doing something he shouldn’t, he could have gotten me then. I was an easy target. (This thought elicited a hearty negative shout from my pride).

    As I followed the instructions, I found that they had led me to a hallway just as dim, if not more so, than those before. Had the gardener been mistaken? What I did see, however, was an open door. And through said door there was a desk. With a phone. At least I could call my sister, and she’d be able to come to my aid.

    I came up beside the desk, checking the room number, and lifted the phone from the cradle. A blue-gloved hand came from behind, taking it from me and putting it back. I jumped, swinging around and accidentally slamming my lower spine into the desk. Mr. Tour stood not three feet from me, tired face pulled into a nasty scowl.

    “Thought you could pull the wool over my eyes with that little ‘lost’ act?” He demanded, sounding very much like a normal crotchety old man. However, his appearance, plus the gun that was in his left hand, left me nothing short of terrified. How? How had this happened AGAIN? The last two times I might’ve spilled a secret, they took me with them. I didn’t know if this time he’d just shoot me. I decided to do the smart thing and run for it.

    “Stand and fight, you COWARD!” my pride screamed as I tried to dodge to the left (mine—not his). It choked off as Mr. Tour clothes-lined me with killer reflexes, and I stumbled back, holding my throat. I prepared for another break for it as he moved back three steps to block my exit. To my surprise, he holstered the gun and held up his hands.

    “I won’t hurt you. No need to be so worried.” I could see he tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I didn’t say anything. My pride, painstakingly trying to return to its horse, told me to retort with something witty, but I ignored it.

    I doubted he would let me leave. Not after I saw the gun, and certainly not after my attempt to flee. I knew he knew I knew something was up (say that ten times fast), but we were at an impasse. He couldn’t leave his spot to come get me because it would risk me slipping around him. Nor could he shoot me (or threaten to shoot me) because a gunshot would attract a ton of attention on campus, and I couldn’t attempt to run past him or I’d risk getting caught (he looked pretty sturdy).

    Was it a good time to shout for help? Would they even believe me? (Seriously: the week after Dennis’ basement had nearly gotten me into a therapy session. Everyone would just think I had PTSD). But I couldn’t just stay here forever. I had to risk it.

    “CHLOOOOEEEE!” I barely dodged Mr. Tour as he angrily lunged for me. My pride collapsed, crawling for cover. I had sounded like a dying goose. And it hadn’t been extraordinarily loud, either. I had miscalculated, too: Mr. Tour was pretty fast. My head pounded as I ducked under his arm and staggered. “CHLOOOOEEEEE!” My second shout wasn’t any louder.

    Tour chased after me as I escaped into the hall. Apparently, he had anticipated this. I tripped headlong over his hoe, hitting the ground with my right shoulder. Faster than I could even lift my head from the floor, he was on me, fisting a hand in my hair and dragging me to my feet. I shouted again.

    “Quiet,” Tour ordered, pinning my arms to my side and covering my mouth. As if I would. Really: Why do they always tell you to be quiet like they expect you to obey? Who’s just gonna shut up and get kidnapped without a struggle? I bit his hand, like I should have done the last two times. He let go with a howl of pain.

    “CHLO-mmm!” He replaced his hand, this time protected by the sleeve of his jacket. Tour kicked the hoe into the room and closed the door with his foot. He forced me to walk sideways. I tried to kick him, but he pulled my head painfully to the side.

    “Do you want me to hurt you?”

    I stopped fighting, barely keeping my feet as he let me out of the maintenance entrance several doors down. We emerged into afternoon sunlight, and I scoured the surrounding area for anyone to help me. No luck. Only a beat-up truck with a cover over the bed greeted my eyes.

    Releasing my arms, Tour unlocked the back of the bed and opened it, shoving aside some large clay pots. I clawed at the jacket over my mouth, but to no avail. He lifted me by the waist, trying to get me inside, but I planted my feet just above the opening, pushing away.

    “Brat,” he growled, cursing. He removed his hand from my face to force me in. I used the opportunity to scream my head off (like a goose) and hope that someone would hear. Tour locked me in and sprinted to the front of the vehicle. It roared to life beneath me, drowning me out. I pounded on the windows as he drove from campus, but no one paid the old pick-up any mind.

    After I had screamed myself completely hoarse, I collapsed on my back, panting. My head swam, my lungs burned, and my stomach growled. Hard to think I was still hungry after the excitement. It had happened again. AGAIN. My parents were going to start thinking I went looking for this kind of thing. Once was a fluke. It might happen to anyone. Twice is less common: reserved for kids with money or a knack for investigation. Three times is unbelievable.

    Alone with my thoughts, I wondered what on earth the gardener really had been up to.