Part 2 of the Story You Wrote.

From the corner of my vision, I catch movement inside the restaurant.  The woman at the table is on her feet, shoving the large book into a tote bag.  She is following me, I'm sure of it.  I don't know how I know this for certain after the nonsense with the cashier, but I know it.  Before I step off the curb and cross the street, I shoot one more glance over my shoulder towards her.  Our eyes meet through the glass, clear, despite the bubbled layer of window tinting.  The blood in my veins chills at the hardness of her expression and the hurried way she slings the bag over her shoulder.  I run.

Unfortunately, I run right into traffic, breaking the cardinal rule of kidhood.

The white sports car--the one about to take me out at the knees--squeals to a stop.  The bumper pushes my calf hard enough to knock me off my feet and onto its scorching hood.

"Hey, jerk!  Get off my car!"  The driver yells, and he fumbles with his seatbelt like he's going to get out of the car and finish the job the car didn't.

Despite the heat from the engine on my bare arms, all I can do is stare at the young man through the windshield.  I recognize him, I recognize that ridiculous pompadour hairstyle, but the shock from near-death has erased his name from my memory.  

"GET. OFF. OF. MY. CAR!"  His eyes are deadly.  The dark-haired girl in the passenger seat looks frightened and embarrassed, her pink lips pressed together in an apologetic smile.  The pieces click together too slowly.  I raise myself from the hood and slide off the side.

Finally, it comes to me, and my heart drops into my shoes.  "I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Bieber.  I didn't mean to--"

The look on his face as I scrape across the hood is one of pure malice.  I cringe and drop to my feet on the asphalt, unwilling to acknowledge any damage I'd done to the sports car.  Somehow I'd scraped up just enough for a dumb taco filled with meat of questionable origin.  There was no chance I'd ever be able to afford a new paint job for The Biebs.

He clenches his jaw and slams his aviator sunglasses across his face.  "I don't need this publicity.  Leave me alone."  Without another word, without promise to make my life miserable, he speeds away.

The dark-haired girl turns to watch me, and all I can think is, "Why, Selena?  Of all people... Why him?"

My very next thought is to keep running.

TO BE CONTINUED...