Page 103 of Brian and Mina's Holiday Hits
“They are not like us. We don’t have an age gap. And you don’t have red hair.”
Really? That’s the part he’s comparing? I stare at the pictures on the board… they are very much like us. I don’t know how Brian doesn’t see it.
He takes my hands in his again. “Come on, Killer, it’ll be romantic.”
I knew this was his version of romance.
“I don’t know…” I say… I mean… Cole and Clarissa are sort of romantic. I don’t want to take out two lovers leading rival gangs. It’s so Romeo and Juliet.
“Listen,” Brian says, “You hate the cold. This is in Arizona. I specifically found us a kill to get you out of the cold. It wasn’t like I was looking for a forbidden love story, the theme just presented itself in the course of recon.”
I sigh and look at the board again. He really went to a lot of work. “Fuck,” I say. “When you put it that way, it is sort of romantic. And I do hate the cold.” But I’m still not totally on board, and Brian knows it.
“I really need to kill somebody.”
I sigh. “Okay, sign me up for this Valentine’s Massacre.”
“Excellent. You won’t regret it.”
FIFTY-TWO
brian
Friday,February 11th.
I used a part of the murder wall to brainstorm how to get into Aidan’s school Valentine’s party. I’m not proud. Luckily I managed to get this done while Mina was out shopping for my Valentine’s present. I told her I didn’t need anything, but she insisted.
Maybe that’s for the best, though. If she knew I was plotting how to get into this kid’s classroom to spy on his budding love life… well… she just can’t know this.
It’s going to be a bit of a narrow squeeze, time wise. I told Mina I was just handling some last minute things and to pack her shit, including extra Kevlar. Because you just never know. After the Valentine’s party, between driving back to the house, getting ready, and double checking all our stuff, we should have just enough time to get to the airport in time for check-in.
When I started planning this side quest, the way I saw it, I had two problems: how to get in, and how to not be recognized by the kid. It’s possible he doesn’t even remember what I look like. Ithasbeen seven months since he’s seen my actual face—not counting the store Santa incident since I was covered up with a big white beard and Santa hat that day.
But still, the last thing I need is to send this kid into a screaming fit and end up in prison because I felt some perverse compulsive need to be at this sugary school event to see the girl who has stolen his heart.
I managed this problem by getting some glasses and dressing, well, like a dad is the only way I can think to describe it. No black. Non-threatening. Khaki pants, blue polo shirt. I also styled my hair differently. Okay, I know it sounds like a completely Clark Kent disguise, but this kid is six, and I don’t plan to make eye contact. Besides, I’ve been working hard on my ‘nonthreatening vibe’ lately. This is a good opportunity to practice.
As it turns out, it was shockingly easy to get into the party. Apparently they required some parent volunteers to help manage the kids and give out treats. I did a little digging and built up a dossier on a few possible candidates. And by candidates I mean dads who work all the time who the school has never seen before who also have wives who never volunteer for anything. The deadbeat slacker parents.
I finally settled on being Dereck Saint, a banker in the city who is always incredibly busy but is taking a much-needed vacation to spend some time with his kid. Or that’s my story, anyway. I got on the list and I’ve just gone through their joke of a security checkpoint and got checked in. They do have metal detectors at least. And of course I left the heavy artillery at home. I’m not crazy.
I thought they might actually ask to see identification, in which case I was going to have to try to bluster my way through it because I didn’t have time to make a fake ID for this. But shockingly all they wanted was a name to check off a list. Some woman named Becky Susan Stanton—a serial killer name if Iever heard one—used a pink highlighter to mark Dereck Saint off the list. Okay, so I may have flirted with her a bit to distract her from making too big of a fuss about my credentials—or lack thereof.
Still, I’m going to have a word with someone about the security measures at this school. Just anybody could walk in here. It’s not like I’m a school shooter, but I do have a very high body count, so… yeah… there will be a strongly worded letter in the administration’s future to keep people like me out of this building.
Of course I know I’m only making my life more difficult for the future, but I tell myself this is a one-time lapse in sanity and that there is no reality in which I will darken the doors of this school again.
They try to make the parents wear name tags, but only one of the moms is actually following this rule. And I’m the only dad. There are five whole volunteers, which I think is overkill. How on earth do you need six adults—if we include the teacher—to manage thirty-two kids? It boggles the mind.
Though I’m fairly certain all the moms signed up so they could hang out together. They’re part of the stay-at-home-mom crowd and they clearly have their own social clique going. They keep looking at me and whispering and giggling, and I pray to god that none of them comes over and tries to find out whose parent I am. I’m self-conscious about the fact that I failed to grab a cheap wedding ring while concocting this harebrained scheme. It just slipped my mind that it was something I’d need in order to complete the scam I’m running.
Of course as a dad at the school I should probably be married—no judgement on the single dads, I’m just saying it fits the stereotype for the parents in this school district. Besides, Dereck Saint actually is married. It occurs to me that my flirting with Becky Susan Stanton could cause some problems in Saint’smarriage if the gossip mill catches wind of it. Oh well. Sorry, bro. It couldn’t be helped. I needed to spy on a six-year old. Priorities, maybe you should have some.
I spend the next awkward two hours avoiding the gaggle of moms while becoming the teacher’s pet. As I keep myself busy, trying to avoid eye contact with Aidan and also eye contact with the moms—two of which are divorced and on the prowl—I overhear snippets of their conversation which thankfully isn’t about me. Maybe I’m just dorky enough today to escape an uncomfortable interaction.
“Look at that,” Katie’s mom says, sounding concerned and pointing at a window.
I glance in the direction she’s pointing. Fuck me. That snow wasn’t supposed to roll in until tomorrow morning. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I do some quick amateur meteorologist math in my head to try to determine if the speed and size of the falling snowflakes will make a head-on collision with our scheduled flight time.
