Pressure - By Jeff Strand Page 0,2

of condoms, set it on the front counter, and then set the Snickers bar next to the box as if that might distract Mr. Greystein from my other purchase.

He regarded me for a long moment.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“Do your parents know you’re buying these?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t you think you’re a little young?”

I shrugged.

“I think you’re a lot young. I really don’t think I should be selling you these. I can’t imagine that a boy your age is responsible enough for that kind of thing, can you?”

I shrugged again.

He stared at me for a moment longer, and then his mouth curled up into the beginning of a smile.

“See, I don’t think you’ve fully considered this purchase,” he said, tapping the box. “These are lambskin condoms, which aren’t as trustworthy as the latex variety. The only reason you would want these is if you or your partner had an allergy to latex. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?”

I didn’t respond.

“Don’t be shy. If you’re not comfortable discussing the product, you’re certainly not comfortable using it. Do you or your partner have an allergy to latex?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, this isn’t what you want.” He shoved the box aside, leaned over the counter, and retrieved another box. “Now, this brand is ribbed for her pleasure. Do you know what ribbed means?”

“No.” My ears were ringing so loudly that I could barely hear him.

“It means that it has ridges that help with stimulation. That’s definitely something you want. It’s only common courtesy. I’m not sure about spermicidal lubricant…you seem like you might be too young for that even to be a problem, although I guess by the time you work through the entire box it could be a different story. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t be an informed consumer with an attitude like that. You wouldn’t just grab any old candy bar off the shelf, would you? You’d make sure that if you were in the mood for peanuts, it had peanuts, or if you wanted nougat, that it had nougat, and so on, right?”

“I guess so.”

“Of course so. May I ask your name?”

“Alex.”

“Tell me, Alex, do you honestly feel that you’re ready to buy these condoms? Or should you maybe call the whole idea off? The whole idea, if you know what I mean.”

I like to call what happened next the trigger event for everything else that was to happen in my life. That’s probably not accurate. The trigger could have been agreeing to steal the condoms in the first place, or meeting Paul and Marty, or my parents moving us to Trimble, or, hell, just my being born if you wanted to get technical about it. However, I can say with absolute certainty that in twelve years of a life that included no small number of poor judgment calls, this was far and away the worst decision I’d made up to that point.

I grabbed the box of condoms and ran.

I shoved open the door at full speed and sprinted across the dirt road toward Paul and Marty. “Go!” I screamed. “Get out of here! Go, quick!”

They took off riding without hesitation, knocking over my bicycle in the process. Nearly hyperventilating with panic, I pulled it upright, jumped on, and began frantically pedaling after them.

I didn’t dare look behind me because I just knew that Mr. Greystein was standing outside of his drugstore, holding a shotgun, not afraid to use it, even on a kid.

I cringed and gritted my teeth, waiting for the sound of the shotgun blast and the unwelcome sensation of my head being blown apart.

It didn’t come, but I still didn’t turn around. Maybe the only thing preventing my death was his unwillingness to shoot me in the back.

Would he call the police?

Would they be able to find me?

Of course they would. In a town this small, the police would have no problem finding a shoplifter based on Mr. Greystein’s physical description…

…especially when the idiot shoplifter had left his backpack right there on the counter.

I squeezed the hand brakes, leaned over, and threw up onto the dirt.

Just go back there. Return the condoms, apologize, and beg him not to call the police. Tell him you’ll pay twice as much as they cost…three times, if he wants. You don’t have that much right now, but next week when you get your allowance…

Marty and Paul, far ahead, turned the corner and vanished from sight.

Still no sound of a shotgun.

I needed to go back.

Instead, I threw up