Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 40, No. 6, June, 1995

After the movie, they go to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. I can’t go in because they’ll see me, but I can watch them through the big glass window from across the street. Alicia is walking up and down the store, staring at all the different flavors like she can’t make up her mind what to get. More lies. Whenever we go to Baskin-Robbins, Alicia gets Rocky Road. She always gets Rocky Road.

When they finally come out of the store, I see which flavor she picked. Strawberry.

They cross the street and sit on a bench right in front of the tree I’m hiding behind. They’re so close I can almost touch them.

“So,” Jason says, like he couldn’t care less, “you’re not going out with anyone, are you?”

“No,” Alicia says. “Why?” Her voice is breathy and high. I’ve never heard her sound like this before.

“I don’t know,” Jason says. “I sort of thought, like, maybe you and Billiams...”

“Oh no,” Alicia says, very fast. “He’s just a friend.”

Jason snorts. “How could you even be friends with him? He’s such a dweeb!”

I wait to hear what Alicia says. My heart feels like it’s being squeezed by a giant fist.

She laughs her nasty laugh. “I don’t know. I’ve known him forever — his mother used to come in to clean for us sometimes, and she always brought him with her. I mean, I’d never go out with him. I guess I feel sorry for him, you know? At least I used to.” She lowers her voice. “You know what he did to me a couple of weeks ago?” And she tells him about what happened in my room and how disgusting it was. They both laugh about it like it’s the funniest joke they’ve ever heard.

I stop listening. My heart is exploding, and I can’t breathe. All I can think is I can’t believe it. This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

Until he kisses her.

He. Kisses. Her.

Right out on Northern Boulevard! I almost run to her then, no matter what she said about me. To help. To pull him off her, that pervert, that sex maniac.

And then.

She’s kissing him back.

All I can do is stand there. The kiss goes on and on. It will never end. People are looking at them, old people are looking at Alicia and Jason and then at each other, smiling. They are happy for them. One old lady points to Alicia’s ice cream cone, which she still holds in her hand. It drips slowly onto the ground.

And then I know what to do. What I have to do.

Even though it’s almost eight thirty and the sun went down half an hour ago, it’s still really warm out, and I’m sweating. I don’t mind admitting that I’m nervous, I’m really nervous, which just makes me sweat even more.

The thing is, I called Alicia yesterday and apologized to her. I begged her, really begged her, to forgive me for what I did that day in my bedroom. She finally gave in. I didn’t think she would at first, but she finally did. She even agreed to meet me at our special place down by the bay.

I bought her a present. Alicia loves presents.

God, it’s hot. My hands are all slippery. I wipe them on the sides of my pants, and suddenly Alicia’s here, walking toward me. She’s so pretty that I smile at her and for a second I almost forget. I almost forget, and then I remember.

What I remember is this:

She doesn’t love me. She’ll never marry me. She loves Jason.

Alicia opens the box with the scarf in it and smiles at me.

I almost forget, then remember.

The secret is to cut off their air before they know what’s happening, before they have a chance to scratch you.

Once I remember that, the rest is easy.

Strangle, strangle.

Crazy Carlos Picks a Winner

by Susan J. Pethick

The last strains of “Paperback Writer” were fading out as I waited for “Crazy” Carlos Rubio to announce the afternoon’s thousand dollar winner on KRZY. I felt like a thirteen-year-old, staring at the cheap speakers like they held the secrets of the universe, but hey, a thousand bucks is a thousand bucks. Besides, I needed the money.

To say it had been a slow couple of months was to say the Hundred Years’ War had been a bit long. It was the fifteenth already, and I hadn’t paid anything but the mortgage; Rose City Electric was threatening to cut off my power, and my relationship with the local 7-Eleven was now on a cash-only basis. That’s the problem with self-employment. It can quickly turn into self-unemployment. I tweaked the receiver and homed in on 98.7 FM.

“This is Carlos-the-rube Rubio, your crazy DJ on KRZY. How crazy am I?”

I cringed as Carlos let loose with one of his patented laughs: a hyena with hiccups.

“Crazy enough to give away one thousand dollars every single day. And all you have to do to win is send a postcard with your name and phone number on it to—”

I thought back to the hundreds of postcards I’d sent this guy, trying to skew the odds in my favor — so far without luck — and sighed impatiently.

“Cut the crap, Carlos, and pull my card out of the hopper.”

“All right, folks. I’m reaching into my bag...”

“Come on, come on...”

“I’m pulling out today’s card...”

“Hurry up!”

“I’m looking at the name...”