"If I Were Brave Enough"

This story starts in a convenience store.

You know, one of those, dingy, dirty convenience stores. Most of them aren't quite convenient, either. They're tucked into little holes in the wall, and, some times of the day (read, night), they're convenient places to grab a bullet. And me, being a 17-year-old girl, shouldn't really be in any of those places. But, holy dammit, I was craving Cheetos something fierce, and they had a poster for them in the window. Granted, the poster was older than I am, but if it's been there that long, the only thing to worry about was that the individual bags were also older than me.

But, there I was, 17, craving Cheetos, and in a crappy-ass convenience store.

I shouldn't even have been there. I mean, the store was right down the street from me, and my parents and brother were out. I'd grabbed my keys, threw on some clothes, and ran as fast as I could to the store. If they came home and found me not there, I would be deader than dead. And that's pretty damn dead. And it's really retarded, too, you know, because if I'm old enough to stay home alone, I'm old enough to run down the street and buy Cheetos. It's not like I was getting cigarettes, and I am 17. How can someone be 17 and not be able to go out on their own? Which I'm not, by the way. Allowed, I mean. If my parents caught me right then – Anyway, you get the picture, and I'm getting into stuff you don't need to even know, so back to my Cheetos.

The store is empty, except for the clerk and me, and I'm distracted by a magazine when I know I shouldn't be. I have to get back home before they do.

But I'm distracted by some asinine, blonde, bitch, flavor-of-the-week who needs less boobs and more brains. And she's trying to encourage girls my age, and younger, to "be all that you can be" and UUUUGH. Bullshit. Shut up, Hilicolarisey. And then—

"Give me all the money in the register."

Oh. No way.

I'm short, I'm concealed, I could stay behind this rack the entire time and Mr. Mugger will never know I'm here. I can't sneak out now. But I could crouch down, never be seen and run as soon as he leaves and before the cops arrive. It'll be a two-minute segment on the news, I'll have my Cheetos, and everyone will be happy.

I peek between the magazines and see someone who looks like they didn't have a very happy Happy Hour. He's got be about my dad's age – fiftyish – and like he just stumbled out of the nearest strip joint. (And, yeah, I don't know any around here.) A barcode comb-over and a tie, minus the suit, give away he's got the worst office job ever. He's obviously drunk, and he's got a gun. That's always a great combination.

And right next to the magazines is a small toy aisle, and there's a baseball bat. It's not even foam; it's a real, metal bat. It's red. And I'm… Oh, I'm going to play hero, aren't I? I'm going to grab that bat, sneak up behind him, seem like I'm going to save the day, but have him turn at the last minute and that's it – No more me. Great. And I'm already holding the bat.

From the angle I approach, the clerk can't see me, so as I raise the bat, he catches the first glimpse of me. 'Please don't say anything, clerk-man. Please don't get me shot. Please, please, please.'

WHAM!

And Mr. Working-class Villain is out cold. The clerk looks at tiny little me in amazement. I hold up the Cheetos bag and point to the crook, "This, for these?" He nods. "Thanks."

I turn. "Wait! I have to call the cops. You're… you're a hero, girl!"

"Yeah, and I'm also gonna be a grounded hero if I'm not home before my parents are. Tell them an unidentified patron saved you, okay? See you on the 6 o'clock news?"

He nods again. "Thanks."

I can't help saying it; too much of a geek not to. "'Tweren't nothing."