Read Believe for Free Online Page B

you’re really out there—if you really wanted me to come to terms with this—I was here. Waiting. Still looking for a little bit of peace. Still looking for an explanation. A justification. A reason why so many terrible things have happened.
    I’m waiting for a sign. I may not cry, but I’m open to anything you’ve got!
    Totally by coincidence, the wind picked up. We held down our dresses, and Sharon pulled me, Miriam, and Abe into a close circle.
    â€œDon’t look now,” she said, so we all looked. Near the bottom of the hill stood two men and a woman carrying a purse big enough to hold three cameras. All three of them wore khakis—it was obvious they were on the job.
    Sharon ripped off her vintage red bomber jacket and pushed it in my face—it was a pretty obvious ploy, but maybe it would work. I took Lo’s umbrella, too. They told me to walk as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Sharon zipped up my jacket and tried to pose the way I stood. “If we’re lucky, they’ll think I’m you and you’re me. You’ll have time to get away.”

SEVEN
    Abe thought we should run. “Just to be safe.”
    I said no, we should stick to walking. Running attracted attention. It was the worst thing we could do.
    Miriam didn’t care what we did as long as she could take off her shoes first. She leaned against a mailbox. “I already have a blister,” she said. “Why don’t we just hold our ground? If you tell them no comment, what can they do?”
    I wished it were that easy. (It irritated me that she’d ask this.)
    To them, “No comment” was just the first thing I said before they took my picture. “No comment” was just a line; it was part of a script or a dance. It was the challenge to get me to say more. “No comment” was pretty much the same as saying, “On your mark, get set, go. Exploit me.”
    Miriam was naïve. Being the subject of a story was an invasion of privacy. It was not flattering, not fun, not exciting. It never ended with “No comment.”
    For a few steps, Abe turned around and walked backward.He stared at the street behind us.
    I had a bad feeling about this. “Where are they?” I asked. “Do you see them? Tell me the truth.”
    â€œThey’re two blocks back. I told you we should have run.” I turned around and looked. That was a huge mistake. I saw them, and they also saw me.
    â€œJanine! We’d like to talk to you.”
    â€œJanine, turn around.”
    â€œJanine, just one moment. This isn’t just about you.”
    Now we ran. Abe first, then me, then Miriam. We passed storefronts and a kid on a skateboard, and Abe practically plowed into a couple of people from my history class.
    We didn’t stop. Miriam threw her shoes like grenades. Now four strides ahead, Abe pointed to the big white church just across the street. It wasn’t our turn to walk, but he leaped into the intersection anyway. I heard him say, “Come on, J. We can make it.”
    But I stopped. Because at the same time, there was a car.
    In reality, the whole thing probably took three seconds. But like all disasters, it felt like it went on for hours. The problem was, there was nothing I could do to stop it.
    One.
    Miriam came from behind me and yanked me back. We hit the ground hard, and brakes squealed. Abe looked at me and for that one long second, we both knew what was about to happen. In the background, the church’s electronic bulletin board announced the schedule. Services are held every Saturday and Sunday. All are welcome.
    That blinked in my eyes.
    Two.
    Glass shattered. People screamed. Abe took flight like an angel, his arms out, his legs straight. When he landed, he made one sound.
    Thud.
    Three.
    For one moment, one endless moment, there was silence, like a vacuum. It was the same kind of silence I heard just after the bomb went off, when I