Skull of the Zipa PREVIEW CHAPTERS, Chuck Chitwood [ebook reader library .txt] 📗

as I looked at my dad. My father pushed his papers back in his bag and smiled broadly. I didn’t smile back.

He stood up. “Marguerite, something is missing. I think this dress needs some shiny high heels. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The owner scurried around, “Yes, indeed, very few women are tall enough to pull off this elegant length.” She added in a slightly louder voice, “Most girls do that faux club girl look with the micro-mini-dresses, because true elegance is difficult to pull off at such a young age.” She handed me a pair of silver shoes.

I stepped cautiously into the shoes the way Cinderella stepped into her glass slipper. Perfect. Just like Cinderella. Either Marguerite had been dressing people a long time because she never even asked for my shoe size or she was a fairy godmother. I noticed the women in the shop, the older ones, looking at me with smiles.

Marguerite sighed. “Oh, my! I think you are probably the only girl who can do that gown justice! It fits like it was made for you.”

There was an audible gasp of frustration from Courtney and the mini-Courtneys. After which they threw their noses in the air and stomped out of the place like two year olds. I glanced in a mirror and smiled. Yeah, I guess I do look sorta awesome.

And with that, I let their comments fade from my mind. I couldn’t believe I had let them get in my head. When it comes to people like Courtney, my head tells me their opinions don’t matter. But my heart doesn’t always get the message. Only at that exact moment, I didn’t care.

“Hadassah, you are just as beautiful and strong as your mother.” Dad reached for his wallet and pulled out a credit card. “We’ll take the dress and the shoes. Anything else? Oh, wait. There should be a purse or something that goes with it, right?”

“It’s called a clutch, Dad.” Seriously? For a professor there were a lot of things my father didn’t have a clue about. Of course, maybe most dads don’t know what clutches are.

“Okay,” Dad turned and said in his I am so cool voice, “Marguerite, clutch me, please.”

The plump woman giggled. “Dr. Green, what would the Chamber of Commerce think?”

Oh, good grief. With my dress, shoes, and an adorable clutch, I just knew prom was going to be awesome. We thanked Marguerite and Amber for all their help and left the Style Shoppe. As we got in the car I said, “About your trip to South America. I guess I’m good with it. But if I don’t get my falafel, you’re flying me to Israel for fall break.”

“Ha! You’re eighteen now. You’re on your own, kid.”

Chapter 5 - MORE COFFEE

 

What I wouldn’t give right now to be enjoying a falafel and some rich coffee. The howler monkeys have stopped their incessant screaming. It must be time for them to sleep. With everything so quiet around me, I can feel my heart rate return to normal. I’ve got a couple of hours to try and get some rest before the sun comes up. I think Mauricio is just as tired as I am because I can see him yawn as he sits by the fire with the rifle on the ground by his feet.

 

I watch him peel a small, green banana and my stomach growls at the sight of food. I am so hungry. Dinner was just a small bowl of murky-colored soup called sancocho made with plantains, potatoes, and other vegetables stewed for hours with some meat, which I think might have been goat. But that was hours ago… or maybe days ago. I don’t know.

 

I need to eat. Then I smell something. Something familiar. Coffee.

 

I can see Mauricio making coffee in a small pot on the fire and I can practically taste the stuff. If my mouth wasn’t so dry, I’m sure I’d be salivating but I haven’t had anything to drink in hours. I need to eat and I’d love some coffee.

 

Just as the thought enters my head, I can hear my father in the background. Haddie, you NEED liquid. You WANT something to eat. What’s more important? The dad in my head is right. Maybe I can convince Mauricio to give me some of his beautiful, rich, pure 100% Colombian coffee.

 

I call out to him hoping to catch his attention. “Excuse me.” But he’s so busy inhaling the aroma of the fresh coffee he doesn’t hear me. I call out a bit louder. “Hey, Mauricio.”

 

He gets up and walks toward me with the coffee in his hand, totally forgetting that he left the rifle by the fire. The smell of coffee wafts in my direction with each step as he gets closer. “¿Qué?”

 

Spanish, of course. Okay, let’s see if I can remember my basic Spanish. I guess it won’t hurt to throw in a little damsel in distress, too. Good grief. I cannot believe I’m going to do this… again. I bat my eyes. “¿Hablas Inglés?”

 

He smiles. “Sí. Un poco.”

At least he’s a polite kidnapper. But when I get my hands on that rifle, he’s dead. “Maurico,” I smile and look up at him like one of those sappy girls in a rom-com. “I’m hungry. Can I have some food? Or some coffee?” I pull my bound hands up to my face like I’m praying. He stares at me. His Un poco is mucho un poco. Think, Haddie, think. What’s the word? Comer. Eat. Yes. Beber. Drink. “Uh… ¿Poco que comer y beber, por favor?” My Spanish is so rusty, I know I must sound like an idiot. I don’t care. I’m too hungry to care.

 

But I can see from the look in his eyes he understands. I watch him make his way to the truck where he starts to rummage around—making entirely too much noise. I can only assume he found what he was looking for because the noise stops and I see him walking back towards me. In his hands he’s carrying some bread and a mango.

 

He hands me the piece of bread and I cram it into my mouth. Oh my gosh. It’s a little stale and tough to chew, but I don’t care. It tastes good. He stares at me gobbling down a few bites and then pulls a knife from the sheath on his waistband. He begins peeling the mango and I stop eating the bread. Not because I want to but because I don’t know when I’ll get anything else to eat. And with his attention focused on the mango, I take the opportunity to take what’s left of the bread and hide it under my shirt so when he’s gone I can put it in one of my many pockets of my cargo pants.

 

Mauricio holds a piece of mango he’s sliced between his knife and thumb then puts it so close to my face the blade touches my skin. I try to stay as still as possible so I don’t lose an eye or wind up with a jagged scar down the side of my face like Santiago’s.

 

As soon as the fruit hits my tongue, I cannot believe how fabulous it tastes. But best of all, the sweet juices coat my throat which is even drier thanks to the bread I just ate. The mango is so juicy, it’s almost too juicy to swallow given that I am not exactly in a position where it’s easy to swallow. I start coughing.

 

On instinct, I reach for my throat and Mauricio also reacts by grabbing my shoulders then sort of lifts me upright so I won’t choke to death. In that moment, I feel the rope around my wrist loosen a tad and I realize I might have a way to get a hand free. “Más, por favor.”

 

“Ok. Sí. Sí” Mauricio slices a large piece of the mango. “Ok. Puede apoyarse en mí.”

 

“What? ¿Qué?”

 

“Uh.” I can see Mauricio searching for words in English. “I put you on shoulder.”

 

“Oh! Sí!” He hands me slice of mango and lifts me so I’m sitting fairly upright on his shoulder. With his head positioned so he can’t see me, I eat the mango, loudly, while pulling my hand almost completely free from the rope. When I’m done, he lowers me and I see him put the knife back in its sheath. Only he doesn’t snap the thing closed and I see another opportunity. I stare at the unsecured knife at his waist.

 

Mauricio eats the last of the fruit and then throws the pit into the jungle causing it to crash through leaves and land with a thud as he walks back to the fire. I cringe expecting someone to come tearing out of one of the tents. But no one does. And that’s when it dawns on me, I don’t have to be I don’t have to be super quiet to escape. I just need to plan a quick escape.

 

I pull my right hand completely out of the restraint, stretch out my arm, and splay my fingers. I rub my thighs, hard, trying to force the blood to my numb limbs because I know if I hit the ground and have to make a run for it, my legs have to be ready to move. I reach up with both hands, and pull myself up to a full sitting position so I can work on the knot around my legs. But it’s tied too well. I know I need Mauricio’s knife.

 

My mind races for a moment until I come up with something that might work. I look at Mauricio and can tell he’s dozing off because of the way his head bobs around.I wiggle back down so he won’t notice. “Psssst. Mauricio. Hey!”

 

His head snaps to attention. “¿Y ahora qué? What?”

 

“Café, por favor?” I motion to the pot of dark liquid and put my hands to my mouth like I’m drinking as I bat my eyes again. Thanks for the sparkling blue eyes, Dad.

 

Mauricio glances around as if I just asked him to shoplift or break out into song then picks up the pot with the coffee in it. He pours some coffee into the same cup he used earlier. Oh joy, I wonder what germs or mouth disease this guy is carrying.

 

I glance down at the knife on his belt as he hands me the cup. I struggle to take a sip. It’s not easy to put a drink at an angle. I manage to get some in my mouth and it’s so good. I don’t even care that there are a few grounds in the liquid. It’s warm and soothing. Such a shame I’m going to have to waste it but plan requires sacrifice: the tasty coffee.

 

Knowing he won’t let me chock to death because if that were to happen he’d have to explain what happened to Santiago, I start coughing. The rope starts to swing back and forth. Mauricio jumps beneath me and lifts me up to his shoulders. Perfect.

 

Keeping my eye on the knife, I cough more and drop the coffee cup knowing it will distract him. With his attention focused down and his arms