“Told you that spring tryouts weren’t the end of it.” Dad motions for me to follow Rob. “Go blow him away.”
Beth
THE OLDER PRISON GUARD, the nice one, walks beside me. He didn’t put the cuffs on supertight like the other dickhead guard. He isn’t in my face, trying to scare the shit out of me. He’s not trying to reenact a scene from Cops. He just walks next to me, ignoring my existence.
I’m all for silence after listening to a girl come down from a bad acid trip last night.
Maybe it was today.
I don’t have a clue what time of day it is.
They gave me breakfast.
They discussed lunch.
It must be morning. Maybe midday.
The guard opens the door to what I can only describe as an interrogation room. Other than the holding cell I’ve shared with the fifteen-year-old who’s way too strung out for my taste, this is where I’ve spent the majority of my time since they arrested me for destruction of property. The guard relaxes his back against the wall. I sit at the table.
I need a cigarette.
Bad.
Unbelievably bad.
Like I would rip off my own arm if I could get one drag.
“What are you coming down from?” The guard stares at my fingers.
I stop tapping the table. “Nicotine.”
“That’s rough,” he says. “I never kicked it.”
“Yeah. It f**king blows.”
The police officer who arrested me last night—this morning—steps into the room.
“She speaks.”
Yeah. Didn’t mean to. I clamp my mouth shut. Last night, this morning—who the hell knows—I managed to keep silent when they grilled me on my mom, my home life, my mom’s boyfriend. I refused to talk, refused to say one word, because if I did, I could have said the wrong thing and sent my mom to jail.
There’s no way I could live with that.
I have no idea what happened to her or her boyfriend after they snapped the handcuffs on my wrist and sat me in the back of the squad car. If God’s hearing prayers from me, then maybe Mom’s in the clear and the ass**le’s sharing a urinal with the other felons-of-the-month.
The officer resembles a twenty-year-old Johnny Depp, and he smells clean—soap with a hint of coffee. He’s not the one who tried to talk to me last night. Just the guy that arrested me. He settles into the seat across from me and the guard leaves.
“I’m Officer Monroe.”
I glare at the table.
Officer Monroe reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, and slides them to his side of the table.
“Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”
Just one drag. Oh God, it’d be better than a deep kiss from a really hot guy. But I’m not kissing a hot guy and I don’t have a cigarette because I’m currently being questioned in purgatory.
“Your mom’s boyfriend, Trent—we know he’s bad news, but he’s smart. We’ve never gotten enough to put him away. Maybe you can help us and yourself. Help us put him in jail, then he’ll be away from you and your mom.”
I agree—he’s Satan. Other than the fact that he’s a washed up has-been of a football player who traded tackling men on the field for beating the shit out of women, though, I have nothing to tell them beyond rumors I’ve heard on the street. The cops who walk the south-side beat are well aware of our bedtime stories regarding The Asshole Known as Trent. The tantalizing tidbit that he hits me and Mom could get us a flimsy piece of paper with the words Emergency Protection Order on the header, but domestic violence offenders rarely sit inside jail cells for long, plus Trent burns EPOs and puppies for fun.
Even before my mother got involved with Trent, the police were after him, but he’s the walking, talking real-life version of an oil spill—impossible to pick up once he’s been released. Helping the police will only bring the ooze and his sickening wrath quicker to our doorstep.
“He lives in the same apartment complex as your mom, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to live with her again and not have to worry about him?”
Having no idea how he knows I don’t live with my mom, I fight hard not to glance at him. Refusing to indicate he’s right.
“We didn’t even know he was dating your mom. He, uh, sees other women.”
I keep from rolling my eyes. There’s a shock.
“Elisabeth,” he says after my nonresponse.
“Beth.” I hate my given name. “My name is Beth.”
“Beth, your one phone call has been standing in the lobby since five a.m.”
Isaiah! My eyes flash to Officer Monroe’s.
The walls I built to protect myself crumble and fatigue sets in as the iciness I’ve clung to all night melts. Fear and hurt rush to take its place.
I want Isaiah. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.
I blink, realizing the stinging sensation is tears. Wiping at my face, I try to find my strength—my resolve, but I only find a heavy emptiness. “When can I go home?”
Someone knocks. Officer Monroe cracks the door open and exchanges a few heated whispers before nodding. Seconds later, my aunt, an older and cleaner version of my mother, walks in. “Beth?”
Officer Monroe leaves, closing the door behind him.
Shirley comes straight to me. I stand and let her hug me. She smells like home: stale cigarettes and lavender fabric softener. I bury my face in my aunt’s shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to lie in the bed in her basement for a week.