“Only care about their phones. Yeah, I heard that part. I’d rather be that stereotype than the pampered little rich girl who thinks it’s fun to get arrested, to burn money so she can throw a temper tantrum about whatever thing in the world is bothering her this week.”
“Temper tantrum?” I’m aware even as I speak that I’m practically yelling, and I sound just like the spoiled girl he’s painted me as. “I’m not throwing a temper tantrum.”
Matty, ever the pacifist, says, “Maybe we should all just take a couple of breaths.”
I storm on, desperate to win at least one argument today.
“I am so sick of people thinking what we do is a waste of time. At least we’re doing something, instead of sticking our heads in the sand while the rest of the world goes to hell around us.”
“The rest of the world has been hell all along for some of us, princess.”
That stops me mid-rant, and I’m staring again, opening and closing my mouth in a way that definitely isn’t doing anything to prove my point.
Finally, I huff out a breath and some of my desperation breaks through. I’m not even sure if it’s desperation for his approval or just for someone, anyone, to listen. “Haven’t you ever wanted to do something that everyone tells you is impossible or pointless? Haven’t you ever cared about something enough to sacrifice for it? Regardless of how stupid or unlikely it seems. Haven’t you ever just wanted things to be different?”
He studies me for a few moments, his large hands lifting to curl around the bars. And when I expect him to make another crack about me being spoiled or naive, he surprises me.
“What exactly are you hoping to change?”
Matt snorts. “Congratulations, man. You’ve officially found a way to occupy however many hours you have left here. This girl wants to fix the whole world.”
An officer comes then and takes Matt away to make his phone call. He glances at me and mouths, “Javi?”
I nod, and watch him leave.
I know he’s prodding, hoping I’ll give in and say we can call my dad instead. But I just can’t. I know he could get us out faster, but I can’t see him yet. Not until I’ve figured out some excuse. Not until I’ve figured out what crack in my brain made me behave so rashly tonight.
It’s not because I’m upset over Henry, but I can’t help but think it’s all connected. My emotions are all out of whack, and the only thing I know is that today at that protest, I felt invisible.
And I didn’t realize until I clicked those handcuffs into place that I’d felt that way long before we set up camp in front of that homeless shelter.
“So what were you trying to change?” he asks.
I feel weirdly shy now that Matt is gone, and I no longer feel the need to go into my ten-minute rant about the state of politics in this country.
I turn away from him so that I don’t have to make eye contact, kind of like that whole don’t look directly at the sun or you’ll risk visual impairment thing. This was just a different kind of impairment. Like my ability to think straight. I wave a hand and explain: “The city is cutting funding for the homeless shelter downtown. They’re claiming budget problems, but really they just don’t want their historic downtown blemished with the less fortunate.”
He nods, but doesn’t reply, and why am I so damn self-conscious? We stay silent for a while, and I wish Officer Tribble hadn’t taken my watch because it feels like Matt has been gone a lot longer than the couple of minutes it should take for a phone call. And I can feel his eyes on me, ramping up my already frayed nerves. I’ve just given in to the urge to pace when he speaks again.
“So . . . Pickle?”
I spin and look at the cell across from me. The guy is staring, and I blanch. “Uh . . . no. I’m Dylan. That’s just a Matt thing. Dyl Pickle. It’s stupid.”
“Dylan,” he repeats. And I have never felt less invisible than I do in that moment with him looking at me.
“And you are?”
He grips the bar and leans back slightly, and he must be some kind of workout junkie because even with clothes on, his body is unreal.
“Silas.”
I take a seat back on the bench and pull my knees up to my chest. “Sorry for yelling at you, Silas. I’m a little wound up.”
“Getting arrested will do that to you.”
So will a complete mental breakdown. Which I may or may not be having.
“Yeah,” I answer absently, anxiety sweeping through me again. I lay my head down on my knees and try not to think.
Yeah, right. Like that’s possible.
“I’m sure everything will be fine. It’s not like you did anything too bad.”
I wince.
“Did you?”
“Define bad.”
He laughs. “I think our definitions of bad are probably very different.”
If I wrote the dictionary, bad would just have a picture of him under it.
“Why are you in here?”
I don’t really think through the question until the words are already out of my mouth, and his gorgeous eyes are narrowed on me. I’m pretty sure that there’s some unwritten rule about not asking people why they’re in jail while they’re still in jail. And this may just be a holding cell, but the rule probably applies here, too. His tongue peeks out to worry at his swollen, busted lip, and I feel a wave of heat curl up my spine.
Totally inappropriate. Totally psychotic because he is way out of my league. Or I’m way out of his league, I don’t know. Either way, someone is out of someone’s league.