A second cop put a hand on the fireman’s shoulder and held him in place. The second cop was older than our cop. Not nearing retirement age, but way too old to be wearing a patrolman’s uniform without getting a promotion to detective.
The endless train behind them made me dizzy. I looked down at Tiffany, who had resumed mouthing, “Oh my God.”
“We’re getting off easy, Tiff. Too easy, come to think of it. Why are the boys the ones who get yelled at, like they’re the only ones who matter? We should be offended.”
“Then go tell the police officer how offended you are,” Tiffany snapped. “Let him handcuff you to the bridge.”
I tried the handle once more, jokingly. “Door’s locked.” But I began to shake again in the warm car.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Tiffany sat up awkwardly and leaned her head on my shoulder. “You have a thing about being locked up. I’m glad I’m handcuffed and not you.”
Me too, I didn’t say. I had thought of Tiffany as a walking, talking version of Microsoft Excel, but she had more soul than I’d given her credit for.
We both jumped, probably delayed a few seconds by our hampered reflexes, as our cop opened his door. The racket of the train followed him inside. The last of the train cars had cleared the bridge. I watched its flashing taillights disappear around a bend in the tracks.
The cop shoved his muscular frame into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. Then he said a few words into his CB, reached for a clipboard, and began filling out forms. He never glanced at us through the metal grid that separated him from us dangerous criminals. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his thick cop-neck.
I looked for Eric and Brian and saw them in the backseat of the old cop’s car, which was parked on the far side of Eric’s Beamer. The dejected fire truck and ambulance eased out of the clearing and up the road without flashing their lights.
“What are you so mad about?” I asked the cop. “Is it true that a couple of teenagers got killed here a long time ago?”
“It’s true,” he said without looking up. “And y’all came close to adding four more to the body count tonight.”
“Not four,” I said. “If I’d gotten caught on the tracks, I would have been the only one killed. My boyfriend wouldn’t cross the street to save my life.”
“Some boyfriend.” The cop drew broad strokes through parts of the form that did not apply to us, perhaps previous convictions or gainful employment or significant other.
“How’d you find us down here?” I asked.
“You were out of luck. Beware the Ides of March.”
A wave of that paranoia I’d felt on the bridge washed over me. It was March 15. Then my drowning brain struggled to the surface.
But before I could make a smart-ass remark, Tiffany lifted her head from my shoulder. Her own drunken brain must have recognized the Ides of March line from Shakespeare. “Oooh, were you an English major in college? I’m going to be an English major!”
“At this rate,” the cop said, “you’re not majoring in anything.”
It was all I could do to stop myself from screaming at the cop. Surely he could see how freaked out Tiffany was already. If she thought her college English degree was threatened, she was liable to melt into a pool of tears and beer right here on his torn vinyl police car seat. And it would serve him right to have to clean it up.
“Everybody reads Julius Caesar in high school,” I told her, loudly enough for the cop to hear. “You don’t need a college education to be a cop. What for? You just need to be able to drive. Read. Write.” I watched him X through another section of the form. “Or not.”
“Don’t,” she warned faintly.
I put my arm around her again and asked the cop, “Can you take her cuffs off? I’ll vouch for her.”
His eyes finally flicked up to mine. Probably because everything was a bit blurry to me, I hadn’t registered his face at all before. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the adrenaline draining away, but I noticed his eyes for the first time now, framed perfectly in the rectangle of the rearview mirror. They were a strangely dark brown in his light face. He looked down at his form.
“Why not?” I asked. “Do you feel threatened? Big strong guy like you?”
He actually turned around in his seat and glared at me through the metal grid between us. One of the taunts I’d flung at him had hit home. He did feel threatened. What in the world for?
“Yow!” I yelped as Tiffany reached behind me with her cuffed hands and pinched a big hunk of my butt.
The cop was out of the car. He opened Tiffany’s door. She scooted backward toward him across the seat, and he knelt to unlock the cuffs.
“Those boys just want to get in your pants,” he said. “You know that, right?” I guessed he was talking to Tiffany. He wasn’t looking over her shoulder at me.
Then his eyes met mine, and returned to Tiffany’s cuffs.
“That’s not true,” Tiffany said.
Well, of course it was true. But if Tiffany didn’t know this, now was not the time to clue her in.
“How do you know we weren’t trying to get in their pants?” I asked.
The cop stopped fiddling with his key in the cuffs, sat back on his haunches, and stared at me.
Tiffany’s chant of “Oh my God oh my God” morphed into “Shut up shut up.”
The cop said, “You’ve got such a mouth that you’d get yourself and your friend in worse trouble just to have the last word.”
“Some people just don’t know when to shut up,” I said.
“Shut up!” Tiffany wailed.
I began to think this was good advice. The cop gave Tiffany’s cuffs just a few more seconds of attention. She pulled her arms free with a sob and rubbed her wrists. Then he slammed her door, rounded the back of the car, and opened my door. “Get out.”
I climbed out and stood against the car, trying not to flinch when he slammed the door again. He stood directly in front of me and looked way down at me. I was about to get it like Eric and Brian.
Maybe not. His glance traveled briefly down to my Peer Pressure T-shirt. Or the absence of said T-shirt over my cleave. Theoretically this could have worked to my advantage. But I was unwilling or unable to Work It under the intensity of those deep brown eyes. Despite myself, I looked around to make sure the old cop’s car was still a few yards away and he had not abandoned me to this cop and the forest and an unrequested sexcapade.
Now the cop managed to collect himself. He pulled his gaze from my shirt up to my eyes. Probably he was checking whether my pupils were dilated. All I could do was hope the pot had worn off enough by then to make my pupils normal size. I gazed right back into his dark eyes as if I had nothing to hide.
He nodded toward Tiffany in the car. “How much has she had to drink?”
“Give her a break, would you? I know she’s blotto, but this is her first time drunk. Hell, it’s her first drink. Drinks.”
“Mmph,” he said. Thank God he believed me. I might have gotten Tiffany off the hook. “And what about you?”
“Me?” I laughed. “I’m guilty.”
He nodded. “What about the pot?”
I felt myself flash hot. Maybe he was bluffing. I asked, “What pot?”
The cop put his fists on his hips and cocked his head to one side. There probably was a line drawing of him like this in the dictionary, illustrating the word skepticism. “I might not have been to college,” he said, “but I have been to the police academy.”
He pronounced police academy carefully, like it was a foreign word. I thought he was poking fun at himself. I almost laughed. I wasn’t quite confident enough to laugh.
He went on, “What do you think we do at the police academy, surf the Internet?”
“I can honestly say I never gave it much th—”
“You know your boyfriend got expelled from Auburn for dealing pot out of his fraternity house,” he said.
“That’s why we’re dating.”
“You wanted some pot.”
“Not so much that. It’s just that Eric is my kind of people.”
“Eric is—” He stopped himself with a grimace. Then he tried again. “You’re an i—”
He was about to call me an idiot. Which I couldn’t argue with, considering the present situation. But it was shocking to have a cop tell me so. Or almost tell me so. “I’m a what?” I taunted him.
He shook his head. “You can’t tell a seventeen-year-old anything. They think they’re immortal. They don’t listen. Seventeen-year-olds have to see it for themselves.”
“See what?”
He sighed through his nose. “Before I pulled y’all off the bridge, I glanced in your boyfriend’s car. All I saw was two gallon jugs of beer. I don’t have anything like possession on you. Come clean with me now, and maybe we won’t do a drug screen on your boyfriend. You know if we do, we’re charging him with driving under the influence of narcotics.”
They certainly were. I backed against the cold car for strength and looked over at Eric’s shoulders hunched into the other police car. Actually, I’d been dating him, if you could call it that, for only a few weeks. He had come home to live with his parents and “get his head together” (translation: “smoke a lot of weed”) after the aforementioned untimely removal from the institution of higher learning.
But I knew him well enough to predict what his reaction would be. If I ratted on him and he got in trouble, he would call me a stupid bitch. If I didn’t rat on him, they tested his piss, and he got in worse trouble, he would call me a stupid bitch.
“It was just me and him,” I said in a rush. “Tiffany and Brian didn’t know. They would have wigged out completely. We smoked it before we ran into them. Eric and I were baked and hungry, and we went to McDonald’s for Big Macs. I saw Tiffany in the bathroom. I must have been obviously tanked, because Tiffany hinted she was going on the spring break senior trip next week without ever having a drink. She was afraid of looking naïve. And I’m like, ‘Oh! Poor baby. I can buy you some beer.’ Brian doesn’t drink, either, but he went along with it. Probably for reasons you mentioned previously.”
“Mmph,” said the cop.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. She never would have done it if she’d had time to think about it. And I never would have done it if I hadn’t been stoned. Ditto walking onto the bridge. Completely unpremeditated.”
I tried to gauge the cop’s reaction. I couldn’t see a thing. His dark eyes could have been laughing at me, or considering how I would look when I got out of prison just in time to join the AARP.
“Interesting,” he said. “You’ve broken a lot of laws tonight.”
Definitely laughing at me. I lashed out. “Let’s list them, shall we? What fun. Trespassing. Possession of marijuana. Underage purchase of alcohol. What else? Public intoxication, loitering, unlawful assembly. Corruption of a minor. Wait, can you corrupt a minor when you yourself are also a minor?”
“You tell me. You’re wearing the Peer Pressure T-shirt.”
So he had noticed. “Yeah, I saw you taking in my Peer Pressure T-shirt,” I said, just to test how much he’d noticed.
He’d noticed, all right. His white face and neck flushed pink against his dark blue uniform.
I was horrified, truly. I’d gathered over the years from the way men on TV talked about Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus that forty-year-old men were really into teenage girls. I wouldn’t have thought a blue-haired teenage girl would make the cut, but clearly there was no accounting for taste.
And here was this cop, out working hard at 11:30 at night, innocently providing for his wife and fourteen kids at home, scrimping and saving money for that new aluminum shed he’d had his eye on for storing the riding lawn mower. And I’d gone and flaunted my boobs in his face. It really wasn’t his fault for looking.
He sighed through his nose again. His blush slowly retreated, and he was back in charge. “Are you even sorry?”
Yes, I was sorry for distracting him from the little missus for two seconds. Better not bring that up. “I’m sorry you arrested Tiffany. And maybe I’m sorry you arrested Brian.” I was mad at Brian for abandoning Tiffany, but he had saved me from being handcuffed. Without the ulterior motive of getting himself out of more trouble, unlike Eric. “Do you want me to be sorry for getting stoned?”
“Are you sorry you almost got killed?”
“We didn’t.”
“You did!” Now he was furious, shouting down at me, finally giving me the Brian/Eric treatment. “Are you so drunk you didn’t see that train?” He looked like he was going to lay into me again. I cringed, waiting for it.
But he thought better of it. His mouth snapped shut, and he took a step back.
Turning toward the bridge, he stared into the blackness. With my eyes adjusted to the pool of light from the cop cars, I couldn’t even see past the No Trespassing sign. But the bridge had really made an impression on this cop. Seemed like he could see that bridge even in the dark.
3
The cop lightened up on the way to the police station. Or maybe it was just that the radio in the police car blasted Beck, which made the bad drug trip and forced incarceration a little more homey. I would have thought a cop would ride around in stark silence so nothing would distract him from his sworn duties. At the very least, I would have thought he’d listen to a country station. Maybe the last prisoner in the car had switched the radio to the Birmingham pop station as a joke.
Tiffany slouched against me, half asleep. Only the shoulder belt kept her from sagging into the floorboard. I was sleepy, too. The cop’s interrogation had drained every drop of life out of me. And the drone of the car’s engine lulled me. But I stayed in the middle of the seat. I tended to Tiffany, stroking her hair out of her eyes. This way, I could fool the cop, keeping the center seat belt lax across my lap without fastening it. I did not wear seat belts. Besides being a lot cheaper than a car, riding a motorcycle usually got me around this problem.
Tiffany shook her head and roused a little without opening her eyes. “Meg, you know what we are?”
“Criminals?” I guessed.
“Yes, but what else?”
“Felons?”
“We’re no-goodniks!”
In the rearview mirror, I saw the cop smile. Obviously he liked Tiffany a lot better than he liked me.
She opened her eyes and saw him smiling, too. “Mr. Policeman, do you think we’re no-goodniks?”
“Yes, but not for long.”
“Well, I want you to know, for what it’s worth, that I’ve learned my lesson. I have learned some things about myself tonight. They are all very bad.”
I rubbed her thigh soothingly. I hadn’t learned anything about myself tonight. I already knew these bad things.
“Your friend tells me this was your first drink,” the cop said.
“Oh, no,” she said.
“It was your first drink,” I said through my teeth.
“I don’t want to lie to the policeman.” She sat up straighter. “Mr. Policeman, I went to England with my grandma last summer, and I had a can of shandy, which is beer mixed with lemonade. I bought it out of a Coke machine. My grandma said it was okay. Clearly it was wrong of her.”
“Did you catch a buzz?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I ate a lot of fish and chips with it.”
The policeman laughed. Dimples showed in both his cheeks when he laughed.
I decided to try my hand at him. “Do you watch Cops on TV?”
“I love Cops,” he said. “It’s like my life, but with the boring parts taken out.”
“Do you watch Reno 911?”
“Yes. That’s probably even more true-to-life than Cops. At least around this town.” He parked and cut the engine in front of the jail/ courthouse/city hall, beside Tiffany’s mom’s minivan. “Sit tight just a minute, ladies.” He slid out from under the steering wheel, closed the door, and spoke to the old cop through the rolled-down
window of the other police car, with Brian and Eric in the backseat.
Eric said something to me through the glass. It did not look good. Then he struggled with his arms cuffed behind him. Finally his head and shoulders disappeared, and his cuffed hands rose above the windowsill. He shot me a bird.
I pointed out the spectacle to Tiffany. “I’m glad I’m not going to the prom. He might refuse to go with me now.”
Tiffany rubbed her temple. “Invite him. We’ll all double-date. Can you imagine where they would take us out to dinner?”
“McDonald’s,” I said with conviction as our cop opened the door.
The old cop was already hauling Brian and Eric out of his car. The message Eric had been trying to send me rang through the parking lot and echoed against the building. “You told him about the pot. He faked you out, you stupid bitch!”
“Well! That is not a very nice thing to say.” I was actually kind of concerned about being faked out, and disappointed in myself. I had to keep up my rep around the Big House.
Our cop didn’t even look at me. I was just another snitch to him. “Don’t say anything else to each other,” he intoned to the space between us.
“Pot?” Tiffany echoed behind me.
“Not you,” our cop assured her. “I know you’re not that much of a no-goodnik.” He laughed and Tiffany giggled like they were old friends. God, these squares were made for each other.
Inside the police station, the cops didn’t seem interested in fingerprinting us or taking our mug shots or dressing us in orange. Possibly this was because they didn’t want to make a bigger scene. Tiffany’s parents were already there to fuss over her hysterically. She clung to them like a terrified Pekingese who had gotten separated from her owners in a tornado. I had wondered why Tiffany didn’t go Ivy League for college, with her grades and test scores. I sure would have gone farther than Birmingham if I’d gotten a scholarship somewhere else, somewhere that wasn’t just another small town traded for this one. But after witnessing the collective fawning between Tiffany and her parents, I understood she wasn’t ready to venture far.
Going Too Far Page 2