exasperation and annoyance. “You want to shank him, or should I?”
I jerk my chin toward the camera in the corner. “You shouldn’t joke. Anything can and will be used you.”
I know how I look. I’m still wearing this grungy, blood-stained suit. My face has graduated from swollen bruising to deep, dark, tender patches. My lip is throbbing. I try again to get into my stillness, closing my eyes and thinking of the way Vandy looked before I left. Laying there in the bed, all nestled in beneath her covers. Eyes bright and soft. Safe. Warm.
My come probably dripping down her thighs.
My knee starts bouncing again.
I better keep that memory close, because the chances of me seeing Vandy again are pretty much nil. Even if my dad bails me out, Mr. and Mrs. Hall think I broke into their house and did God knows what. I’m sure Emory knows by now. My probation officer knows, so the school probably knows. Expulsion is a given. Mountain Point would be too, but I’ll be a bit busy, what with the being in prison and all.
They take Big Ben at four in the morning, right after the shift change. No one is as happy as me and Paint Guy, who are finally left in silence. Paint Guy sleeps and I go over it again and again—just how fucked I am.
Mom’s going to give up on me. That much, I know. I was already skirting the fringe of her scant tolerance. Coach, the team. They’ll be disappointed. The Devils will be one man short. I wonder who they’ll recruit to fill my place. Someone better at academics and worse at breaking and entering, no doubt.
When the door opens again, I figure they’re taking Paint Guy. Instead, the officer says, “McAllister, your lawyer’s here.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.” I’d specifically asked my dad to not call Steven. The guy doesn’t give a fuck about me and we can’t afford him anyway.
The officer looks at me impassively. “Well, you do now. Let’s go.”
Reluctantly, I stand, following him out the holding cell and down a brightly-lit corridor, past the booking desk, past the medical office where I’d been seen after being brought in. He leads me into a cold room with a Formica table in the center.
There are no chairs.
I stand behind the table and wait.
The woman who walks in is completely unfamiliar to me, but she’s dressed smartly, hair pulled back into a long braid. There’s a stack of folders shoved under one arm and a plastic shopping bag clutched in her hand.
“Reynolds,” she greets me, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you, my name is Becca.” I reluctantly take her hand. She looks around, noting the lack of chairs, and just shrugs, setting the folders and bag on the table. “I believe you know my daughter, Gwen?”
I watch her, feeling absolutely lost. “I don’t think so.”
She looks surprised. “Oh, well maybe my twins. You go to school with them. Michaela and Micha Adams?”
The name rings a bell and I’m reminded of the little flippy kid on the cheerleading squad. I haltingly offer, “I think I’ve seen Micha around.”
“He’s hard to miss, my boy.” She opens a folder, beginning, “So your hearing is scheduled at seven. Your dad sent these clothes,” she nods to the bag. “Nothing fancy. Don’t want to ham it up too much, but you can at least look clean.” She shuffles through the papers. “I have the arresting officer’s statement, the security guard, the Halls’. All I need you to do is stand there and look as innocent as possible. Think you can handle that, Reynolds?”
I stare blankly at her in response. I don’t look innocent. I look like I just got into a massive parking-lot fistfight.
She seems to sense the vibe I’m putting out. “Well, do your best and let me do all the talking. If things don’t work out the way we planned, then you’ll need to enter a plea. Not guilty, naturally. That’s the only point in which you’ll be expected to speak. It’s very important that you remain quiet.”
She goes on about where to stand and where to look. There’ll be a camera—the magistrate won’t be physically present—and I’ll have to sign some papers.
“Any questions?” she asks.
This isn’t my first hearing. The only thing I really need to know is whether or not Vandy is okay. But asking that would invite its own series of questions, and I’m not going to answer them. “No,” I reply.