the grass in long sweeping motions as I walk. Thankfully I remembered to wear my crappy old shoes, because even though I can’t see it in the dark, I’m sure a fine spray of paint is dusting the edge of my right foot.
As I shove forks into the lawn, tracing the lines of spray paint first, and then filling in the gaping middle with hundreds of forks, I lose track of time. I’m sticking the forks into the grass with surprising speed, but it still feels like it’s taking forever. We should have done a test section at the house, timed it, and figured out how long the entire hand would take us.
My fourth bag of forks is almost gone, and we have a few more in the car, but I haven’t even started on the top half of the hand or the finger yet. I’m really glad we didn’t attempt something this intricate with potatoes. What a train wreck that would have been.
I’m filling in the lower half of the middle finger when I hear the jangling of metal and the yip of a dog. Before I can react, Nadine’s tiny little terrier is at my feet, nipping and barking, and jumping at my knees. I drop the paper bag in my arms and turn toward the house. Nothing. I didn’t hear a door, don’t hear anything now, but I can’t risk it. And I can’t risk going back the way I came, along the driveway, where the side door is, so I take off for the lake.
When I’m halfway across the yard, just a few feet from Lake House A, Nadine’s voice carries across the yard. “If you run I’ll just have the police come to your house,” she yells. I take two more long strides and come to a halt. I can see where the car should be, through the trees, in Kara’s grandma’s driveway. But there’s nothing there. I’m not running toward anything, because Asher took the car. Asher took the car. He’s been gone for almost an hour. It should have taken him less than fifteen minutes to drive to our house and get back. Nadine knows it’s me, so what’s the sense in running? When I turn to face her, she has her cell phone pressed against her ear. I stand at the edge of the trees, knowing I should do something, but unable to make myself move even an inch. I have never been paralyzed with fear like this before. The plastic forks clenched in my hand dig into my palm as I finally make myself walk back toward the dark yard spotted with white. Toward the ridiculous house and its eccentricities, Nadine, and the police car slowly pulling into the driveway. Alone.
* * *
To be fair, I don’t think the officer wanted to arrest me. Maybe it was the fact that I almost puked, I was so horrified at what was unfolding. Or that I just stood there silently as Nadine recalled the potatoes and the fleeing yard sculptures, and the “horrific” fish incident that got us kicked out in the first place. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was the first person to ever try to open my own police car door, to let myself in.
Officer Jennings is a nice guy. Younger, probably in his midtwenties. Sitting in the car, he tells me Nadine will have to come to the station tomorrow to file actual charges. That until she does, he won’t have to take me in.
He drops me at the end of my driveway, and comes around the car to let me out. Why? Because I’m a criminal who sits behind handle-less doors, that’s why. Even though I know there’s only a 2 percent chance any of the parents would be awake at 4 a.m., I’m not risking it. Not when I haven’t even figured out how I’m going to tell my parents that I’m going to potentially face criminal disorderly conduct charges. My stomach twists again at just the thought of it.
I know in my heart that Nadine is going to press charges. She called the police. I think she would have done it then and there if Jennings had made it easier for her. The look in her eyes said she wanted to see me driven away in handcuffs.
And I want to be mad at her, but I’m madder at myself. What was I thinking? Lurking around late at night, vandalizing homes?