My Unfair Godmother(5)

He had taken my cell phone from my pocket when he frisked me, and he flipped it open. I wondered if he was going through my text messages with Bo. He wouldn’t find my name from that. Bo called me Babe.



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The officer snapped my phone shut. “Your parents will need to come pick you up. If you don’t give us your name, you’re going to be at the station for a long time.”

I still didn’t say anything. I had the right to remain silent.

He sneered and leaned closer. I caught the smell of stale coffee on his breath. “You hoodlums always think you’re so tough. Takes a lot of guts to break windows. You’re real brave coming out after dark to spray paint buildings.” His voice gained momentum. “You’re nothing but a messed-up punk who can make this easier, or who can sit there glaring and make it harder.”

I wasn’t glaring; I was in shock. I was trying not to shake, not to cry.

“Fine then,” the man said. “Let’s go to the station.” He slammed the door and got in the front of the car.

Well, Bo was right about one thing. Tonight he took me to do something I’d never done before.



• • •

When I got to the police station, Officer Cop A. Feely marched me through the lobby, past the receptionist, or sentinel, or whatever you call the lady in the police shirt who rules over the lobby. Then he took me down the hall to a holding room. He strutted during all of this, like I was some elk he’d bagged. I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen. Once when I bought a pair of jeans, I picked up a keychain from a countertop display and absent-mindedly walked out of the store with it. I was only a few feet down the street when I realized I still had it, but I totally freaked out. I was convinced the store manager would rush through the doors after me and no one would ever believe I hadn’t purposely shoplifted it. I 32/356

hurried back to the store, holding the keychain out like it was about to burst into flames.

But now with an officer marching me through the station, I felt like scum. And I hated him for making me feel that way. I also hated the receptionist/sentinel for looking smug and unconcerned, and just for good measure, I hated anyone in the world who happened to be wearing a dark blue shirt at that moment.

The officer led me to a room, took off my handcuffs, and motioned for me to sit down. “You ready to tell us who you are?” I sat down and shook my head. Once I told them my name, they would ask other questions like who had been with me tonight. I didn’t know how to answer that yet.

He walked back to the door and sent another threatening look in my direction. “The detective will come talk to you in a minute.” Then he shut the door.

A two-way mirror lined the wall in front of me. I wondered if there was anyone behind it, or if the police only spied on hardened criminals. A black camera sat perched in the corner of the ceiling. I might be recorded. Great. I would have to be careful about what I said.

The minutes ticked by. I wasn’t sure if the detective was busy or whether this was part of my punishment—making me sit here and worry about my fate as a guest in Hotel Convictland.

Actually, I appreciated the time to think.

I was seething at Bo. He had taken me to vandalize the city hall on a date, and he didn’t listen when I told him we shouldn’t do it, and worst of all, he left me there.

You didn’t do that to people you loved. Romeo wouldn’t have left Juliet with a spray can clutched in her hand. But Bo left me. He left me to take the fine or jail time or whatever punishment I was going to get.



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Would I have a criminal record now? My stomach clenched at the thought. Job applications always asked if you had ever been convicted of a crime. Colleges probably asked the same thing. This could change my whole life.

So maybe the things Nick said about Bo were true. Maybe he wasn’t a misunderstood, brooding bad boy; maybe he really was a jerk.

Should I show him the same loyalty he’d shown me and turn him and his friends over to the police? But I hardly knew anyone at school.

If I told the police the truth, I would be known as Narc Girl. And Snitch Girl. And Fink Girl. And as many other synonyms as there were for Girl Who Lands Her Boyfriend In Jail. No one at school would want to speak to me, including Bo.

Although right now I wasn’t sure if I was ever speaking to Bo again anyway, so maybe that part didn’t matter.

My stomach felt like a lid someone had screwed on too tight.

There wasn’t a good solution to this. My dad would flip, and my mom—wherever she was on the road—would flip too. I glanced at the mirror again, at the strand of hair that had come loose from my french braid. I couldn’t leave it like that. When my dad finally came to pick me up, I didn’t want to look like one of those half-coherent criminals who stumbled around on cop shows. Besides, it was easier to fix my hair than think about everything else.