I turn to head to the parking lot, but someone appears.
I halt, seeing a male and female police officer approach, an amused look in their eyes like they found exactly what they were looking for.
Fuck.
“You have weapons on you?” the male asks.
Slowly I raise my hands, showing they’re empty as the baton still lays on the ground somewhere behind me.
“No, sir,” I tell him.
“Empty your pockets.”
I drop my eyes to the weapons on his holster, the female closing in behind him. I soften my voice, even though my pulse is racing. “I don’t feel comfortable with that, sir.”
He just laughs. Leaning in, he whispers, “I can detain you without a charge for up to forty-eight hours. I can also frisk you.”
I know. But still, I try. “I don’t feel comfortable and I do not consent, sir.” The money on me feels like a soccer ball in my pocket, and it won’t go unnoticed. It has to be a few thousand bucks. “Am I free to go?” I ask.
“No.”
Of course not. It was worth a try.
But I can’t spend forty-eight hours in lockup. I clear my throat. “I consent to a search, sir.”
The woman steps forward and pushes me around, my hands slamming into the brick wall. She pats me down, my torso, my legs, my arms, emptying everything out of my pockets. I close my eyes, a sick feeling rolling through my stomach as the weight of the cash on me disappears, and I hold my breath.
Don’t come back empty-handed.
They toss everything on top of the dumpster and back away. “No weapons,” she announces. “She was telling the truth.”
“Aw, sorry about that, kid.” The male cop leans in. “Have a good night, okay?”
My chin trembles. Motherfucker.
I wait for them to leave, but I don’t have to turn around and look to know all the money is gone.
My white and black polka dot wallet, my house key, and my cell phone all sit on top of the lid. No cash.
I kick the dumpster, the hollow clang echoing in the silence. “Son of a bitch!”
I scream, my hands shooting to my head, and I look up at the sky again, finding Mars.
But I can’t see straight. Goddammit.
Don’t come back empty-handed. I can’t go back with nothing. Not again. Hugo won’t give me work.
Or he’ll make me pay it off another way.
It’s always like this. It can go either way, and it always goes wrong.
Grabbing my baton off the ground, I storm off toward the parking lot, the taillights of the cop car leaving the lot. I find Tommy standing outside the Cherokee, sipping something from a flask she must’ve had on her.
I take it, downing a gulp of tequila.
My hands ache, I’m squeezing my fists so hard, and I don’t care if I go back with ten thousand bucks or a black eye, but I’m going back with something.
“Where would the Pirates be hanging out tonight?” I ask her. “Rivertown?”
She nods. “Yeah. Probably.”
I hand her back the flask and walk around the car. “Get in.”
“But I’m not allowed there, Aro,” she argues.
Not allowed? I arch a brow, the chip on my shoulder getting heavier. Screw that.
I climb in and so does she, both of us buckling our seatbelts before I speed off out of the parking lot.
I jack up the radio, too loud for the kid to talk me out of this.
Back in the day, when I still attended school, Weston’s rivalry with Shelburne Falls lit up the nights.
Well, a few anyway. When I didn’t have to babysit or work or worry about something, I’d pile into a friend’s car, and we’d cruise into their territory, only a few miles away, but a whole different world.
They have a swim team. A skate park. Charming shops and parks, and the parents and cops look the other way when the kids race Mommy’s and Daddy’s cars.
Or when they demolish their boyfriend’s car with a crowbar. I’m not entirely sure that story is true, but it’s fun to think about.
Of course, the Falls has their dumps. Their bad parts and poor people, but they also have mansions, parties, and local celebrities. Jared Trent—a former racer who’s on TV a lot and his sister-in-law, Juliet, whose novels were on my high school reading list.
The Falls were always better than us, and they knew it.
There are some things we know how to do, though.
I cruise into town, winding through the neighborhoods that I remember wishing I could live in when I was a kid. Green lawns, porch lights, the scent of Dad cooking burgers on the grill in the backyard.
But when I grew up, I realized there was a vast difference between the appearance and the reality. Inside all of these beautiful bullshit houses were liars just like everywhere else. Fuck the Falls.
I turn onto High Street and slide into a spot on the curb, gazing around at all the businesses, some open but most closed for the night. The bakery, Frosted, is probably closed for the season already. The owner, I hear, is still a college student who’s probably back at school by now. The sign for Rivertown glows above, the bulbs illuminating one after another down the letters and back up, and I see the place lit up inside, all the Pirates hanging out, filling the place.