12
There are worse things than jail.
I mean, nothing I’ve ever experienced, but there are definitely worse things than being photographed, fingerprinted, and frisked by a female cop with abnormally strong fingers. Every single day, people deal with tons of legit atrocities that make what happened to me pale in comparison.
But the worst part is knowing I brought it upon myself. There was a voice in my head that warned me not to follow Elodie past the school gates, and yet I went ahead and flipped it the bird.
“You’re lucky,” they tell me. “You’re still a minor. Once you turn eighteen, the consequences become serious.”
Well, my mom’s disappointment feels pretty serious.
Getting expelled from school feels very serious.
The court fees I’m facing feel really, really serious.
The thought of going to juvie is unthinkably serious.
I haven’t even made a dent in my list ofseriouswhen someone calls out my name.
“You Natasha Clarke?”
I nod, having no idea what to expect.
“You’re free to leave.”
“Seriously?”
The guard bends a brow, unlocks my cell, and arcs her arm toward the door. “Must be nice to have rich friends.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
After stopping by the desk to claim my hoodie, I head outside, where I pause on the sidewalk and tip my face toward a ragged scrap of cloud left blistered and singed by the noonday sun.
Freedom never felt so good, or so warm.
When I snap my eyes open, I’m looking at an idling shiny black Mercedes. The rear window lowers to reveal a boy in the back seat. My backpack dangles from his fingers.
Braxton.
Oh, hell no.
Without thinking, I make a grab for it, but he’s quicker than me, and he yanks it clear out of reach.
“What the hell?” I cry. Refusing to give up so easily, I come at him again.
“Whoa!” He holds out a hand to stop me. “You might want to turn it down a notch. In case you haven’t noticed, we have an audience.” He jerks his head toward two cops paused beside their squad cars, both focused on me, and not in a good way.
“What do you want?” I whisper.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go for a ride.” He clears a space by moving aside.
I glance over my shoulder to see the cops slipping into their vehicles and driving away. Then I peer inside the Mercedes, trying to see who’s behind the wheel, but the windows are blacked out and there’s a privacy panel between the front and back seats.
“There’s not enough ice cream and puppies in the world,” I tell him. “Just give me my backpack already.”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
I cross my arms and frown. “Why the hell would I?”