broken as long as he’s had the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch James point out Blake’s car to Randall. I slide farther down into the seat so Andrew’s body is blocking me from their view.
“Uh-huh.” Detective Weeks leans back and lowers the flashlight. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I took a look under the tarp in the back?”
“Do you have a warrant?” Blake moves his hand off my leg and grips the steering wheel. His face hardens. I remember that face. This is the Blake who got arrested for breaking and entering, the Blake who spent six months in juvie. I shrink away from him. I’ve had too much experience with personality-shifting guys.
“I don’t need a warrant.” Detective Weeks doesn’t seem to like Blake’s attitude. “License and registration, please.” Blake pulls his wallet out of his pocket and then leans over me to open the glove compartment. Detective Weeks shines his flashlight on Andrew, who’s still asleep with his head lolling against his chest and a little bit of blue drool, from the slushies, dripping down his chin. “Have you kids been drinking?”
“That’s my brother.” I say it quick, so he’ll let us go. “He has cerebral palsy. His wheelchair is in the back, under the tarp, if you want to take a look.”
Detective Weeks smiles and hands Blake back his license and registration without giving him a ticket. “You guys slow down, okay? The road up ahead is pretty narrow and dangerous, especially around the cliff.” He looks straight at me when he says that. I grip the tigereye hard. Blake’s jaw is working, like he has something he wants to say to Detective Weeks, but he holds it in.
After Detective Weeks pulls away, Randall and one of Trip’s other football buddies, Dillon Mitchell, walk in front of Blake’s car. Dillon pounds on the front window, then sits down on the hood so we can’t leave. Andrew jerks his head up.
“Hey, Juvie, where’d you pick up this fine automobile?” Dillon yells. “You steal this one, too?”
“May be from the junkyard.” Randall sits next to Dillon, and they start bouncing the car up and down.
I wish I could slide all the way to the floor. I hope they don’t recognize me.
Blake revs the engine and reaches to shift into drive, but his car sputters and dies. He swears. Laughter explodes all around us.
Dillon yells, “Is that your new girlfriend, Juvie? How much does she charge an hour?” Andrew leans forward so he’s blocking most of the window, to keep anyone from seeing me. Blake reaches for the door handle.
“Just drive away,” I plead. “Please, let’s just go home.”
Blake sets his jaw and revs the engine again. This time the car lurches forward, Dillion jumps off. Then Blake puts it inreverse so fast that Randall slides off the hood. As we go by, James pounds on the roof. Blake cuts beside him so close that I think we’re going to run over him.
Blake’s knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes in front of him, but his cheeks flush red. I know he’s embarrassed that I saw them harassing him.
I’m relieved to get out of town, until we get to my house. Both Dad’s truck and the van are parked in the driveway. Blake hurries to unload Andrew’s chair and help him in. I get the backpack and my purse. Slowly, resigned to our fate, we walk to the front door. Dad is waiting. He points at me, then Blake, then Andrew. “You three, living room! Now!”
Andrew looks at him groggily, wide-eyed and innocent. “Yes, you,” Dad says. “You’re in on this, too.”
Andrew beams. It’s been a long time since he was in trouble. I think he likes it. Blake and I perch on the couch; Andrew parks next to us—three felons awaiting sentencing.
“Where have you been?” Dad’s voice booms from his chest, not yelling—more like projecting—still loud enough that Blake looks ready to bolt.
“W-we went to Hoquiam,” Blake stammers. “To the roller—”
“You went all the
“Uh-huh.” Detective Weeks leans back and lowers the flashlight. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I took a look under the tarp in the back?”
“Do you have a warrant?” Blake moves his hand off my leg and grips the steering wheel. His face hardens. I remember that face. This is the Blake who got arrested for breaking and entering, the Blake who spent six months in juvie. I shrink away from him. I’ve had too much experience with personality-shifting guys.
“I don’t need a warrant.” Detective Weeks doesn’t seem to like Blake’s attitude. “License and registration, please.” Blake pulls his wallet out of his pocket and then leans over me to open the glove compartment. Detective Weeks shines his flashlight on Andrew, who’s still asleep with his head lolling against his chest and a little bit of blue drool, from the slushies, dripping down his chin. “Have you kids been drinking?”
“That’s my brother.” I say it quick, so he’ll let us go. “He has cerebral palsy. His wheelchair is in the back, under the tarp, if you want to take a look.”
Detective Weeks smiles and hands Blake back his license and registration without giving him a ticket. “You guys slow down, okay? The road up ahead is pretty narrow and dangerous, especially around the cliff.” He looks straight at me when he says that. I grip the tigereye hard. Blake’s jaw is working, like he has something he wants to say to Detective Weeks, but he holds it in.
After Detective Weeks pulls away, Randall and one of Trip’s other football buddies, Dillon Mitchell, walk in front of Blake’s car. Dillon pounds on the front window, then sits down on the hood so we can’t leave. Andrew jerks his head up.
“Hey, Juvie, where’d you pick up this fine automobile?” Dillon yells. “You steal this one, too?”
“May be from the junkyard.” Randall sits next to Dillon, and they start bouncing the car up and down.
I wish I could slide all the way to the floor. I hope they don’t recognize me.
Blake revs the engine and reaches to shift into drive, but his car sputters and dies. He swears. Laughter explodes all around us.
Dillon yells, “Is that your new girlfriend, Juvie? How much does she charge an hour?” Andrew leans forward so he’s blocking most of the window, to keep anyone from seeing me. Blake reaches for the door handle.
“Just drive away,” I plead. “Please, let’s just go home.”
Blake sets his jaw and revs the engine again. This time the car lurches forward, Dillion jumps off. Then Blake puts it inreverse so fast that Randall slides off the hood. As we go by, James pounds on the roof. Blake cuts beside him so close that I think we’re going to run over him.
Blake’s knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes in front of him, but his cheeks flush red. I know he’s embarrassed that I saw them harassing him.
I’m relieved to get out of town, until we get to my house. Both Dad’s truck and the van are parked in the driveway. Blake hurries to unload Andrew’s chair and help him in. I get the backpack and my purse. Slowly, resigned to our fate, we walk to the front door. Dad is waiting. He points at me, then Blake, then Andrew. “You three, living room! Now!”
Andrew looks at him groggily, wide-eyed and innocent. “Yes, you,” Dad says. “You’re in on this, too.”
Andrew beams. It’s been a long time since he was in trouble. I think he likes it. Blake and I perch on the couch; Andrew parks next to us—three felons awaiting sentencing.
“Where have you been?” Dad’s voice booms from his chest, not yelling—more like projecting—still loud enough that Blake looks ready to bolt.
“W-we went to Hoquiam,” Blake stammers. “To the roller—”
“You went all the
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