Charly's Epic Fiascos by Kelli London Page B

somehow.”
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    The officer who’d slowed down and was looking at Charly was now clearly headed her way. He had a walkie-talkie up to his mouth, talking into it. From the look on his face, she knew he was coming for her. She gulped. “Another one’s coming to get me.”
    â€œPower off your phone and do what I said. I got’chu, Charly. I got’chu. Remember Brooklyn Mason.”
    She was sliding her ID and powered-off phone into her panties and bra, respectively, as she walked with the tall male officer who’d snatched her up by one arm, and was semi-dragging her down the walk toward the exit of the station.
    â€œSo you like to throw bottles, huh?” he barked. “Juvie’s got spots for trash like you.” He pushed her through an entrance/exit door used for the handicapped and commuters with strollers.
    Charly almost fell, and she wasn’t happy about it. Mason may have given her good advice, but being shoved gave her temporary amnesia. This man, an officer of the law or not, couldn’t just push her and get away with it. “You better keep your hands off me,” Charly snapped. “Push me again and see what happens.”
    The cop yanked her by her arm, half drug her to a brick wall, then threw her against it. “A threat? And you have a smart mouth too? I’ll show you what’s going to happen.”
    Both of her hands were behind her back and cuffed before she knew it. Like a common criminal, she was escorted out of the station and to the end of the line of the group of juvenile offenders who’d thrown bottles and cut the woman officer. They were forced face-first against the wall. Chicago Transit Authority police cars and paddy wagon vans were parked on the street, and cops, transit authority and city, were gathered around. Some wore riot gear and had their guns exposed. Others had what looked like metal batons, and a few had cups of coffee and were laughing. Charly didn’t understand what they thought was so funny when her life was crumbling.
    â€œTurn to your left and stay in a straight line,” one of them instructed Charly and the other teenagers. “Roger, how many do you want to a van?” the cop asked another.
    Charly turned left and saw the woman officer who’d snatched her for jumping the turnstile. She bore her eyes into the lady, trying to get her to look at her. “Hey!” she yelled. “Hey! Tell them it wasn’t me. I wasn’t a part of this mess.”
    â€œShut up. You’re going with the rest of ’em,” the officer who’d pushed her said.
    â€œWait, Kaminski,” the female cop finally said, then pointed to Charly. “She wasn’t with them. You can uncuff that one. She’s not a runner, and we probably should have her checked out. I think she got cut too.” She looked at Charly. “But you better not move until someone comes to get you. We have unfinished business.”
    Reluctantly Kaminski freed her wrists, then spat on the ground in front of her. “You’re still a delinquent. Trash like you will never be nothing.”
    â€œWhatever!” Charly said, rubbing her wrists.
    Locking up inebriated teenagers wasn’t going to be an easy task, Charly realized. The offenders couldn’t stand in a straight line or be quiet. Some yelled curses and insults; others just flat-out threatened the cops. The few who stood directly in front of her seemed to forget that they were going to jail. They started crunk dancing, jerking their bodies in all sorts of directions, while a few cheered them on, making music with their mouths.
    â€œDo that ish. Do that ish. Do it!” someone sang from a small crowd of other teens who’d stopped to enjoy the crunk dance show.
    â€œDisperse! Disperse!” some officer yelled to the decidedly deaf onlookers, while a couple of the bystanders became a part of the show that had become a competition.
    Charly watched