“You have the right to remain silent.”
Someone snorts behind me, and it takes all my strength not to flip him off. I guess this is my punishment for coming home. Or perhaps for leaving in the first place.
I’m not sure what I was thinking. Moving out of state for college wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be. I mean, it was, until my no good, piece of shit, jock boyfriend banged his resident adviser. Repeatedly. In the quad for all to see.
Combined with the worst homesickness I bet anyone has ever felt in the history of the world… Well, let’s just say, I’m glad the University of Cedar Rapids let me come home.
When I pull myself to my feet, the police officer cuffs my hands behind my back. Someone whispers something I can’t quite make out. I let my head drop forward, then the cop’s enormous hand grips right above my elbow as he starts to half-walk half-drag my ass out the door.
I should have known.
I should have invested in the “get out of jail free” card that was dangled in my face this morning. But I took the risk. Do the crime, do the time—isn’t that what they say?
I was arrogant to think I’d get away with it, that my friends would let me just slide back into the space I created when I left them for a hot-shot hockey player.
But here we are. It’s all in good humor and for a good cause, so I shouldn’t betooupset about it. Even if it’s mildly inconvenient.
After he folds me unceremoniously into the back of a squad car, the officer settles in the front seat and hits a button. An ear-piercing siren fractures the air around me, swallowing my groan.
This can’t be happening.
Heat consumes my body as we do a couple laps of the university at a snail’s pace. It’s almost like the cop wants my peers to point and stare. A couple guys wave their “get out ofjail free” cards at me through the window, and despite my hands being cuffed, I most definitely flip them off.
When we pull up to the doors of jail, my stomach grumbles. I skipped lunch. Playing catch up on college work plus the whole life I “abandoned” hasn’t been fun, but I’m nothing if not determined.
There’s a granola bar in my backpack, back at my desk, but that’s not helpful to me right now. And I bet Officer Scowly didn’t bring snacks on this adventure.
At the front desk, there’s a “mugshot” of me sitting next to some paperwork. My whole body cringes. I don’t know where they got the photo, but it’s a doozy. Could have sworn I deleted it from all my socials. I hope Mom doesn’t see it—she’d never let me outside again. Her darling daughter doesn’t do such crass things as drink liquor or leave the house scantily clad.
The mean-muggin’ receptionist offers me a pen, and I shrug. I’m good, but I’m not write-with-my-hands-cuffed-behind-my-back good. Keys jingle behind me, and my arms are freed from their cold, hard prison.
I rub at my wrists, because isn’t that what everyone does when they get released from metal handcuffs? Sue me. I’m leaning into the cliché.
I fill in the paperwork, accept the wholly unflattering bright orange jumpsuit and the list of phone numbers with another sigh, and turn to face my gated fate. There’s about a dozen pretty lifelike looking prison cells in a horse-shoe-shape around the space that could be a gymnasium or an event space depending on the decor.
Today, it’s a prison. With an intake desk, a receptionist, and metal rail cells lining the room.
Thankfully, my cell is otherwise unoccupied. It’s just me. Will my luck hold out? I’m not taking my clothes off in front of these people, so I jerk the onesie over myclothes before reviewing the list. My best friend’s name is printed in tidy black letters across the top of the page next to her number.
Should I even bother making my phone call?
Would anyone come to my rescue?
My best friend, Jazz, howls with laughter when the call connects.
Bitch.
If this whole debacle wasn’t for a charity, I’d give her a piece of my mind right about now.
“What’s the slammer like, Vic? Has anyone made you their bitch yet?”
My lips twitch. And I don’t fight the eye roll this time. “Just pay my damn bail.”
She snorts. “Nope.”
“The fuck you mean, nope?”
As soon as the cop appeared at my desk in class, I suspected she’d been the one to pay for my warrant. The cackling behind me in class only partly gave it away. At only ten bucks a pop to get someone arrested, she’ll probably have half the school thrown into fake jail before the day’s done.
