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Daneca looks as horrified as if they were talking personally to her.
There is technically nothing illegal about bare hands. Just like there is technically nothing illegal about a sharp kitchen knife. But when you wave one around, the police don’t like it. And when you point it at something, that’s when the cuffs really come out.
“Lift me up,” Lila says.
“What?”
All around us people are jeering. But there is another sound, farther away, a roar of engines and cries that no longer contain words.
A news helicopter buzzes overhead.
“Up,” she says with a smile, pointing in the air. “I want to see what’s happening.”
I put my arms around her waist and lift her. She’s light. Her skin is soft against me, and she smells like sweat and crushed grass.
I set her down on the hood of the car, next to where Sam’s standing.
“There’s a bunch of cops,” she says, hopping down. “Riot gear. We’ve got to get out of here.”
I nod once. Criminals like us are good at running.
“We’re not doing anything illegal,” Daneca says, but she doesn’t sound sure. Around us the crowd feels it too. They aren’t moving in the same direction anymore. They’re scattering.
“Inside,” I say. “If we can get to one of the buildings, we can wait out whatever happens.”
But as we move toward the doorway nearest to us, cops start streaming across the sidewalk, their faces covered by helmets.
“Get down on the ground!” comes the command. They spread out, shoving protestors if they hesitate. One girl tries to argue, and a cop swings a baton at her leg. Another girl gets sprayed in the face with some chemical. She falls to the ground, clawing at her skin.
Lila and I drop down onto the asphalt immediately.
“What’s going on?” Sam says, kneeling down too. Daneca squats beside him.
“Under the car,” Lila says, crawling forward on her elbows.
It’s a pretty good plan. We still get arrested, but at least it takes a little longer.
* * *
The last time I was in a prison was to visit Mom. Prisons are places where people live. They’re dehumanizing, but they have things like tables and cafeterias and exercise rooms.
This is different. This is a jail.
They take our wallets, cell phones, and bags. They don’t even bother fingerprinting us. They just ask us our names and march us down to a holding cell. Girls in one, guys in the one next door. And so on, down a long noisy hallway.
There’s a couple of benches, a sink, and a single disgusting toilet. All occupied.
Daneca tries to tell them that we’re underage, but the cops don’t pay any attention to her. They just lock us up.
Sam is standing near me, his head leaning against the bars and his eyes closed. Daneca found a spot on one of the benches and is sitting, her face streaked with tears. They made her cover her hands before they hauled us into their armored van—and when she couldn’t find one of her gloves, they taped a bag all the way to her elbow. It’s cradled against her body now.
Lila paces back and forth.
“Lila,” I say, and she whirls, teeth bared, hand striking at me through the bars.
“Hey,” I say, catching her wrist.
She looks so surprised that I wonder if, for a moment, she forgot she was human.
