Page 8 of Denial
The officer doesn’t twitch at my grin or my rambling monologue. His expression remains unreadable.
“Hang on.”
Three tangled chargers come out of the top of my bag. I toss them onto the passenger seat. Next is Bert, my cactus, my little slice of the desert I couldn’t leave behind. I carefully relocate him to the dash.
The officer beside me gives an impatient sigh.
“License,” he repeats.
I decide then not to mention the granola bar I just found that I’ve been missing since yesterday's lunch. I’m going to scarf that down before my interview. While avoiding his gaze, I carefully slide it onto the dash next to Bert for safekeeping and continue my search.
“Here it is!” I triumphantly hold out my license and a curled insurance card.
“Stay put,” he orders before returning to his cruiser.
“Yes, sir,” I mutter under my breath and open up my snack.
Halfway through, the heavy scrape of footsteps signals his return.
“Step out of the vehicle.”
“Am I in trouble?” Crumbs fall onto my shirt. I gather my purse, my half-eaten granola bar, and my tiny cactus and push open the door.
He steps back just far enough to avoid getting hit.
“I can’t imagine I did anything arrestable.”
Only once the words leave my mouth do I notice the pair of silver cuffs glinting in his large hand.
“Sorry, am I… Wait… Those are your?—”
“You’re under arrest.” His voice is monotone.
I nearly drop my cactus. “Really?” I breathe. The sun stings my wide eyes. I set my purse by my feet, safely tuck in my cactus, and shove the remaining granola bar into my mouth. “This is exciting. I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to be arrested.”
That’s not entirely true. Not after witnessing my brother’s ordeal. But I know I haven’t done anything close to felonious andWhitney is a short phone call away, so I might as well enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
I swear he groans.
“How do you want me?” I move my hands to the small of my back. “Front or back? Do I have to assume the position? Am I getting frisked?”
He grunts in response.
The metal closes around my wrists with a definite click. “Not too bad. A little snug. I suppose that’s how you keep the actual criminals under control. Do these come in pink?”
“Do you have anything in your pockets?”
I jut out my hip. “I don’t even have pockets. Apparently, designers have decided they’re optional on women's clothing. Do you remember those old wide-leg jeans? Of course you do. Your hair is gray. Those pockets used to go down to my knees. I could fit an entire CD player in there.”
Officer Smiley begins his pat-down procedure. He skims his fingers a little harshly against my thigh.
“Ooh, be careful there, big guy. That’s my insulin pod, and if you rip that out, I might actually die.”
Peeling back the hem of my shorts, I reveal the device attached to my leg.
“Not immediately, of course. But depending on how long this takes, I’ll eventually run out of insulin since my pancreas doesn’t actually work.”
The frisk ends abruptly. Granted, there isn’t much room to hide anything in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
