“I’m seventeen,” I answer while staring at my feet. “This beer isn’t for me.” I sound robotic. Dead. As if all life drains from me. “My dad told me to come here and get beer for him. He beats me every night and is a raging drunk who abuses my mum any chance he can.”
“Look, kid, you have to come with us.”
“Okay,” I reply in defeat.
I hand the police officer the bag of beer and slide it into the backseat of the police car. I sit there, chewing on my cheek while repeatedly tapping my foot. My hands tighten on my shirt, and I feel like dying. I feel like grabbing the gun at the police officer’s waist, pressing it to my head and pulling the trigger.
“So, you said your dad told you to get the beer?” the younger police officer questions.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Noya Dawn Taylor.”
“Taylor?” the guy questions. “John Taylor’s daughter?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a hefty accusation against another police officer, Noya. Are you sure that beer is for him and not for one of your friends?”
“Yes.”
They look at each other and grimace.
The police station isn’t that far.
The young police officer grabs my arm, and I flinch, leaning away from him while he moves me towards the doors. The lady at the reception desk looks up momentarily, sees me, and then turns to the older police officer when he approaches her. The younger one moves me to a room and tells me to take a seat.
“We will have to call your dad,” he declares.
“Okay.”
The police officer sighs. “Look, kid. If you tell me the truth, that the beer was for a friend, we won’t have to call your dad and get you into further trouble.”
“Call him,” I mutter. “I don’t want to live this life withouthim.”
“Who?”
My heart aches as I relive watching Conner drive away.
It was all a dream. This is reality. No one is that eccentric, kind, caring, and helpful. This Conner did what I expected him or anyone else to do: ignore me and move on with their lives.
It was all a maladaptive daydream.
I bow my head, place my face in my hands, and sob.
“I’m going to take you home,” the young police officer declares.
I straighten up. “Why?”
He darts a look at the older police officer and then back to me. “I’ll be right back. When I return, we won’t report you for buying alcohol underage. I’ll take you to John.”
My eyes widen. “Why?”
“Because I know your dad, and I know he would be pissed if he found you here,” he hisses. “Now shut up while I get you out of this mess.”
He leaves the room and heads to the older police officer. I blink a few times, struggling to take all this in. Why would he do that for me? Unless… unless… is he the one working with my dad?