Chills shudder up my spine like spiders on a disturbed web when I freeze. With it, my maladaptive daydreaming manifests. I imagine myself becoming agile enough to flee from two police officers. I’m faster than them, and in this fictional mind of mine, I escape the confines of the police with the beer I’m not supposed to have.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
They aren’t stupid. The bag is clear plastic. They can see what’s inside.
“It’s…”
I think about coming clean. The dynamic with Dad comes to mind, but will they believe me, or will they drive me home and expose my words to him? Then, after they leave, the terror and horrors I have pushed to the back of my mind will free themselves. And as I crumble on the dirty carpet, would I see Mum in the corner crying again as she watches the bruises come to life on my body?
Somebody appears beside me and says, “It’s mine!” Conner takes the bag from me, my fingers slackening on the handles. “I couldn’t carry it all, so I left the bag on the counter to get after a smoke.”
My surprise leaks out, but I try to keep a passive enough expression and play into what he’s saying. He’s so persuasive that I believe his lies even as I stand here.
Conner dips his hand into the plastic bag, takes out the Snickers bar and says, “This must be yours.”
The older police officer grimaces. “Can I see some form of identification?” Conner goes into his pocket, takes out hisphone, unfolds the front, and hands his license to them. After a glance, the officer hands it back and says, “Have a good night.”
That’s it? I expected more—or for them to take out a notebook and write our names and numbers. Maybe even question us further. And if I’m being honest with myself, I would have probably crumbled under the pressure.
Conner drops the cigarette and squishes it with his shoe until the orange glow fades.
“Why did you help me?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, too afraid to answer.
Instead, I reach for the bag when Conner walks towards his car and says, “I’ll drive you home. You don’t want to get caught walking home with this. They will probably follow.”
From the other side of the transparent glass window, the younger police officer watches us like a hawk. So, I nod a few times, follow Conner to his car, and slide into the passenger seat.
As I assumed, the leather is comfortable.
The car hums to life, and Conner slowly reverses out, showing he’s a cautious driver. I don’t even reverse this slowly. Then again, Dad’s car jolts, so it’s hard not to fly back when I apply a little pressure and speed up.
“Which way?”
I tell him my street. He nods, knowing where to go as he turns right into the dead of night.
I don’t know Conner well, and have only seen him in art. This is the first time we have spoken. Year eleven and twelve students share electives. I only do art because Mrs Jones told me—when she was my therapist—that it would ease my daydreaming if I expressed what I thought.
And it helps…somewhat. But it’s not enough. Still, I love art and have received three awards for the art I have produced. Mr Rogers says I have a unique and imaginative touch.
From afar, I always admired Conner’s realism when he drew and painted.
And one day, Mr Rogers wanted us to go outside and find something to draw. Conner and I sat in silence as we sketched the same tree. Mine became twisted and darker, with thorns like something from a horror movie: sharp and terrifying.
When I stole a glance at Conner’s drawing, it was realistic. He drew leaves as he saw them, and I envied the realism but also accepted it. Everyone had a different artistic style; I steered more towards fantasy, while he had a realistic touch.
Conner stops the car a few houses down from mine. I lied about where I lived because I didn’t want him to hear anything. I hope it’s far enough for the sounds to become muffled.
But even if he does, I can easily lie and tell him my neighbours are loud. He won’t know.
I grab my bag and open the door when Conner says, “Why were you buying a pack of beer? And why did the guy working there let you buy it?”
“Uh…” My mouth becomes dry and fuzzy. We haven’t spoken until now. If anything, I half-expected a “goodbye” before I stepped out of the car. I never thought Conner would ask me anything, which means he’s more observant than I give him credit for. So, I will sticky-note that in the back of my mind if we ever re-encounter each other. “I have Face I.D.,” I say.
“Really?” he says, bemused. “Why didn’t you just say that to the cops?”