For a moment, I think about Bear and Otter’s predicament, and I wonder if Cornflower and Beach Vagrant would be willing to part with one of their stoned hippie babies so two loving homosexuals could have him or her. I don’t ask because I’m afraid they’d say yes right away and nine months from now, there’d be a knock at the Green Monstrosity and a child left on the doorstep in a basket made of hemp and smelling of patchouli.
Goddammit. I really need to find more supporters whose idea of a good time isn’t playing a guitar around a low fire, singing John Lennon or Britney Spears (trust me: you ain’t heard anything until you’ve heard a stoned hippie singing “I’m A Slave 4 U” with reworked lyrics that describe how it feels to drop acid and save Mother Earth from places like Walmart and McDonald’s—it’s life-changing. Kind of).
“Shit,” I mutter right into the microphone so those at home watching the live TV can be incensed by yet another thing on this magical day. Katie just stares at the window, her jaw dropped, her cameraman continuing to film everything. “This is so going to end up on YouTube.”
The door to the restaurant opens behind us, and I turn, expecting someone from BJ’s to come running out, screaming they’ve already called the police, that we were so dead, and who the fuck did we think we were? I’ve already opened my mouth to offer some kind of apology, to say anything to not get the cops called (already imagining the look on Bear’s face when he gets a call that I’ve been arrested again) when who should walk out but a cop.
The sun is in my eyes, but I can still see the Seafare Police Department uniform tightly wrapped around a massive hulking body. My stomach begins to tingle slightly as I raise my gaze up that body, the thighs like huge slabs of granite, the utility belt wrapped around a tight waist. My mouth goes dry as my eyes drift over the chest (Hello there, Officer, I think. Please arrest me. I’ve been very, very bad), to the arms (They have to be fake! No one has arms that big!). I shield my eyes from the sun so I can get a good look at this overgrown and overfed guy who is going to ruin my afternoon (and obviously provide at least a good six months of spank-bank deposits—don’t look at me that way. Trust me when I say I’m not a Kid anymore). He’s big, bigger than a man should have any right to be. He might be the biggest man in all the world, for all I know.
That chin, square and chiseled. Those rough cheeks, covered in a day’s worth of black scruff. Mouth in a thin line, the barest hint of teeth underneath. Black hair, clipped short. Mirror shades. He removes the sunglasses and those eyes… good Christ, those blue eyes. Those knowing eyes. They say more than any one person could with an infinite amount of words. Too bad I can’t understand any of it.
Oh, fuck, I think, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am in so much trouble. I barely notice when the hippies take off running.
For the first time in almost four years, I hear that voice, so filled with gravel. That voice that has never healed, broken for as long as I’ve known him. That voice that at one point meant everything to me. He says only a single word, but in that word is a lifetime of memories and the earthquake that hits is almost enough to tilt the ground beneath my feet.
“Tyson,” he says.
“Dominic,” I breathe.
10. Where Tyson Gets Arrested
HAVE YOU ever been handcuffed by someone who you’d thought at one point was the love of your life (how naïve, that), sat down on a sidewalk next to your best friend, who is also handcuffed and staring at you murderously, and wondered just how life got to this point? But you know, really, it’s not your fault at all, because the blame is totally and completely resting on the beach hippies, and you swear on all you have that if you ever get your hands on the members of DEAD! you’ll strangle them until their eyes glaze over. While you plot these revenge fantasies in your head (“How apt, Cornflower and Beach Vagrant, that you belong to a group called DEAD! because that is what you soon shall be!”), you also wonder if you can find some way to make sure your older brother doesn’t find out about this little… infraction… because your older brother has a propensity to… overreact… about every single little thing, even if it was all the beach hippies’ fault. And while you’re sitting with the metal cuffs pinching your skin (did he really have to tighten them that much?) worrying about your brother and plotting DEAD! deaths, it probably also doesn’t help that a reporter who smells like she ate 1-800-FLOWERS is trying to interview you, pushing the microphone in your face and asking if destruction of property is the best way to get environmental messages across, and just what did the beach hippies mean when they were shouting about Chinese mink cats?
No? Never been in that situation?
Lucky you.
“No comment,” I mumble, wondering just what shade of red Bear’s face is going to turn this time. It’s been a while since he’s been crimson. Or possibly beet. Either way, this can’t possibly end well.
Yes, I’m nineteen years old and able to think for myself.
Yes, I’m terrified of what my older brother is going to say.
You would be too. It’s Bear.
Katie Rhine must figure she’s not going to get anything further out of me. She instructs her cameraman to take a few more shots of the “destructive power of protest” (she’s still gunning for that Pulitzer), before she turns in a cloud of self-importance and azaleas. She leaves, her high heels clicking along the asphalt.
People come and go from the restaurant, staring at us curiously, whispering to themselves. Part of me wants to get up and remind them that they’re eating their way to a heart attack by the age of thirty-five, but I’m able to squash that down as it appears that would probably only make things worse. Plus, I’m still hoping the ground will open up beneath me and swallow me whole so I don’t have to suffer through the rest of what will undoubtedly be my short, short life.
I wonder how easy it would be to get out of the cuffs and make a break for it. I’d probably head for Canada and change my name to something Canadian. Like Carl. Or French-Canadian, like Pierre. I’d have to go into hiding and make a living as a Zamboni driver. All that talent, wasted on smoothing ice. Ah, well. No matter. What will be will be.
Except I can’t get out of the handcuffs. I don’t think I’d get very far running with my arms secured behind my back. I’m pretty sure Canada wouldn’t let me in that way.
“So,” Kori says. “Today has certainly been fun.” She doesn’t sound like she means it. At all.
“Goddamn beach hippies,” I mutter. “I’m n
ot going to get to Canada because the goddamn beach hippies are rock-throwers.”
“Probably,” Kori agrees, as if she can hear the crazy in my head. For all I know, she can. “I’m pretty sure they’ll see this when it’s broadcast on the Internet for all the world to gawk at and immediately close the borders. Your future is pretty much over. Want me to go see if BJ’s is hiring?”
“You’re not helping.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I’m handcuffed while being forced to sit on a curb in a dirty parking lot while wearing a two-hundred-dollar summer dress.”
“You spent two hundred dollars on a dress?” I think the most expensive piece of clothing I own is a pair of jeans that cost thirty bucks at the mall.
She rolled her eyes. “Just because you dress without any thought doesn’t mean others have to do the same.”