to inspect the firearm and conduct a search,” the officer says. “Could you step out of the vehicle?”
I could refuse, but the last thing I need is for him to feel like I’m being “uncooperative” and that he needs to call for back up. I pass the license and my permit through the open window.
“What’s this about?” Bristol leans over to demand of the police officer. “He isn’t getting out until you tell us what this is about.”
“Bris,” I say. “I’ve got this.”
“But he hasn’t even really told us why we—”
“Be quiet.” The words come out sharp and short. The hurt in her eyes twists my heart around, softening the shell that started forming as soon I saw that blue light. “Please. Just let me handle it.”
She sits back, rebellion in the tight line of her mouth. She studies her nails as if she couldn’t care less what happens next, but I know her better than that.
I open the door and step out.
“Sorry about that, officer, she just—”
“I’m putting these cuffs on as a precaution,” he cuts in. “Just while I search the vehicle.”
Cuffs? Shit.
He turns me roughly, rocking my chest into the car, pulling my arms behind my back, and clamping the cuffs on my wrists.
Bristol isn’t pretending to be fascinated by her nails anymore. I feel her eyes latched onto me. I asked her to be quiet, but her shock and dismay at how quickly the situation has changed create a choking silence. He pats down my shoulders and arms, at my waist, inside my thighs and all the way down to my ankles. Rage boils up from a long-stirring cauldron in my belly, but I hear my mother’s voice.
Do whatever it takes to make it home, Marlon.
When he’s done, I turn and stand toe to toe with him for a few seconds, towering over him, dwarfing him. I have every advantage except the one the badge affords him
“The car isn’t mine yet,” I say calmly, ignoring the chafe of the cuffs. “I’m test driving it.”
“All right.” He tilts his head toward the curb. “Why don't you test drive that curb while I check the vehicle?”
A battle cry shreds the inside of my throat, desperate to escape. But it isn’t time for fighting. I have to maintain control in what could, with one wrong word or move, become a volatile situation. I can’t afford to lose control.
How many times did I sit on some damn curb, my boys and me? Pulled off basketball courts, out of cars, laid on our stomachs, stretched in the middle of streets like animals? Humiliation and rage linking us like some urban chain gang. If I think about it too long, I’ll do something stupid. I just want this over so we can be on our way. I keep telling myself that, but the longer this goes on, the harder it is to remember.
“Ma’am, you can join him on the curb while I conduct the search,” the officer offers.
Bristol scrambles out of the car, walking swiftly to sit on the curb beside me, the pink dress falling back to show another inch of her tanned thighs.
“Pull your damn dress down,” I say around the gravel in my mouth.
She glances from the expanse of legs back to my face. She drops her knees and tugs at the hem of her short dress.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” she says.
“This isn’t about we, Bris.” I look at her meaningfully, keeping my voice low even as bitterness rises in me. “This is about me. Driving that car in this neighborhood with you in the passenger seat.”
“You think he stopped you because I was in the car?”
“Remember you asked me to let you know when your privilege makes you clueless?” I ask. “Well, that just happened.”
Contrition pinches her brows together, and she lowers her eyes to the road before going on.
“I’m sorry.” She shakes her head and then searches my eyes for answers. “I want to . . . I’m trying to understand. Can you just tell me why you have that gun in the car? I hate guns.”
“I carry it all the time. You just never knew, I guess.”