Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 28: Telephone Line

28
Telephone Line

==========DANNY=========

Max and I walked in silence back along the tracks, taking the longer, but actually established path through the forest this time. Groaning as our injuries caught up to us. The walk instantly made me think of all our childhood exploits—making fires and blowing up hairspray bottles, or the time we were certain we were going to build a full-on log cabin in the forest. We had the first four straps of plywood nailed together, but then construction stopped when girls became more important, I think. It seemed like our friendship was built in the forest.

By the time we made it all the way back around to the entrance of Winston Woods, the flock of cars had left. Only my Mustang sat in the far corner, and when inspected, it did not appear to be vandalized.

"Who'd you come here with?" Max asked.

"Myself," I said, unlocking the doors. "You?"

"Same."

We drove in silence. Grotesque shadows cast from the orange streetlights leaped across my car. Between Max's legs sat his backpack. His gun. I felt like a felon. A splitting, gut-wrenching nausea leaked from the pit of my stomach. My fear of getting caught was so loud inside of me that I was convinced anyone with a sharp sense of intuition could feel it radiating through the shockwaves of my pulse.

While sitting at one of the many, many traffic lights Gilmore Park hosted, a black police car pulled up behind us. I looked over at Max's bag. The cop stayed behind us for several more lights until, as if on cue—guess my fear really was being broadcast to the world—the whirling array of police lights beamed in my mirrors. Max and I looked at each other; the dried sweat on his skin took on a purple glow in the collision of red and blue lights. "Bro, bro. Cops need a warrant to check shit. If he asks to search your car, say no."

I immediately pulled over, hoping that my obedience would obliterate any of the cop's suspicions.

"License and registration," the cop said as he approached my window. He then took a closer look at me. "Why is your head bleeding?"

My eyes shot to the rearview mirror. The cop was right. I had a nice gash of blood running down from my forehead to the side of my nose. Behind me, Max feverishly grinded his teeth.

"I, uh—" I stumbled to answer. All my years of make-believe and storytelling had been put on the spot. The test was now. "Family party. My younger, baby cousin, um, was very aggressive. You know kids, right?"

I grinned larger than my face. The cop didn't seem to buy it. Firm-mouthed and menacing, he looked at Max for confirmation. He then looked back at me. Max was drunk and had a gun (and yup, a shit ton of drugs). The cop proceeded to ask us more questions, starting with how we were related. Max began to say, "We're broth—" at the same time I blurted, "Friends."

"License and registration." He didn't so much ask but had commanded. I leaned over to the glove box, over Max's gun-filled bag, pushed through the papers, shoving back Mary and I's road trip map, and pulled out my registration. Digging out my license from my wallet, I handed both to the officer.

"Whose vehicle is this?" he asked.

"My dad's, sir."

Which wasn't technically the correct answer. It was under Mom's name. The cop took my paperwork and returned to his vehicle. Max and I sat without looking at each other. The embarrassing exaggeration of the cop lights still spun behind us. I wished he'd turn them off. By the time he returned to my car for further interrogation, he had got a call on his radio, and so simply handed me back my license and registration, and drove off.