This May Go On Your Permanent Record by Kelly Swails

Chapter 2

MY KNIGHT IN THE PENCIL SKIRT

I cursed under my breath as the cop opened his door and started the ignition. The bag of oranges banged against my thigh as I tried not to panic. My groceries shifted as I ran harder, my lungs burning and my muscles straining. The cop car sped up and kept pace. I glanced over just in time to see him use the radio and flip on his lights. Blue and red strobes lit up the street.

"Crap," I said. My shoulder burned and I shifted the oranges. This wasn't going well. I needed to drop the oranges but they were this week's breakfast.

Shadows engulfed me as I ran under the canopy of two huge maple trees. A breeze kicked up and brought the scent of dog poop with it. Sweat glued my t-shirt to my back as my heart pounded against my ribs. My mouth was dry and not just from the exertion. I knew what happened to kids like me, and I didn't want to go to juvie. Those girls would eat me for lunch.

I dodged a row of bushes, ran along the side of an old Victorian house, crossed a driveway, and slipped behind a one-car garage. A security light illuminated my passage and I cursed. Might as well have an arrow pointed right at me. I crossed the alley and ran through a back yard. I switched my oranges to the other hand as ran for the street but skidded to a stop when I saw the cop car turn the corner in front of me.

I clenched my fists, turned around, and ran back the way I'd come. I shot across a yard, ducked under a clothesline, and squeezed between two parked cars. At least I tried to until my bag of oranges got caught on something. My arm jerked hard in its socket as the bag ripped and fruit spilled everywhere. As I stumbled I stepped on an orange and it rolled beneath my feet. I fell forward, just getting my hands up in time to break my fall. Pain exploded in my hands and knees as I skidded across the concrete driveway.

Blood welled up from the scrapes and tears stung my eyes. I looked away. Blood didn't make me squeamish unless it was my own. I shook my hand and droplets of blood splattered onto the concrete. In the light from the house's back porch the spots looked black. Gross.

The cop car turned into the alley and drove slowly, its tires crunching the gravel. I tried to get up to run but as soon as I stood my left ankle buckled. Pain shot up my leg and I gasped. I must have sprained it. Not bad—I could probably still walk—but I couldn't run.

The cop parked behind me and stopped. The cop walked over to where I was still crouched on the ground. He shined his light on me he pulled a phone from his pocket. He pressed a number and waited. After a moment he said, "I got her." He listened and nodded. "You bet. See you then." He slipped the phone into his pocket as he toed an orange. "What have we here?"

"Nothing to see here," I said. I scratched my nose.

He nodded and stared at me. I tried not to squirm.

"You have a habit of running away from the police?" he said.

"No."

"Know anything about breaking and entering?" he said.

"No," I said as I shifted. My scrapes were killing me. "Can I stand up?"

"Sure." He watched me stand. "Let me give you a little piece of advice. If you're gonna turn to a life of crime, you need to be better at lying."

I pressed my lips together. It hadn't been the first time I'd been told I'm a bad liar.

The cop motioned with his hands as he reached for his cuffs. "Let's see 'em."

I sighed and held out my wrists. When he saw my wounds he put on a pair of gloves. The cop was nice, I'll give him that. He didn't put the handcuffs on as tight as he could have. As soon as the second bracelet locked I had to pee. Funny how that works. When you know you can't you have to.