Misfit Theater Company (Wattys Winner 2018)

26. Loiter (Part Two)

"Shit," Thatcher says. He throws the blanket off and reaches for his phone to turn it off. His keys are somehow already tucked into his palm, and he reaches for the door. "Wait, I shouldn't move. Otherwise, he'll think I'm trying to run or grab a gun or something, right? Shit. Right?"

I'm paralyzed with fear. The only thing in my body that seems to be moving is all the blood into my cheeks. Thatcher's making up for my stillness and silence with his fidgeting and constant stream of curse words until the cop approaches his car and knocks on my side window.

I feel like a marionette being controlled by some higher force as I move to roll it down.

Thatcher leans over. "Good evening, officer," he says, his voice shaking. "What's the problem?"

The officer hasn't stopped glaring at Thatcher since the window rolled down. He's a light-skinned and light-haired man who is chewing gum as obviously and disappointedly as possible. I wasn't aware that a person could chew gum in a disappointed manner until this very moment.

"Young man, are you aware you're loitering in a park after sunset?" he asks with a flat inflection.

Oh my god, we're going to be arrested. I feel like my insides are burning and the ashes are falling into a pile at the base of my spine.

"We were just parked here. We weren't in the park," Thatcher says.

"License and registration, please," the officer replies.

"Wait, so I can't even park here after dark?"

"License and registration." The officer sounds more forceful this time.

"They're in my glove box, is it okay if I get out and walk around to get it?"

"Hold on," the officer orders. He steps around to the other side of Thatcher's car and instructs Thatcher to step out of the vehicle.

I swear I'm breathing more loudly than I usually speak as Thatcher and the cop walk together to the passenger side of the car to get Thatcher's wallet and registration.

"Stay right here," the officer instructs Thatcher. "Hands on the vehicle."

"Yes, sir."

The cop goes back to his squad car, and Thatcher turns around to put his hands on the car. My window is still down and the cold night air freezes the layer of nervous sweat on my skin. Despite being able to talk and sort of facing each other, neither Thatcher nor I say a word. I'm trying to come up with an excuse for my mom if I'm late because of this—it's 10:40pm—or if we get arrested.

Two minutes later, the cop returns to the car with Thatcher's license and registration and a new document: a ticket. He hands the license and registration to Thatcher and says, "Please step into the car, young man. I'll be back in a moment. We aren't done here." Then the cop leans over to meet my eyes. "Miss, will you step out of the vehicle, please?"

Again, my puppet master leads my hand to the door handle and steps my feet one at a time toward the officer. He instructs me to follow him closer to his car and turns his back to Thatcher.

"Miss, do you feel safe with this boy?" he asks, his tone a million times gentler now than it had been with Thatcher.

I'm totally caught off guard. "Yes?"

"Just because he has you in his car does not mean you need to do anything you don't want to do. If you'd like me to drive you home, if you feel like he's pressuring you, I can make sure you get home safely."

It all finally clicks: This guy thinks Thatcher is, like, trying to take advantage of me or something. The fogged-up car probably didn't help, and neither did us sitting in the back seat. Still, it's funny to me that anyone would look at Thatcher and think he's trying to do anything to me against my will. It's so funny to me that I actually laugh out loud when I finally realize what the cop is asking me.

"No, no, officer. It's nothing like that. We were at the Snowball dance at Riverside High and we had some time to kill, so we thought we'd watch a movie in his car."

"You're sure it wasn't any of that Netflix and chill stuff?" he asks, and I have to laugh again, because the way he says Netflix and chill makes him sound like an old man.

"I promise, officer."

He looks down at the ticket in his hand, and I see now that there are actually two tickets in his hand: one for each of the possible answers I could have given him. He rips one of them up and tosses the bits of paper into the window of his car, and then he walks me and the other ticket back to Thatcher in his car.

Thatcher breathes deeply and audibly out of his mouth when we arrive at the car. I get into the passenger seat as the officer walks around to the driver's side window, which Thatcher rolls down slowly. The back window is still open from earlier, but the whole scene is so embarrassing and terrifying that I can hardly feel the cold.

"This is a ticket for loitering. I don't want to see you hanging out around the parks at night anymore. If you two want to watch a movie, go to one of your houses."

Thatcher takes the ticket, his head hung. "Yes, sir."

"Have a good night," the officer says before walking away.

Thatcher rolls his window back up and slips the ticket up behind the visor. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are glassy, but that's all I can see from his profile. He jams his keys into the ignition, and as soon as the car is on, backs out and drives away. It's 10:49pm, and we need to get back; but his driving seems a little more urgent than it needs to be. I'm not sure why exactly, but I guess that he probably just wants me out of his car as soon as possible. So that he can cry? Or scream? Or curse me for coming up with the idea to watch the movie from the back seat? Or curse himself for taking me there?

Whatever the reason, the guilt is real. I feel it in the pit of my stomach and I can barely even look at him because of it. I rest my forehead on the window, counting down the minutes before I can get out of the car. Neither of us speaks the entire ride to my house.

When he pulls up in front of my house at 10:54pm, all I can say is "Thanks," and then I'm out. I run into the house, and immediately up to my room.

Mom is in the living room, presumably waiting up for me, and she asks how the dance was. I simply say, "Good," down the stairs, and then close my bedroom door behind me. I don't even change out of my dress before I hit the bed, the weight of the guilt and discomfort and embarrassment pulling me down.

Maybe Thatcher and I are the star-crossed lovers, I think as the tears start to come. The second I think I could be happy with him and we share our feelings with each other, a ticket comes along and ruins the entire night.

I say a silent prayer my mom never finds out.

My phone buzzes with a new message. It's Thatcher.

Thatcher Gorsky: Sorry about tonight. I feel like an idiot. Goodnight. (11:01pm)

Goodnight, I reply in my head, but I fall asleep with tears in my eyes before I actually respond.