Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 2: I Didn't Make Bail

"Your bond is set at one hundred thousand dollars. There are numbers for bondsmen on the side of the telephone, you can call friends and family also. We'll come check on you again in twenty minutes."

Sergeant Gordon wrenches open the iron door and shuts me inside a windowless box with unpainted concrete walls and half-burnt out fluorescent lights humming on the ceiling. There's a phone on my left with a concrete bench running under it, built into the wall, and a pale redheaded girl is laying across it, glaring hard at the phone box like she's trying to make it explode.

"Your bail's a hundred grand?" she asks. I detect an accent – maybe Irish? Scottish? "Wha' is tha' for? Grand Theft Auto?"

But the way she says "auto" sounds more Canadian...

She shakes her head, sits up. "Ah," she says, "slipped out of it! My mum's British, I could use her accent to get out of a-ny-thing as a kid. Whenever we had a sub I'd just cut class and wander around the P.E. Fields – if I ever got caught, I'd pretend it was my first day of school, my first day in America period, and I was just confused. Didn't work on the cops though, or else I wouldn't have ended up in here. So – did you steal the car or what?"

"No."

She looks so disappointed that I quickly say, "It was a golf cart. But that wasn't the point – I only took it to move the fireworks," trying to impress her.

She gives me a long up-and-down look: "You've only got one eyebrow."

Reflexively, my hand goes to my forehead... It must have rubbed off when the policewoman wresteld me to the ground...

"Pale blue eyes...did the police lights hurt 'em?"

I nod.

"Mine too... And your hair's so long!"

"Past my butt, yeah. When I got cavity searched the sargeant yelled at me to hold it aside. She was annoyed I couldn't get out of her way fast enough – or maybe she's just always aggressive about it–" I shrug. The girl looks impressed. Maybe other inmates cry about being searched, but I feel apathetic. Numb. Tough.

(You're putting up walls, said my therapist.)

"I'm Shiv, then." She's back in an accent again. "I'm in for identity theft. I knew what I was doing – but – what? – no one ever told you fireworks are illegal? So is stealin'..."

"It's a long story."

Shiv sits up, moves aside so I can join her on the bench. When I fold my feet underneath me, I wince. A long rectangular bruise – candy shaped, purple, the exact same purple as the Milky Way Midnight's wrapper – is developing on my hip. "I'm Josephina – with a J not an H – I found a crate of fireworks on a golf course. I didn't realize I was stealing the golf cart – didn't even think about it, really – when I saw the police cars, I just panicked. Tried to drive off but they caught up with m – me–"

My voice catches, suddenly.

Shiv lays back again, putting her head in my lap.

"I've got an older cousin – same red hair –" she begins, splaying it across me and lowering her voice like she's trying to sooth me, telling me a bedtime story:

"She got a full ride scholarship to college. I'd already been using her old ID for years – even though we're both baby-faced no liquor store clerk had ever questioned it... My parents had just gotten divorced. Mum went back the U.K. – it was impossible to fill out the FAFSA over FaceTime, and besides, I wasn't going to get enough of a loan, anyway. Even when you ask me now I'll say, I really don't think I did anything wrong – you shouldn't have to lie your way into school, if you really want to go..."