Freedom of Sketch

Paying the Price

Several sleek police cruisers are parallel parked along the curb. As we get closer to the car at the front of the line, my body parts feel disconnected, my hangover weighing them down. The officer opens the back door and gestures for me to climb in. I practically have to fold myself in half to fit inside the horribly cramped space. The seats are made of a hard, sun-warmed plastic that burns me through my borrowed clothes. A scratched Plexiglas partition separates me from the back of Officer Shaw's head.

I can barely breathe. The car's multiple mirrors channel blinding orbs of sunlight straight into my retinas. I wince. My head hurts so bad that I just want to crack it open, cleave it into two clean halves so that the pain and pressure will drift away like a relieved exhale.

Officer Shaw slams his door shut, guns the engine, and directs the cruiser away from the party house. "So," he says, voice much louder than necessary, "why did you break your curfew?"

I shield my stinging eyes with my hands. "I was tired - am tired - of constantly being controlled," I mumble. "I wanted to make my own decisions for once."

He clucks his tongue in disapproval. "What are you, again... sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen...." he repeats, pondering. "I hate to tell you this, but things won't change much when you turn eighteen. Life is always going to have rules. Someone or something will always be there to control you. Becoming an adult isn't going to be this magical moment when the chains come off and you get to run around like crazy and do whatever you want. Adulthood means jobs. Jobs mean bosses, who will tell you what to do and how and when to do it." He sighs and turns up the air conditioning. "And if you decide not to get a job because you don't like being told what to do, guess what? You won't make a living, so you'll probably be homeless. Then your need for money, food, and shelter will control you." He makes a smooth merge onto the interstate, where the other cars immediately move out of the way and slow down to the speed limit. I stare at the downtown skyscrapers glittering under the glaring July sun. The tops of the distant mountains curve into the shape of a person sleeping on her side.

"Good to know," I groan, rubbing my temples. I have a thick, sour feeling at the back of my throat that I get right before I throw up. Feeling ridiculous, I drop my head between my knees and pant like a dog.

"You okay there, kiddo?" Shaw asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

I wish I didn't have this monstrous hangover, partly because I'd like to be more involved in the conversation. I swallow hard. "Feel... like... gonna... barf...."

"Ohhh - okay. If you gotta puke, don't worry about it. Those back seats have been through much worse. They're plastic for a reason."

I bite into my knee. It tastes horrible, so I release it, gagging. "Thank you for not handcuffing me," I say once the wave of nausea passes.

Officer Shaw laughs and thanks me for being compliant. "I don't know if that's your personality, or if you're just too sick to give me a hard time, but you've been real good this afternoon."

"I pick my battles," I explain, my upset stomach settling. "I tend not to fight when I know I'm going to lose. I mean, you've got a gun."

The cop guffaws again. His laughter drills into my aching skull. "How much trouble are you gonna be in once you get back?"

"I don't want to think about it," I sigh, "but I'm guessing a lot. They'll probably duct tape my ankles together, lock me in my room, and throw away the key."

Shaw flicks on his turn signal. Each click pounds my forehead like a fist. The car slows as we sail down an exit ramp and turn onto an isolated rural road with potholes like meteor crash sites. They jar the vehicle and toss me around like a coin in a can. Will this trauma never cease? The tires clunk on the uneven asphalt. "Ohhh myyy goddd," I whimper, voice rattling with every bump.