Skylar Thompson
I should be in calculus, reviewing for the final, not at the police station. Or I should be in the school parking lot, deciding on whether to cut class and go to the beach with the other seniors. Or at the diner with Lisa Marie. Or even home. I should be anywhere but here.
"Let me tell you about Jimmy," I answer Officer Healey. "Jimmy stands up for his friends, keeps his word, and is the star of the varsity football and baseball teams. He couldn't have planned to hurt any Mexicans. Especially brothers. Jimmy has a little brother." I've been here for over an hour, being asked about Jimmy, about last Saturday night. I sit up straighter. "And it's important for you to know that I've never called anyone a ‘beaner,' and I've never heard Jimmy use that word either."
Officer Healey hunches over, slashes down notes, not disagreeing or agreeing. He has sprigs of red hair, watery eyes, and he winces as if thinking hard. He could be any of my friends' dads, a coach of soccer or Little League, a worrier, a sideline pacer.
"No one at school ever talked about going out and jumping Hispanics or other foreign nationals just for fun? No one used the term ‘beaner-hopping'? No one said anything like that in school?"
I shift toward the edge of the metal chair to keep my balance. I wish I were taller. I run my hands through my hair. I should have brushed it back, worn something other than black, practiced smiling like Lisa Marie suggested.
"Anything more you want to tell me? Better to do it now, Miss Thompson."
He clears his throat.
"One more question. Was Jimmy Seeger the mastermind?"
My father shifts next to me. He's a big man and they've given him a wobbly chair. "Lookit, my daughter isn't a liar."
"Dad—"
"I'm just telling the officer you have nothing more to say."
Officer Healey stands as we stand. My father's chair crashes to the floor and breaks apart; he folds the pieces on top of the table like a broken body.
"Just so you know, the victim, Arturo Cortez, is in bad shape. He's in the ICU. If he dies, we charge your boyfriend with murder. As an adult. He's eighteen. One more time, is there anything you want to add?"
"What about the other brother I read about?"
"The younger brother, one Carlos Cortez, had minor injuries. He's the one that got their license plate. Bright kid. He's been released from the hospital."
"Lookit, if we're finished, we're finished," says my father, avoiding eye contact with either the police officer or me.
I hesitate. I have one more thing to ask. "When can I see Jimmy?"
"You're not," answers my father.
"His family's got to post bond," responds Officer Healey. "If not, the county jail allows twice-weekly one-hour visits. That's for nonattorneys."
"Two visits a week?"
"This isn't summer camp," says Officer Healey, squinting hard. "To visit, you got to be eighteen years old, with a valid ID, or be accompanied by an adult."
"Forgetaboutit," says my father. "The whole thing. Forget about it. Let's go."
"My birthday is this week, or should we ‘forgetaboutit' too?"
He studies his scuffed-up work shoes.
"Any more questions?" asks the police officer hoarsely.
I will myself to say nothing. I have a million more questions racing through my head but I only shake my head. This was the plan. Everybody knows. Nobody's talking.
The officer follows us out to the main entrance. "If there's anything else you can think of, please give me a call. We appreciate your cooperation."
My father slips the card into his EMT uniform.
I know I will have nothing more to say.
From the top of the steps, Officer Healey watches us drive away. I ease my mother's car, a red Mustang, my car, through the choked police parking lot. Mastermind is racing through my head. Jimmy isn't that smart. I mean, he is smart—he was a Scholar-Athlete of the Year.
I drive slower than usual.
I don't know how it happened, last Saturday night. It wasn't supposed to happen. But all I have to do is say nothing and it will be Jimmy and me in the Mustang going east, going out to Montauk as planned. Say nothing; he'll be back.
My eyes lock in front of me. I estimate thirty, twenty, ten feet to go, and I'm free, except I'm going the wrong way.
"Make a right here," instructs my father. "A right. Your other right."
I make a sharp right to the exit of the police parking lot.
My father then starts in about food. Going to lunch at the diner. Burgers and oversized onion rings. A vanilla milkshake, he ventures. Since it's Monday he doesn't have to be at work until four p.m. His insistence surprises me. We haven't been out to eat since my mother died. I shake my head at the diner suggestion. I want to get back to school and find Lisa Marie and tell her exactly what I said. Our hope is that Jimmy and Sean will be out on bail sooner than later. They were arrested on Sunday. Twenty-four hours without Jimmy is about as much as I can bear.
"You okay?" my father asks, not really wanting an answer.
So I answer him with a question. "You know I was there, Saturday night?"
"I don't want to know." He sighs. Adds to the space between us. "I don't need to know."
I jump the Mustang into traffic.
Copyright © 2011 by Caroline Bock
