The cops were climbing out of their car, and I"d really rather get to my deodorant before they got to me. As I jogged for the bag, though, one yelled, "Hey! Stop!"
"He"s just-" Simon began.
"I don"t care. Stop right there!"
I slowed, eyeing the twenty feet to my backpack. My heart slammed into my ribs, telling me I really needed that deodorant, but I knew I didn"t. If I could already smell BO, then it was soaked into my shirt, and a swipe of deodorant wouldn"t fix that.
It wouldn"t fix the rest of it either-my size, my hair, my skin. I knew exactly what kind of impression I made, I saw that impression in the detective"s eyes-the flash of fear when he realized how big I was, disappearing after a slow once-over of distaste bordering on disgust. A punk teenager who couldn"t be bothered bathing now and then.
"I was just . . ." I pointed at my backpack.
"Leave it. I have some questions for you."
"Yes, sir." I said it without sarcasm, but he still glanced over sharply. He"d made up his mind. I was just a knuckle-dragging bully who"d probably thrown that kid into the wall because he wouldn"t lend me a smoke.
When the cop noticed Simon following us, he said, "I need to talk to him first, son. You can wait over there."
"Yes, sir." There wasa twinge of sarcasm in that-and in the eye-roll Simon tossed my way-but the cop didn"t notice. Simon was clean and well dressed-just a cheerful, cooperative young man.
"Dad"ll be here soon," Simon called back as he walked away. "Remember that."
The cop looked from me to Simon. "Whose dad?"
"Ours." Simon turned to give him a look that defied him to point out that Simon and I obviously didn"t share a single point of DNA.
The cop looked at me. "Foster kid?"
Simon started to shoot something back. I knew he didn"t like the guy"s tone, but mouthing off wasn"t going to help. When I shot Simon a look, he settled for saying, "Our dad will be here soon. He"s a lawyer. A criminallawyer."
The cop sighed. "They always are." He waved Simon off, then turned to me. "Used to having your daddy get you out of trouble, boy?"
"No." I resisted the urge to add sir.
"Well, he"s not going to this time. So go ahead and tell me what happened."
I did. When I finished, he kept looking at me, as if he was waiting for more.
"So you just threw this kid off your brother."
"Yeah, because he had a-"
"He allegedlyhad a knife. All right. But you"re telling me allyou did was pull him off and toss him aside, and that put him into a coma."
"Coma?" I glanced sharply at the departing ambulance. "Did they say-?"
"They won"t know until they run tests, but that kid wasn"t waking up, and I don"t need tests to tell me that"s a coma."
Sweat trickled into my eye. I blinked it away and wiped my forehead.
"You did more than "toss" that boy," the cop said. "How much do you weigh?"
"Two-twenty."
He jotted that in his book, then without looking up, he said, "We"re going to need your shirt."
"Why?"
"Evidence."
"But there isn"t any blood. No one got shot. The guy didn"t use his knife. And I"m admitting I threw him. So why would you need-"
"If you want to wait for Daddy, you go ahead and do that, but refusing a simple request won"t make things any easier for you."
There was no reason to take my shirt. Dad had told us enough stories that I knew this guy was power tripping. It was January, and without a shirt on, I"d be uncomfortable, maybe pay less attention to his questions and slip up.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Simon bouncing on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, two seconds from barreling over here. He"d only make things worse. If this cop thought a little cold would tip the balance his way, he was in for a surprise.
As I peeled off my shirt, he gave me a once-over, grunted "thought so" and motioned for me to put it back on.
"You work out, boy?"
It was a stupid question. As soon as I took off my baggy jersey, he knew I worked out, which was why he"d asked me to remove it. Weightlifting was like running, a way to work off the restless energy. It wasn"t like I spent hours a day pumping iron, but I looked like I did-a combination of werewolf genes and my natural body type.
"You on the wrestling team?" the cop asked.
I shook my head.
"Football? Hockey?"
Another head shake.
He scowled. "What team doyou play on, then?"
"None." When he didn"t seem to take that for an answer, I said, "I was on the math team at my last school."
He gave me a sour look.
"The only sport I do is tossing around a ball with my brother. He"s the athlete."
"You"re in d.a.m.n good shape for someone who doesn"t like sports."
I shrugged. "Didn"t say I don"t like them. Just not really into them."
"What do you work out for then? To impress the girls?"
Now it was my turn to give hima look. Like muscles were really going to help in that department. Not that I cared-girls were another thing I left to Simon.
And if I wasworking out to get a girl"s attention, why would I wear baggy clothes? I dressed this way because it made me look overweight. Being big and heavy meant people paid less attention to me than if I was big and muscular. The less attention I attracted, the happier I was.
"Seems you got a problem with acne there," the cop said.
I bit back the urge to say, "No s.h.i.t," and mumbled, "Yeah."
He looked at me for a moment. "I"m thinking that might be a sign."
"Of what?"
"That you"re getting a little chemical boost."
It took a second for me to figure it out. "Steroids?"
"Acne. Violent outbursts. Moodiness. That tells me you"ve got a little something extra running through your veins."
I snorted a laugh. The guy had no idea how right he was.
"You think that"s funny, boy?"
"Kinda, isn"t it? I"m not into sports. I"m not buffing up for girls. So why would I take steroids?"
He glowered at me. "You think you"re smart, don"t you?"
"I"m just saying-"
"I have no idea why you"re doping up. I don"t know how your mind works." He leaned in, sliding onto his tiptoes to get closer to my eye level. "But I"m going to find out."
"Now, detective," said a voice behind me, in a deceptively pleasant tone. "I"m going to suggest you take a step back from my son. You wouldn"t want to give anyone the impression that you"re threatening him."
I turned to see Dad walking over. He smiled at me, clapped me on the back, then told the detective we needed a few moments alone. The guy didn"t like that. Dad didn"t care. He motioned me into a private conference.
"How"re you holding up?" Dad asked when we were a dozen feet away.
"Okay."
"How"s the interview going?"
I looked out at the schoolyard a moment before answering. "Not so good. I"m trying, but . . ."
"Don"t worry. It"ll be okay."
Simon jogged over and Dad asked if he"d been hurt.
"Nah," he said. "It"s Derek who"s-"
"I know."
"The detective thinks I"m on steroids." I paused. "Maybe I should cop to that. It"d keep them from running blood tests."
Dad shook his head. "Admitting to steroid use won"t fix this. The only test I"m going to let them run is a urine sample, and only to look for drugs." He turned to Simon. "How about you run over to Angelo"s? Order us a couple of pizzas. I don"t think there"ll be much time for cooking tonight."
Simon took the two twenties he offered and jogged off.
"Don"t forget salad," Dad called after him.
Simon put his hands behind his ears, making a face like he couldn"t hear. Dad took out his cell phone and waved it. Simon rolled his eyes and motioned that he"d get salad. Then Dad turned back to me.
"Let"s get this straightened out."
Four.
We didn"t get anything straightened out. The hospital called the detective to confirm that the kid was in a coma and they were checking him for spinal damage. Dad a.s.sured me it wasn"t as bad as it sounded-the detective was exaggerating in hopes of guilting me into a confession. But I knew even if he wasn"t, Dad would say that to make me feel better.
I wasn"t charged with anything. They just sent me home and told me not to go anywhere. I suspected we"d be hitting the road before morning, maybe even needing new ident.i.ties, and while I couldn"t care less, Simon would and that only made things worse.
We ate the pizza. I don"t think anyone tasted it. Even Simon only had one slice and didn"t complain about the salad. The greens were for him-to balance out the carb-heavy pizza for his diabetes.
As we ate, Dad told us stories about his day in court. He was working as a public defender in Albany. Not exactly the best paying job in law, but there was always an opening. When we"d first gone on the run, his contacts hooked him up with the ironclad ID of a New York lawyer-a sorcerer who"d been "disappeared" by the Cabals. Still, you never wanted anyone digging too deep, just in case, so Dad took the jobs most other lawyers didn"t want. Being a public defender meant he always came home with stories, and I usually liked listening, but that night I barely heard them.
I kept thinking about what I"d done. How I could have handled it better. How I could have handled the police interview better.
When the phone rang, and it was for Simon, Dad shooed him into our bedroom to take it, then asked me how I was doing.
"Fine."
"Got a lot on your mind?"
"Yeah."
"Care to share?"
I picked a burnt piece of onion off my half-eaten pizza slice.
"Derek?"
"I tried with that cop." I looked up. "I answered his questions. I cooperated. I was respectful. Maybe I got a bit snarky about the steroid stuff, but it didn"t matter by then-he"d made up his mind and even when I was trying to behave, it p.i.s.sed him off."
"You know that"s not your fault. You"re big for your age and that intimidates-"
"I"m not thatbig. Lots of guys are my size. It doesn"t matter. It feels like . . ."
"Like what?" he prompted when I didn"t finish.