Reckless

The sound of sirens and squealing tires jar you from an uneasy slumber. The flashing blue and red lights blind you as you grope the ground beside you for your shades. Shouts and the thump of running feet overwhelm you as you slip the sunglasses on, enabling you to see the commotion around you. Cop cars line the road under the bridge that you and countless other homeless kids sleep beneath. Your eyes widen at the sight of policemen cuffing kids and shoving them into cars and you shake the sleeping bag beside you to wake John, the kid could sleep through the damn apocalypse. He sits up, blinking blearily in the bright light while you glance anxiously between him and the approaching cops. “We gotta go.” You hiss, gathering your things and his hastily. He shoves his cracked glasses on his face and you see him shrink back when he sees the scene before you. He follows your lead and grabs his few possessions and the two of you stumble down the hill as fast as you can. You almost fall and hear John’s sharp intake of breath as he runs into the vest protected chest of the law. The man, taller than even you at 6’1, towers over John and grabs his arms. You stand frozen, panic flowing through you, they can’t take John, you can’t let them, but your feet refuse to move until a rough hand clamps down on your shoulder. The man who caught John drags him to one of the cars, his struggles having no effect. You glance around and realize the fight is over, you two are among the last stragglers. Everyone else has fled or been captured. Your shoulders slump in defeat and you let the officer drag you to the car. Your panic flares up again when you realize it’s not the same car John’s in. Before you can protest a hand pushes your head down and guides you into the vehicle next to three other kids that you vaguely recognize. A cop slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car as the one in front of you begins to pull away, John’s face pressed to the back window, blue eyes wide and anxious.

The streets pass in a blur and it’s silent except for the shuffling of feet and the occasional static on the scanner. After fifteen minutes and forty-three seconds (You have a knack for always knowing the exact time) of driving the car rolls to a stop in front of the Portland Police Department. You wait nervously for the cop to open your door, knee bouncing, poker face providing you your usual stony expression. The door opens and you force yourself to be casual, stepping into the rainy Portland twilight and filing into the station with your ride mates. Inside there are about thirty kids lining the walls, all dirty and tired looking. The cops at their desks, overworked and annoyed at being so busy at 11:21 at night, are talking to some of the kids and filling out paperwork. You spot John seated in front of Officer Noir, as his nameplate reads, staring resolutely ahead, mouth clamped shut as the officer attempts to question him. You squeeze your way into the crowded room, pushing people out of the way until you reach them. Snatching an empty chair you swing it around and straddle it in front of Noir’s desk, catching John’s eye and giving him a wink even though he can’t see it behind you shades. “So Officer, what seems to be the problem?” You ask, smirking a bit. You catch John rolling his eyes at you from the corner of your eye and your smirk grows. Noir sighs and glares at you, he looks out of place in his uniform, you think it might be the hat. “Look, I don’t wanna be here any more than you punks do. But we both have to so we might as well deal. And if you shit kids would just answer my goddamn questions I wouldn’t have to be here all night!” He takes a deep breath and grits his teeth. “Now, how old are you, both of you?” You sit up straighter and put on you best Mr. Brady voice. “Why I’m twenty-five sir, and still getting younger, if you know what I mean.” Noir glares at you, un-amused. ‘You’re a dumbass, you know,’ John signs at you and you flip him off. “Kid, if you don’t stop with these fucking shenanigans both of you are gonna spend the week in juvie.” Juvie’s bad news, especially for a pretty dude like you, and you can tell John’s not to keen on the idea either. “Eighteen. Both of us.” You say, the smirk disappearing from your face. Noir narrows his eyes, glancing at the two of you. He points at you. “You, maybe could pass, but you,” He moves his accusing finger toward John. “You look about fifteen.” John scowls and slumps back in his chair, he hates how his short stature and boyish looks always make him look younger than he is. Noir is still glaring at you, he curses and reaches for his radio, grumbling about the juvie officials and the amount of paperwork this is going to cause him. “Alright, alright, we’re just messing with you.” You jump in before he can unclip the radio from his belt. “Seventeen.” John glances at you nervously and you grab his hand on impulse, lacing your shaking fingers together. Noir sighs, “dammit, look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, but you both are going to have to go back to your parents or in the system.” He glances down at your clasped hands and shoots you an apologetic glare, a look you didn’t know was possible. He hands you both a few forms to fill out and shoos you away from his desk, welcoming the next kid with a glare and some mumbled cursing.

You and John walk back to the lobby, hoping to slip out in the confusion, but face defeat in the form of two rather large officers standing guard at the doors. Instead, the two of you find a bit of unoccupied floor and sit, leaning against the water stained wall behind you. Silence falls as you methodically fill out the forms, the questioning of the other street kids becoming background noise. You try to only lie on the stuff that’s none of the cops’ business and restrain your desire to throw in a few snarky remarks. You finish pretty quickly and watch John for a while before your lack of sleep catches up to you. Leaning against John you doze off into a fitful slumber.

One hour, fifty-three minutes and thirteen seconds later you’re jolted awake by a loud crash. Across the room some kid on a bad trip is kicking a chair around and screaming. A few cops restrain him and force him over to the holding cells. You’re still watching the kid when you hear the door open, humid Portland air wafting in. John’s hand grips your arm and he stands up, bringing you with him and dragging you to a more populated area of the room, out of sight of the doorway. You shoot him a confused look before he signs, ‘Don’t look, but we’ve got to get out of here.’ Of course the first thing you do is look towards the entrance, but a hand on your cheek forces your head back to face John. “John, dude, come on.” You ignore his attempts to sign at you with one hand and hold his other wrist to stop him from moving your head again. You look over and immediately wish you hadn’t. “Shit.” John’s stopped trying to sign and just watches you carefully. You look again, and this time you know he sees you. You stare at the ground, watching his shoes out of the corner of your eye as he approaches. The scuffed converse stop a foot away from your own and you reluctantly look up, meeting his shades. “Sup bro.”