Canary (3 page)

D. heaves himself into the passenger seat so hard the suspension rocks. I’ll bet his mom yells at him for stomping up stairs and slamming doors. He’s like a goofy puppy who has no idea of his own size.

—Still up for that cheesesteak, Sarie?

I can’t help it. My eyes are drawn to the grubby green North Face backpack now on the floor between his legs.

—Uh, sure.

When I met D. at that mixer I thought it was sort of cute that he was a stoner nerd guy. He talks about pot like some guys talk about craft beers. “Dankness” is one of his favorite words. D. is the kind of boy who would annoy Dad for any number of reasons, mostly because Dad was probably a lot like D. back when he was a teenager. At least based on the stories you told me.

But now I see Dad is probably right. Because now I’m just the silly girl who has a car, takes him on drug runs.

The blocks surrounding Pat’s are swarming with drunks and roving packs of hungry carnivores looking for a fix of greasy meat and processed cheese before gorging on turkey and stuffing tomorrow. Thanksgiving Eve is a well-known national drinking holiday, the night everybody goes out, front-loading for the family holiday ahead. So there are no empty parking spots. Maybe we would have been better off telling the valet we were really, really good friends of Chuckie’s—and hey, would you mind darting over a few blocks and scoring a cheesesteak for us? Calm as I can, taking a deep, soothing breath before opening my mouth, I ask where we might park. I try to stop staring at that green backpack. How much does he have in there? A little baggie? Or like a few
Midnight Express
–sized bricks? Meanwhile D. is tugging off his jacket and nearly elbows the side of my head. I flinch and jerk back just in time. Navy jacket fabric brushes my nose.

—What’s that?

—I said where am I supposed to park?

Jacket finally peeled off, D. bunches it up into a loose ball and gently lowers it into the backseat with a mumbled “hang on” before turning back around and squinting out of the windshield. He halfheartedly points out spots that aren’t legal spaces by any stretch of the imagination. I suspect he isn’t really trying to help; he’s trying to exhaust the conversation so I’d agree to circle the block while he picks up his food. Which is what I eventually agree to do. Of course.

—I’ll be two seconds.

D. kicks open the passenger door, offers to bring me back something. I decline, telling him I don’t like to eat this late. Not worth getting into the whole vegan thing with the requisite lecturing about how I’m gonna fucking starve or something because I don’t eat animal flesh. He nods. I notice his green backpack in the foot well of the passenger seat. You know, the one probably containing illegal substances.

—Wait! Hey!

—What?

—Don’t you want to take your bag with you?

—Why? I’ll be right back.

—No, seriously, I’d feel better if you took it with you.

D. blinks in confusion.

—Why?

—Please just take it!

After a few seconds of a dumbstruck stare, D. opens the door, picks up his backpack, slings it over his shoulder. He seems like he’s about to say something mean, but instead he just smiles and slams the door shut. I flinch like a dumbass.

A minute later I join the Cheesesteak Merry-Go-Round. Up Ninth Street one block. Right on Wharton. Right on Eighth. Right on Reed. Right on Ninth, and so on, and so on, and so on, and if you look out the window, you can see poor Sisyphus with his rock following the same route. The crowds and cars make it extra-slow going, but I press on like a good drug-running accomplice. Which, by the way, is a one-and-done deal for me. Yep, my intention is to go to drop off D. and go home and consider myself Scared Straight.

Which of course is when I turn right onto Eighth for the eighth or ninth time and hear a loud shriek from hell.

Mom, I swear, I had no idea what was going on. Did I make an illegal right-hand turn? Cut someone off? Hit an elderly nun in slow motion? No. I may be many things, but I am an insanely safe driver. I do not screw around behind the wheel. What is going on?

Then I remember there is a chance I might have a wee slight high going on. And this is on top of that single warm beer swimming around my bloodstream. Shit, why did I do that bong hit! Did I weave or something? Give some other kind of tell? My heart is racing. Shit, shit, shit.

I flip on the right blinker and look for a spot along Reed. There are none, of course, so I settle for a half-spot near the corner, which means my front end is sticking out a little. I check the rearview. The car following me is not a standard police vehicle; it’s a normal car with one of those domes you slap on top. Shit, shit, shit. Why is an unmarked cop car pulling me over? It slides into a spot in front of a driveway. Guess cops in unmarked cars can do that.

A thought chills me. What if this particular unmarked car has been following me for a while? Since, say, D.’s buddy’s place on Ninth Street?

I will myself to stay perfectly still. If I wiggle around, it’s going to look like I’m hiding something. Or reaching for a sawed-off shotgun. So I keep my paws on the wheel at perfect 10 and 2, though I allow myself a quick check of my eyes in the rearview. Thank God. Not too bloodshot.

In the side view, the cop climbs out of his car. The guy is huge. Not fat; more tall and broad than anything else. Great. Somehow I’ve attracted the biggest, baddest cop in Philadelphia. He clears the distance between us in an easy three strides. Then he’s looking down at me through the driver’s-side window, flashlight the size of a Sharpie in his hands. I can’t see him too well, but I can tell he’s African-American, and in plainclothes. He’s got a badge attached to a chain around his neck, hanging midchest. Shiny. Real, as far as my untrained eye can tell.

—You lost, honey? Looking for somebody? You’ve been around this block a couple of times.

—I was?

—Yeah, you were. And you know what? You were breaking cruising laws.

—Huh?

I’m not playing dumb; I have no idea what he is talking about.

The cop helpfully points to a rusty metal sign bolted to a metal post across the street:
NO CRUISING ZONE
. It’s partially obscured by a small tree or steroidal weed that had punched through the sidewalk.

—Three times around the same block in one hour is technically cruising.

—Oh shit. I didn’t know.

—Didn’t think so. Which is why I asked you if you were lost. Maybe I can help.

By this point some faint alarm bells are going off in my head. Why would a plainclothes cop in an unmarked police car just pull me over, completely out of the blue, because he thought I was lost? Considering I was an accomplice on a drug run, I knew it was best to say as little as possible. So, come on, think of a lie. Tell him why you’re circling the block. Come on, now. Quick. He’s
staring
at you.

I come up with absolutely nothing. Zilch.

—Let me see your license and registration.

This snaps me out of it. I try to keep my head straight, my voice calm and confident. There are YouTube videos that tell you what to do if you’re pulled over, and I’m pretty sure calmly asking for a reason is an excellent strategy.

—Why did you pull me over, Officer?

—License and registration, please.

—Officer, am I under arrest?

—Do you want to be?

Undercover cop: 1. Sarie Holland: 0.

I dig my license out of the plastic compartment in my wallet, pop the glove box, retrieve the registration, hand both out the window. The cop scans them with his flashlight. The light in his fist, shining back down into my face, makes it tough to see his expression.

—Who’s Laura Holland?

The question catches me off guard. Just hearing your name can still jolt me.

—My mom.

—She know you have her car?

I tell him the truth, that you died last year, that this is my car, but my dad hasn’t changed the registration yet.

—What are you doing down here?

—Just went for a drive. To clear my mind. Got a lot of papers to write this weekend. They’re all due next week.

His tone softens a little. Maybe he’s commiserating, maybe it’s the mention of you.

—Oh yeah? They don’t even give you a break for Thanksgiving weekend? That’s a shame. Where you goin’ to school?

—St. Jude’s.

—The college? Up there in Olney?

He pronounces it like a real Philadelphian: oll-o-knee.

—Yeah.

Then I add, as if it will earn me points or something:

—I’m in the honors program.

—Honors? In college? Isn’t that a high school thing?

—No, they’ve got an honors program. I have the triple. Which means three honors classes this semester.

I didn’t want to tell him it’s the freshman-year triple because the license I just handed him alleges that I’m twenty-one years old. Which of course, as you know, I am not. Not even close. The cop, though, is too busy mulling over the whole honors thing.

—So you want to graduate with honors, is that it?

—I guess?

—Whatcha studying?

—I’m undecided.

—Undecided, huh. Aren’t you a little old to be undecided?

I say nothing.

—Okay, fine. Mind if I take a look inside your vehicle?

My stomach unclenches a little as I thank the gods I made D. take his stupid green backpack with him. I could imagine the cop training his flashlight on the ratty bag, reaching in, zipping it open, and, like, the light from heaven shining down, illuminating a brick of Hawaiian Gold or whatever D. was always talking about. There’s nothing in my car except a brown paper bag on the backseat, the contents of which will probably make this cop laugh, if he pops the tape off the folded top and takes a look inside.

—Sure. Go ahead.