Oryon

by T Cooper

  “Let me see what’s in your pockets,” the guy demands. “I called the police.”

  “I’m not showing you what’s in my pockets,” DJ says. “I just paid you.”

  “You with him,” he says, pointing to me. “Open your backpack.”

  Which I reflexively start doing.

  DJ grabs my arm to stop me. “Excuse me, but we just paid two minutes ago,” he says, completely reasonably.

  “I called the police,” the guy says, the kid working for him now appearing behind him with a sheepish expression.

  “This is crazy. You saw, we just paid, right?” DJ says loud and clear to the kid, who grimaces weakly like, I just work here, bro.

  Another rowdy group of kids blasts out of the store, and the clerk goes running back toward them. “Did you pay?” He seems really stressed.

  DJ starts walking back toward where we were skating, where Cal’s setting up another shot on a tripod. “Come on.”

  I follow. So does Jerry.

  Then the clerk comes out again, yelling, “Stay right there!” but we keep walking.

  “This is some SWB shit,” DJ says, shaking his head.

  “What’s that?” Jerry asks, slapping his board down and giving a little pump.

  “Shopping while black,” DJ explains flatly.

  Jerry laughs, and I’m about to laugh too, because it seems like I’m supposed to be in on the joke, but next thing I know, a police cruiser has screeched up in front of us, blocking our way, with the clerk closing in on us from the rear.

  “What seems to be the problem?” the first officer asks jovially as he gets out of the passenger seat. He must be Good Cop.

  DJ is about to respond, but the clerk interrupts, “These boys shoplifted from my store, look in their backpacks.”

  “I didn’t take anything, sir,” I try.

  The second cop comes around the other side of the cruiser, looking mean, hand resting on his pistol. And this must be Bad Cop.

  “Search his pockets,” the clerk commands, indicating DJ.

  “Here we go,” DJ says to me, looking aggravated now. He turns toward the cop, talking as calmly as he can. “Sir, there must be some confusion. We paid for our purchases. There were about ten other kids in the shop, and I saw one of them pocket two beers and some chaw.”

  “There’s no need to start pointing fingers, son,” Good Cop says, eyeing our boards and clothes like they might spring to life and bite him on the face.

  “There’s need to clarify if there is some confusion, sir,” DJ says pragmatically.

  “Over there, move it!” Bad Cop barks at him, indicating the front end of the police car. “You too, the other side,” he adds, pointing me over.

  I comply, terrified. I feel like I could pee my pants.

  “Let’s see what’s in the bag.”

  I take my backpack off, hand it to Good Cop, who places it on the hood of the car and starts unzipping the top.

  “Sir,” DJ shouts, “I can verify that I watched him pay for all that!”

  “Son, that’s enough,” Good Cop says to DJ. “Now place both your palms on the vehicle. Leave them there until I say you can move.”

  Cal comes over palming his large camera and starts discretely shooting the action as Good Cop yanks things out of my bag: two Hershey’s bars, the flag lighter, deodorant, breath mints, the bottle of apple cider.

  “Quite a haul here,” Good Cop says, now onto the champagne glasses and, finally, the bowling shirts, which I’d carefully rolled up, tying Audrey’s with a red bow. He unwraps the shirts, holds Audrey’s up, eyes the front and back suspiciously, then tosses it into a pile on top of my shirt, further down the hood. He spots Cal. “Turn that off now or I’m confiscating it!” he snaps, roughly pushing the camera down. Cal steps back, reluctantly clicks the off button.

  “Are these items from your store?” Bad Cop asks the clerk, waving at the contents on the hood.

  He nods. “Everything but the glasses. And the bottle . . . and the candlesticks.”

  Good Cop turns to me as if resting his case, while Bad Cop has moved on to pawing through DJ’s hoodie pockets.

  “Uh, excuse me, sirs?” Jerry interrupts from aside. “I was with them, and I can vouch that we all just paid for our things and left.” He sounds more upstanding than I’ve ever heard him, his stoner demeanor totally absent for the moment.

  “Thank you for your input, but we’ve got this covered,” Good Cop says.

  Bad Cop produces the new cell charger from DJ’s pocket, tosses it onto the hood with the rest of my things.

  “I just bought that!” DJ says, his voice clipped, incredulous.

  “It’s true,” I add, lackluster.

  DJ is growing enraged, I can tell, his model-citizen approach breaking down, whereas I feel like I’m someplace else entirely, existing in a hypnagogic time-space-continuum hiccup, because the current circumstances are just too unreal to believe.

  “Where’s your receipt?” one of them asks.

  “I didn’t keep the receipt,” I shrug.

  “Where’s your receipt?” to DJ.

  “Where’s yours?” he shouts.

  It was no use. You could see the exact point at which both Good and Bad Cops had made up their minds.

  Still, I yammered on frantically, over-explaining that I had a date in half an hour, and that’s why I had all the stuff in my bag. That I wanted to have good breath, make it romantic, you know? We were going bowling. Both cops rolled their eyes at that.

  “Why don’t you check those white kids’ pockets!” DJ yelled as he was being cuffed and shoved into the back of the police cruiser. The heavy door slammed shut with a jarring crunch. I was certain the same fate was coming for me, but tried to nut up and make confident eye contact with DJ through the window. He just tapped the crown of his head repeatedly against the seat divider in front of him.

  Good Cop confiscated all my things, including my phone, my board, my belt (why?), and put me in handcuffs and told me to stand by the hood of the car. Then he crossed the parking lot to speak with the store owner out of earshot.

  I tried to turn my head so that I could hear what the they were saying, but . . . nothing. The owner was gesticulating wildly, pointing back at the store, at me, at DJ. My legs started to shake in earthquake-like waves every few seconds; I couldn’t stop them. After what seemed like a year but was probably only a few minutes, another police cruiser showed up, and Bad Cop came back over and guided me into the backseat of it.

  “Am I getting arrested?” I asked before he closed the door.

  “You’re being detained under suspicion,” he replied dully. “Your parents will be called when we get to the station.” He slammed the door. And that’s when I just let it go, tears pouring down uncontrollably.

  The cruiser DJ was in started to leave, cutting a tight circle to pull onto the street, and as it did, I noticed the bowling shirts sliding off the hood into a puddle in the middle of the parking lot.

  * * *

  At the Genesis police precinct, I was asked to write down my name, address, birth date, and the names and phone numbers of my parents.

  “They’re my foster parents,” I manage to remember to add, “but they’re my legal guardians.” This seems only to make me seem guiltier, being a castaway that nobody wants. Stumbling on remembering Oryon’s birth date didn’t help either.

  Then I glance at the clock above the front desk: 6:03. I realize Audrey and her mom have been waiting for me for more than an hour. If they haven’t given up already. I can’t believe I’m sitting here in handcuffs when I should be sitting across from Audrey at the Cuban restaurant behind the bowling alley, feeding sweet plantains to her one after the other and surprising her with “champagne” and chocolate after dinner.

  “Can I make a call?” I ask a desk cop sitting a few feet from me.

  “What’s the number?” she says, pressing the speaker button on the messy-with-paperwork table between us. A loud dial tone moans from th
e tinny speaker.

  I dictate Tracy’s number, and she punches it in, lifting the receiver to my ear.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Riiiing . . .

  “Hi, this is Tracy! Hope your life is ticketyboo! Leave a message at the beep. Beeep!”

  Great.

  “Trace, SOS. Genesis police station. PLEASE come and get me. And PLEASE stop by school and tell Audrey I got held up—well, worse—and I’m so sorry. I’ll explain later. Come now. PLEASE.”

  The officer drops the phone back in the cradle.

  “I don’t suppose I can try another number?” I ask, trying to make myself look pitiful, which is easy.

  She sniffs, then goes back to filling out paperwork.

  After twenty minutes or so, Good Cop returns and takes me to a room where he un-handcuffs me before shackling my ankle to the table just as in every prison documentary I’ve ever watched. Only now I’m one of those guys accused of stealing, drug dealing, grand theft auto, conspiracy to commit murder. Guilty because I’m male and black, and someone who wasn’t said I was.

  I feel a rush of grief pass through my body. The kind that comes with every horrible recognition, like when I first learned about the Holocaust, or saw a kid get smacked by his mother in the grocery aisle, or an angry guy twist a woman’s arm on the street. A hole opens up that can’t be filled. I didn’t know something, and now I do—and it feels like nothing will be the same after.

  Good Cop leaves the room, then comes back popping open a can of 7-Up. He places it on the table in front of me, then exits again. I take a sip, because what else is there to do? The bubbles make my nose twitch. I worry about Audrey, where she is. What she’s thinking. Is she assuming I stood her up? Is she freaking out that something terrible happened? (Not wrong there.) I wonder where Tracy is too, whether she got my message. If my parents have been called yet, when they’ll get here. What’s going to happen? Will the Changers Council get wind of this? Am I going to Changers jail after regular jail?

  I see the top of DJ’s head through the high window as he’s being led past the room I’m in and seemingly put in the one next door. I wonder if they’re going to lock him in a leg cuff too. Then I wait. And wait. And wait and wait and wait and wait. Two hours go by. If they are trying to scare me and teach me a lesson, then I am officially learned. Though I’m not sure how I can prevent this in the future unless I never shop at a store again, or wear a hoodie, or show the color of my skin to people who have already decided it’s a threat.

  I finish off the 7-Up just as the door clicks open. In comes Good Cop, followed closely by a fuming Tracy, who is followed by . . . Mr. Crowell.

  The hell?

  “Why on earth is he MANACLED like this?” Tracy demands, angrier than I’ve ever seen her. She stomps over, stands beside me. “Don’t you think this is going a little overboard?”

  “We treat all suspects the same, miss,” Good Cop says in a monotone.

  “Oh, I believe that!” Tracy shoots back sarcastically.

  “Officer,” Mr. Crowell breaks in, more calmly, “I’m an English teacher at Central High School. This is my student and advisee. He’s an A student, has never been in any sort of trouble. I’m sure there’s been some sort of misunderstanding.”

  Tracy makes a strange humph sound, which I assume is supposed to serve as punctuation to Mr. Crowell’s vouching for me. “When can we take him home?” she asks.

  “We can’t release him to anybody but legal guardians.”

  “I’m a relative,” she says. “His aunt.”

  The officer looks at her askance.

  “His parents are also on the way and will be here any minute. With their attorney,” she adds officiously, which seems to motivate the officer. He lopes over, and after thinking about it some more, finally squats and releases me from the leg cuff. My ankle is sore and raw, even though it wasn’t very tight around my jeans. Good Cop says he’ll go get the necessary paperwork and to stay put as he leaves the room, squeezing by Mr. Crowell, who, I notice, doesn’t move aside for him.

  Tracy catches me eyeballing Mr. Crowell. “He knows. I’ll explain later,” she says. “Now, how did this happen?”

  “Uhhh,” I stammer. Knows what?

  “I am so sorry I missed your call,” Tracy says, as though it’s completely normal that a Static has been let in on my “situation”—not to mention hers. “We were in the middle of Lord of the Rings.”

  “Precious,” I reply.

  Mr. Crowell sits down across from me. “We’ll go to the Toot N Tote-um to clear things up with the owner,” he says gently.

  “I didn’t take anything—”

  “Of course not,” Tracy interrupts. “Don’t say another word.”

  Which makes me want to cry again. Like really, really want to cry. Which I decide I’m not going to do, no way will I let those officers see me cry, but as soon as that decision is registered and sent to my brain, I see the tops of my parents’ heads through the window, and in no time I’m blubbering in my mom’s arms saying over and over, “I didn’t do it,” as she shushes me and shushes me and whispers, “I know, I know.”

  The next thing I hear is Dad telling Good Cop that they’ll be lucky if we don’t press charges, that this is not due process, that “if my son says he didn’t steal anything, then he didn’t steal anything.”

  “With respect, sir,” Bad Cop blows in saying, looking a bit taken aback that my parents are white, “but given his, uh, foster background, I’m not sure you can speak for this kid’s whole life before he came into yours.”

  To which Mom pipes up, miraculously maintaining her shrink voice, though I can tell she’s straight enraged: “Surely you are not suggesting he be prosecuted for crimes you imagine he might have committed in his past?”

  “We’re going to head out now,” Mr. Crowell interjects in his warbly voice. He puts a palm on Tracy’s shoulder. “To talk with Mr. Chandra.”

  “Well, it’s this kid’s lucky day, because I just got off the phone with Mr. Chandra, and he’s not pressing charges,” Bad Cop says, radiating disappointment.

  “Let this be a lesson to you,” Good Cop adds.

  “Oh, we’ve learned from the situation, all right,” Mom snaps.

  “I’ll call you first thing in the morning,” Tracy whispers to my mother, then she hugs me again, as she makes her way to Mr. Crowell idling uneasily in the hallway.

  Soon after that, my belongings are returned, and Mom and Dad sign some forms at the front desk. DJ’s mom hurries into the station just as we’re headed out. I try to smile and half-wave at her, but she’s not having any of it. I’m so tired I don’t even have room left in my head or heart to worry whether she thinks I got DJ into trouble or something.

  * * *

  Driving to our place, both Mom and Dad dove into full-on social-justice diatribe. Dad, especially, seemed shaken and incensed, yelling about how he’d hoped notions of equality had taken deeper root in our culture since back in his day, but it was obvious that wasn’t the case. Mom said it was clear this world needed Changers now more than ever. Both seemed deflated and depressed.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Mom said.

  “I’m not,” Dad interjected. “Because now we know. Now we see how bad it really is.”

  “It could have been so much worse,” Mom said under her breath.

  When we arrived home, I told them I needed to lie down and relax, and both nodded, of course, but what I really needed was to check my phone. As I feared, there were three voice mails and six texts from Audrey. The voice mails progressed like this:

  Voice mail #1 (5:17 p.m.): “Hey, Oryon. So, did I screw up and get the time or night wrong or something? I thought we were meeting on the front stairs at five? Are you on your way? See you soon. I’m here. Looking forward to it.”

  Voice mail #2 (5:29 p.m.): “Hey, you all right? I’m starting to get worried. Or maybe you just forgot or something? My mom’s here, she’s waiting to drive us to Nashville and meet he
r friend and then drive us back after. Call me. Okay?”

  Voice mail #3 (6:03 p.m.): “Can you just call me and let me know what’s up? It’s been an hour, and my mom’s really pissed, so I guess we’re going home now. Bye.”

  They were nearly too painful to listen to. Especially the last one, which it turns out she was in the middle of leaving for me at the very moment I checked the clock in the police station and was thinking of her.

  The texts progressed in much the same way, the last one coming in just about the time I was being released from the police station:

  I’ve got to be honest, Oryon. My feelings are really hurt. I can’t believe you couldn’t even at least do me the courtesy of calling or texting and telling me what even happened. It’s really not like you. Or maybe it is. How would I know? Whatever. I’m going to sleep.

  It was obviously way too late to call Audrey’s cell, so I texted back:

  Audrey, I’m sorry. Something really horrible happened. Out of my control. I’ll tell you tomorrow. Please call me back or tell me when I can call you. I hope you can accept my apology. The last thing I ever want to do is disrespect you or hurt your feelings. I really miss you and hate that I missed the opportunity to spend time with you tonight. It was going to be so perfect . . .

  I copied it and e-mailed the same message. I debated writing more, but in the event that her parents (or, G forbid, Jason) were monitoring her phone or e-mail, I didn’t want them made wise to the fact that I had been arrested. That’s the last thing I needed if I have designs on ever going out with Audrey again.

  Knock-knock-open. Mom comes in and quietly sits by my bed.

  “Can’t sleep?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Want some water?”

  “No thanks,” I overshake my head like a toddler.

  “Scotch?” she jokes.

  I roll over and she tickles my back like she used to when I was little. When I was Ethan. When I wasn’t making her get called to the police station late on a Friday night to bail me out after getting arrested for shoplifting. I mean, all kids steal, that’s what everybody says, right? But I have never, not once, stolen anything in my life. Not an eraser. Not a piece of candy. Not a comic, or a bottle of water, or a roll of toilet paper from the gas station stall. I’m the bonehead who returns the dropped dollar bill to the cashier. Somebody must have lost this.