Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Two pink lines mean positive.
When I stumble out of the bathroom, a store employee is waiting for me. Her arms are folded over her chest, a serious expression on her face as she looks at the box in my hands.
“The cops are on their way,” she says gruffly.
“What?”
She points at the sign on the wall. No Merchandise in the Bathroom.
“I’m going to pay for this,” I tell her. She lets out a dissatisfied grunt.
“Listen, kid, I don’t put up with shoplifting. And I can’t have you running to tell all your little friends it is so easy to get past the old lady at the pharmacy. I have a business to run here so you can give your little sob story to the cops.”
“I wasn’t shoplifting!”
The cop comes into the pharmacy. It’s an older man with a beer gut hanging over the belt of his pants. For a second, I contemplate bolting. He doesn’t look like he’s in the best shape; I doubt he can catch me if I run. The old lady who called the cops is still standing here, and I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of calling me a criminal.
“Hello, what's the problem here?”
“She’s a shoplifter.”
“I was going to pay for this.”
The old lady and I speak at the same time, and the cop’s eyes move between the two of us. He lets out a dejected sigh.
“What’s in your hand?” he asks me.
My eyes drop to the positive test lying in my hand. “A pregnancy test.”
“And you took it in the bathroom before you paid for it?”
“Well, yes. But…”
“Listen, we’re going to go down to the station. I can get your statement here, ma’am, so you don’t have to close the pharmacy. And then I’ll get your statement at the station. Does that sound like a plan?”
The way he says it makes it sound like I don’t have a say in the situation. Admittedly, there isn’t much I have picked up from having a lawyer as a father through the years. There was one phrase he made sure I always knew how to use.
“I’m not talking to anyone without my lawyer present.”
The cop scowls at me. “Fine. We can get in contact with your lawyer at the precinct. Get in the back of the car.”
I give him a tight-lipped nod and comply with his instructions, making my way into the cop car. The thought of having to tell my dad what happened is nerve-wracking. He’s the only person I have to call right now. I never got Enzo’s number, so I’m probably going to ask my dad to get me in contact with them.
When did my life become so complicated?
“You know, kid,” the cop says as he slides into the driver’s seat in the car’s front. “There’s a pregnancy center just a few blocks up. Probably should have gone there. They would have done your pregnancy test for free and then we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
I don’t answer him. There’s an excellent reason I avoided going to the pregnancy center. An entire group of girls from school, including several of the teachers, volunteer at those centers. They’re the centers that try to convince women not to get abortions. It’s a worthy cause, according to the Catholic church.
If I had gone in there, one of those teachers wouldn’t have cared about how many laws they violated to call my father and tell him what was happening. Not that I wasn’t going to have to do that now.
The police precinct comes into view. An ugly building that doesn’t look like they have updated it in the past hundred years. I’ve never actually been inside of it, but I doubt they’ve taken much better care of the inside than they have of the outside.
“You said you have a lawyer?”
I nod my head and ramble out my father’s phone number. He doesn’t put me in a cell, instead, he sticks me in a chair next to his desk while he calls my dad’s number.
“You said lawyer, not father.”
“Same thing to me.”
He lets out a grunt of acknowledgment. They must not consider me a risk, because he allows me to stay in the seat next to him without cuffs on my wrists instead of in a cell. My phone sits in my back pocket, but I don’t dare pull it out to entertain myself. Instead, I watch the cops walk around the floor.
I never realized how much paperwork was involved in police work.
The phone on the desk rings and the cop picks it up. I don’t listen in on the conversation, but then he’s standing up.
“Come on, kid, your dad is up front.”
I follow him to the front desk where my dad is standing. The look on his face is halfway between worried and angry. It’s not an expression I’ve seen before, at least not directed towards me. I dip my head down and shy away. Having to call him in as my lawyer from a police station is bad enough, but I know the conversation we’re going to be having is worse.