The Ridealong Read online

  I don't really know the answer.

  Everything's changed.

  "Gotta go," I say again.

  "No, I don't – I can't believe what –"

  And I hang up over him saying that. Not wanting to hear how he'll end that.

  I can't believe what's happened to us.

  I can't believe what we've become.

  No good end to that sentence. Hanging up is the best of nothing but bad choices.

  Click.

  The phone rings again before I've even set it down. This time I don't answer with a funny line. I just say, "Liam, I told you –"

  The person on the other end of the line laughs. Just a hard, sharp burst. Low voice. A man. Other than that, he doesn't say anything. Still, that laugh is enough to tell me that I'm not on the line with Liam anymore. And it's enough to raise the hairs on my arms, the back of my neck. Something about it sounds... off.

  I wait. The laugh dies, replaced by silence.

  "Hello?"

  Still nothing. More quiet. And for some reason the hairs on the back of my neck aren't just standing up, they feel like they're pulling out at the roots.

  This is wrong. Something's wrong.

  I pull the phone away from my ear. It's either a wrong number or a perv, and either way the best way to deal with it is just to hang up and move on. Disengage.

  The laugh – that low, hard snap of a laugh – belts out again as I turn the phone off. The beep of the phone turning off cuts the laugh in half, but for some reason it sounds familiar this time. Like it's the laugh of someone I know.

  Someone I fear.

  The car's already running when I toss my backpack in and then get in myself. "Who was it?" says Dad. He looks strange. Worried. Like maybe he was listening in, maybe he knows all about me and Liam, maybe more.

  I suddenly feel like I'm looking not at my dad, but a stranger. Something that looks like him, but isn't. Something come to gain my trust and then cut me down.

  No. That's stupid. That's just the dream and everything that happened and everything you're worried about.

  Get a grip, Mel.

  Easy for you to say.

  "It was a wrong number," I say.

  Dad doesn't move. For a second I think he's going to tell me something.

  Then he puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the driveway.

  I try not to think of the dream. Standing in my father's shoes as he guns a man down and is shot himself.

  I try not to think of the phone call. A dark laugh that cuts off with the finality of a bullet.

  I fail at both.

  The ride to school is short, but it takes forever. Dad and I usually talk and joke. The last month there hasn't been much talking, and no jokes at all.

  Mom died when I was five, and I know I'm damaged over that. Mommy issues galore, and woe unto any guy I end up with who looks like he's going to bail. I'll cut off his junk.

  I don't take well to the idea of people leaving me.

  So Dad's "bad day at work" (as he calls it) did a number on me. And yes, I know it, but knowing doesn't mean you can always fix it. Just like telling someone who's had a crap day, "Cheer up!" usually doesn't help them feel better, me knowing that my fear of losing Dad was just as much about Mom dying doesn't mean I can keep myself from freaking out.

  He pulls up to the curb across from the high school. A couple of my friends walk by, but they don't stop or even say hi. Another casualty of the weirdness of the past month. Everything changed. It doesn't help that my dad is a cop, which isn't a super-popular career for the significant portion of the student body that smokes weed or gets drunk or does any of the million other things they know could get them railroaded into a holding cell.

  So we sit in a sea of students, all flowing toward the school. But at the same time, it's just him and me. We are alone. And that's fine. I need to be alone with him. I can't leave him. Not yet.

  He waits. Dad can be surprisingly patient when he has to be.

  "You could get hurt again," I finally say. My go-to argument, but it's my best one and I'm not shy about using it.

  The sea of students passing our car has slowed to a trickle. The first bell will sound soon. I'll be late.

  "I won't, Melly Belly."

  "You could. And I hate that you call me that. I'm not two anymore." Dad grins at my irritation. The only good things about his pet name for me are a) that he's never called me that in front of anyone – anyone, even Liam doesn't know about it – and b) when I turned twelve he finally dropped the original version of the nickname so it went from "Melly Belly Full of Jelly" to the more mature "Jelly Belly."

  Dad looks at the last few kids walking by. None of them look at him. "What about Liam?" he says. "Don't you want to see your boyfriend?"

  "We're on a break."

  "That's too bad."

  My eyes roll so hard and fast it was a miracle they don't flip right out of their sockets. "Don't pretend you didn't know. It's been pretty obvious."

  "Well, I wanted to give you space. Let you work out whatever it is. I know you'll do right by him and by yourself."

  Dad's known Liam almost as long as he's known me; he's almost as much a part of the family as I am.

  He flicks the "master unlock" button on his door. The door locks all rise with a click. "Maybe you should talk to him." He smiles, like, "Go on, you'll do fine!"

  I respond by flicking the "lock" button on my side. All the door locks drop back down into their cozy "no-one-in-no-one-out" position.

  Dad just stares for a long time. No more students outside. The bell rings. Faint across the street, but audible – the final call to everyday business.

  "Sometimes you remind me of your mom," Dad says.

  "You only say that when I'm about to win an argument."

  "That's when I like you least." He smiles and shakes his head. Puts the car in gear. "I gotta go to work." The smile disappears when he says that, and I know that no matter what I say, this is non-negotiable.

  "I know," I say.

  His smile returns. Just a little. "Lucky for you it's Bring-Your-Pigheaded-Idiot-Kid-to-Work Day."

  We pull away from the curb.

  I smile, too.

  The nightmare is still there. Just like the past. Things never disappear completely, they just fade.

  But for now, fading is enough. We work with what we have.

  4

  I'M WAITING FOR DAD when he comes out of the locker room. He looks handsome. Dressed in his blue uniform, black boots, black belt that always makes me think of Batman with his utility belt full of gizmos and gadgets for fighting crime. It's nicer than the State Police uniform he used to wear. Dad shifted over to work as a regular beat cop with the city because he said "State Police are just glorified traffic cops" and the city police department offered "more opportunity for advancement."

  That was code for, "I can maybe send you to college, Mel." So seeing him in his blues always makes me feel special. Because he really had liked working with the State Police, and he had changed uniforms solely to give me a better life.

  I love my dad. Not cool to say, but true.

  As he leaves the locker room, another beat cop approaches him. His name's Glenn James. I like him. We've gone to a couple barbecues at his house. His wife is gorgeous, and they have three beautiful little girls that they both adore. Sometimes I imagine what life would be like if Mrs. James was my mom. When that happens I usually go tell Dad to start dating and he tells me he can't because who could he possibly date who would measure up to the other woman in his life?

  Dad's a cornball.

  Glenn is also Jedediah Voss's partner. But Voss was riding solo the day of the shootout because Glenn was out with food poisoning. Probably some cootie he picked up at one of the disgusting roadside food stands these guys are always eating at.

  Anyway, Glenn's flying solo now. Voss got shot up pretty bad that day. Dad says he can barely walk, has to get around with a pair of canes. And even if he manages to f
ully recover is, rumor is he's still not coming back. Being shot can do that to you.

  I can't imagine what Glenn is feeling. How it would feel to be out on the day your partner – a guy who's a bit of a d-bag, but still the guy whose back you're supposed to have – gets perforated. It's gotta be eating at him. It'd eat at me, at least.

  Glenn says, "Latham!" and Dad turns around.

  "What's up, Glenn?" says Dad.

  Glenn shakes his hand. "You know you don't have to come back in so soon. Cap said he'd give you all the time off you need."

  Dad looks over Glenn's shoulder. His eyes find mine and he winks, as if to say, "Don't pay attention to this guy. It really wasn't a big deal."

  "What else am I gonna do?" says Dad. "Sit at home?" He punches Glenn's shoulder. "I missed you guys."

  "Well, if I could sit at home and get paid, I'd be all over that. But... to each his own."

  Glenn walks off, shaking his head like Dad's crazy. And of course, that's crazy since Glenn is in the same boat: they both lost partners. Though Dad's loss was more permanent, more complete. And he actually liked his partner, so that makes it even worse.

  Still, it's typical of these guys: worry about everyone else, pretend everything's fine with themselves. Divorce rates are high among police, and sometimes I wonder if that would be different if more of them could just suck it up and admit they need help and a hug sometimes.

  Glenn stops walking away. Turns. "Latham?"

  "Yeah, Glenn?" says Dad.

  Suddenly the air changes. The banter disappears before Glenn even says it, says what I know – and Dad knows – what he's going to say. "Sorry about Steve. He was a good man."

  Then Glenn leaves. Turns on his heel and is gone, just like that. Which is the best thing he could do, I guess, after saying that.

  He shouldn't have said it at all.

  Steve – laughing Steve, jolly Steve, dead Steve – already had his funeral. Already heard his goodbyes. And no one – Dad least of all – needs to hear them anymore. His partner is gone, and nothing will let him forget that.

  Maybe that's why he let me come tonight. So that he'd have a partner, and wouldn't have to ride around with a ghost.

  Dad joins me and we walk through the hall. Heading to the briefing room. "Okay, so the rules –"

  "I know. Keep my yap shut. Pretend I don't exist. Keep my yap shut."

  He punches me in the shoulder now. Trying to pretend the conversation with Glenn didn't happen. That all is normal, all is well. It works. For some reason that punch makes me feel delicious, like I'm one of the guys. Or like he doesn’t just love me, but actually likes me.

  "You got it."

  And I do. Technically no one but the current shift is supposed to be in the room for the morning briefing, just like no one is supposed to be in a patrol car but its assigned officers – along with anyone he or she is bringing in for processing. Sometimes John Q. Public gets to do a ridealong – usually curious citizens who wonder what it's "really" like to be a cop – but that comes with a bunch of paperwork and a background check. And minors don't get ridealongs. Ever.

  But I am going to be in the briefing. And I am going to ride with Dad. Because cops' kids get a few perks. I am going to play hooky, and I get to watch my dad do his thin blue line thing.

  Even though he's still in every bit of the danger I worried about, it makes me feel better to be there with him. Sometimes we need to be with someone, even if it isn't rational, even if being with them won't change a single thing.

  When Dad and I walk into the briefing room, everyone else is already there. A few of the cops start clapping. Dad looks embarrassed.

  "Okay, okay," says the guy at the desk in front of the room. He's got the same blue uniform, but stripes on the arm mark him as the sergeant in charge of this shift. His name's Sergeant Tom Ricard, but everyone just calls him Sarge.

  I know him, have known him most of my life. Dad loves him. He came up with Dad and Linde, but he was always the leader. Always the one with the ideas, the ways to move forward and make things better. That's why he's Sarge. He's the guy who would die for Dad. The guy – other than Linde – that I know Dad would take a bullet for without thinking twice.

  Only when he's behind the desk there's no sense of brotherhood, no sense of the love I feel during backyard barbecues and beach trips. Sarge looks almost as fun as a battery acid enema. "Sit down, Latham."

  Sarge is also Liam's dad. That's how I met Liam: at a cop barbecue when we were both so young we still thought Transformers were cool. I thought Liam was neat back then. That's actually how I thought of him: "Neat." He liked the same games I did. He was good at dodgeball. He was my pal.

  Then one day I realized he had stopped being "neat" and somehow became "cute." A few days later he was "gorgeous." Tall, tan. Big arms and a strong jaw that seemed older than seventeen. But when he smiled there was still that kid in there, that kid who got so excited about Transformers it was like watching Heaven all wrapped up in a little boy package. A gift.

  Liam and I have been dating for three years. Everyone expects us to stay together. To get married. The proof of that is that no one jokes about it anymore; no one makes fun. It's just quietly accepted.

  But now... since that moment when I realized life is so short... I've wondered whether things should be quietly accepted. Maybe I should move on. Maybe he should.

  Or maybe not.

  I don't know. I don't know anything.

  Sarge ignores me, per standard protocol. Dad makes his way to his desk. I stay next to the door, trying to think small and invisible thoughts.

  Sarge says, "All right, now that our conquering hero is here –"

  "Sarge?" Knight, another cop who was with Dad that day – and so has a permanently recurring guest spot in my nightmares – raises his hand.

  "Yeah, Knight?"

  "How come no one clapped when me and Z came in?"

  Sarge shakes his head and his expression makes it clear he wonders how he got stuck in the Idiot Ward of this particular precinct. "Because you and Zevahk weren't lucky enough to get wounded."

  Zevahk raises his hand. "Yes, Officer Zevahk?" says Sarge. Looking like he regrets the words immediately.

  "So if I shoot myself I'll get applause?"

  "Only if it's fatal," one of the other cops yells out.

  Everyone laughs. Even Sarge almost smiles. "All right, boys and girls, can we get to work? Or should I just let the captain know that we're all quitting for a thrilling career in standup comedy?"

  Everyone quiets down – more or less. Dad winks at me. I wink back. Sarge glances in my direction. Then looks back at the assembled officers. He goes through the normal announcements, showing pictures of persons of interest on the big screen at the front of the room to the usual jokes and sarcastic comments: "Hey, she's a treat," "When'd your momma go back to jail, Lundstrom?" "Joke's on you, Rice – I know she ain't in jail 'cause I saw her stripping at the Peppermint with you last night."

  And Sarge, standing there like the Big Poppa. Letting them joke just enough to have that feeling of family, but never enough to let the briefing go off the rails.

  After the POI photos, Sarge brings up a video about a new way to escape from an attacker who has someone in full mount position. "I want you all practicing this escape forty minutes this week. Feldman, you can use this to get away from that fugly boyfriend of yours."

  The officers watch the video with probably more interest than they did the persons of interest. I'm happy to see it's an escape I already know. Dad taught me how to throw a punch when I was six, and I've been in different styles of karate off and on since I was eight.

  "Okay, a few changes to patrol zones for this shift," Sarge says after the vid. "Zevahk and Knight, you guys are rolling in fourteen."

  "That's not our area," says Knight.

  "Yeah," says Zevahk.

  "I'll register your complaints with your mommies. You're in fourteen." Sarge looks down at some notes, then picks up a b
lack ticket book. "And this. Do you guys know what this is?"

  "You sister's list of STDs?" says another cop – a woman named Shana who looks tough enough to take on a T-rex and win two out of three. Everyone laughs.

  Sarge doesn't bat an eye. "She keeps that in a green book, Hardin. And your name's in it. This," he says, waving the thin black book, "is a ticket book. You are all expected to use it from time to time. If you're working on something else, fine, but then I expect paperwork. So either you're busting someone, or you're writing a report about busting someone, or you're writing tickets on a traffic stop. No driving around and chatting with vendors so you'll get free food. I'm looking at you, Hodges."

  More laughter. Cops are a weird kind of family. They bicker, they fight, they laugh, they drink, they do everything together. It's like watching an intense Christmas dinner every time you put more than three of them in a room.

  "Okay, kids." Sarge slaps his ticket book down, a sharp noise that reminds me of the gunshots in my dream. "Last reminder: lots of R&R moving around these days. The DEA is in charge of stuff like that, we lowly uniforms just write tickets and run drunks into the tank. But still, occasionally we make a difference. So keep your eyes peeled." Everyone gets quiet when he says that. It's Greek to me, but it seems to be something important. The joking and laughter end. Suddenly I'm not in a big family room, I'm in a room full of people who put life and limb on the line day in and day out to make a difference.

  I'm proud to be here. Even without understanding the details, I know these are good people who are trying to help a world full of people who sometimes want nothing more than to dive into the deepest kinds of darkness.

  Sarge slaps down the ticket book again. Another gunshot slap. He smiles a tight, serious smile.

  "Let's go to work."

  5

  I'VE SEEN THE GARAGE dozens of times. It still strikes me as a weird place. Don't know why. Just something about the perfect lines of black and white V8 Dodge Chargers and Ford Crown Vics. They seem so orderly, which I guess represents what these men and women are about: order. But then they start pulling out and it's like the seeds of disorder are there before they've even left the garage.