"Well, I... Don't really..." Oh fuck, I was going to do it, wasn't I?

Stevie apparently thought so, cos he'd finally stopped the car and was already climbing over me and... What could I do?

Not have a spine, apparently.

Within seconds I was sitting there with the steering wheel in my hands, already terrified out of my mind, and the cop tapping on the window.

It took me a good five seconds to remember how to roll the window down (which probably didn't look good).  Please please please to god tell me Stevie was just speeding.

No.  Such.  Luck.

"Step out of the car please, son."

I opened the door and managed to climb out, shaking so bad I was certain he thought I was on PCP or something.

He asked me to step to the back of the car, where he had me walk a line and say the alphabet backwards while touching my nose with alternating hands.  I managed to get all the way to "A", which I thought was an accomplishment in and of itself.  The cop, however, seemed unimpressed.

"Have you been drinking?"

"Uh... maybe a... little."  I averted my eyes.

"How old are you, kid?"

"S-s-sixteen."

"And what's your name?"

"D-d-d-"

"Just let me see your driver's license," he said, sounding quite irritated.

I tried my best to hand it to him, really I did, but my hands were shaking so hard I dropped it on the ground trying to get it out of my wallet, and he seemed to take that as a personal affront.

He told me, I think his exact words were, "Sit your ass down on the curb and wait."

Well, life, way to FUCK me over yet again.  I bet you think this is real funny, don't you?

I wondered what Stevie thought was going on.  I was thinking, If I got arrested, they'd better not ever let me out because I would fucking murder him in cold blood.

Why didn't he say anything?  Couldn't he see I was in trouble?  I didn't even dare try to turn around and see if he was watching cos I got the feeling that through no fault of my own I was about two seconds away from a good old-fashioned nightstick beating.

God, please, what had I done to deserve this?  I wasn't such a bad kid, really, I was just unlucky, and please if your Lordship or whatever would just let me off the hook this one time...

The cop was out of his car again and doing that cop-walk swagger thing, like it was some big feat to intimidate me.

"Get up and put your hands on the trunk."  God, come on, please, it not too late.  I'll be your new best friend; I'll bake little Baby Jesus a birthday cake; I'll do anything.  "Spread your legs."

And he hadn't even bought me dinner.

Of course, I didn't find it funny at the time.  Right then, I didn't even know if I could spread my legs without my knees collapsing.

I apparently took too long to work up the nerve to try, because he shoved my shoes apart with his foot and pressed his hand down on my shoulder.

"Do you have anything on you that's going to stick me?"

"No," I managed to squeak.

"Do you have anything on you at all that I should know about?"

I tried to repeat that simple "no", but my voice had disappeared and all I could do was shake my head.

He searched me anyway, though I couldn't imagine where he thought I had room to hide anything in the girls' jeans I was wearing.

I was still clinging to some hope that he'd let me go when he didn't find anything on me, but as soon as he'd satisfied what I could only assume was his morbid curiosity, he told me to put my hands behind my back and then, horror of all horrors, he handcuffed me.

I think it was at that point my voice made a miraculous comeback and I started babbling.  "But wait, I'm not drunk, okay.  I mean, I can't get arrested, do you know what they'll do to me in jail; I'll never make it out alive and besides my sister is in intensive care in the hospital and I was just going to see her and if she dies while I'm in jail I'll never get over it and I'll probably commit suicide and--"

I don't really remember what else I said, but I kept talking over him (saying everything but "it wasn't me; he did it" like I should have) and eventually he got fed up and shoved me up against the back of the car.  "You are not helping yourself here," he said.  "Now, you're under arrest for DUI, and that's just the way it is."

And then I couldn't say anything else because I knew if I tried I would burst into tears and never be able to stop, and I really didn't want to get thrown into some cell full of big, tough, tattooed guys with my chick pants and fucking eyeliner running.

*

I finally got home (from jail) at about ten o'clock that night.  I was tired enough to collapse straight into bed in my clothes, but the pervasive, crawling sensation that I was covered in filth would not allow that, and I made time for an hour-long shower in which no inch of skin was spared from fierce loofah scrubbing.  When I got out, I was red as a tomato and my skin was so raw even putting on pajamas hurt, but I still had a lingering feeling that I'd never be clean again.

Maybe I should have given into it and become a dirty street thug.  Only, I didn't know how to use a switchblade (you'd think I would have learned, over the course of fourteen hours in jail), and I'd have to wear those free T-shirts you get at bank openings and fun runs with lots of holes in them and lose two-thirds of my teeth and... It all seemed like a lot of effort to exert just to be homeless white trash.

So I just went to sleep instead and when I woke up, I thought maybe I had discounted the panhandling lifestyle too quickly, so I dug around various drawers until I found a flannel shirt.  I considered looking for one of those old T-shirts I used as grease rags but decided I had probably better take baby steps and ended up wearing the oversized flannel over an undershirt and girl jeans.

I didn't do my hair, however, which I felt took me a long way toward being a real bum.

The cat must've agreed with me, because as soon as I picked her up she started yowling and clawing at my arms.  I wrestled her into submission and was sitting on the couch, petting her with one hand and holding her in place with the other while she made low hissing noises at me when the doorbell rang.

My mometary distraction gave the cat the chance she needed to wriggle out of my grasp and shoot across the living room to god knows where.  Well, I guess I couldn't be a cat lady.

The bell rang again, and I dragged myself reluctantly to my feet.  I was willing to bet the Committee for the Perpetual Misery of Dodge Hannigan had decided I wasn't in quite enough pain and had sent over someone to kick me in the nuts.

Well, there was no use fighting it.  I opened the door, and it seemed the Committee had managed to come up with something even worse.  It was Stevie.

"I do not want to see you," I said and started to shut the door.

He had already put his foot in it.  "Please, Dodge," he said, pushing back against me.

I elected not to embarrass myself by not being able to keep him out physically and changed battle strategies, letting go of the door and walking back toward the couch.  I heard him close the door behind him, but didn't face him, not even after I'd settled back on the couch and begun flipping through a magazine that had been sitting on the coffee table.  "What do you want?"

"Listen, I know you have every right to hate me, but, Dodge... I'll do anything to make it up to you."  He came as far as the armchair by the couch but then stopped abruptly.  He was right not to come any closer.

"You'll do anything?" I asked evenly, closing my magazine and leaning forward, looking at him for the first time.  I'd never seen him so fidgety.  He looked positively frightened.  Maybe the flannel increased my powers of intimidation.

"Yeah," he said hesitantly.  "I mean, I did something really bad to you--and you gotta believe me, I never thought it would turn out that way--but I want to make it up to you."

"If you want to make it up to me," I began calmly, but by the time the sentence was halfway through I couldn't contain my temper anymore, "THEN GO BACK IN TIME AND TAKE THE FUCKING BLAME."

"Dodge, I--I can't."

I didn't even have time to think about what I was doing before I had jumped to my feet and thrown the remote across the room at him.  He ducked it, but by the time he looked up again, I had grabbed the phone off the coffee table and it hit him square in the jaw.

He yelped and clamped his hand over his mouth.  If I had somehow affected his ability to speak, it would be the best thing that had come out of all the months I'd known him.

"You can't?  You can't?" I shouted, grabbing at anything I could get my hands on and hurling it at him.

"Dodge, stop," he pleaded, pulling his hand away from his mouth to fend off a flying can of Coke.  There was blood on it, and his lips.  He must have bitten his tongue.

"FUCK."  I threw a magazine.  "YOU."  A pair of scissors this time.

"Stop, goddammit," he repeated, more forcefully as they bounced off him, handle-first (unfortunately).

I bent down to retrieve the last thing on the table, an old Walkman, but before I could throw it, Stevie (who had moved a lot closer to me in the interim--the man must've been like Flash Gordon or something) grabbed my wrist.  "I said stop."

"Fuck you.  Fuck you fuck you, you dumb shit, stupid fucking asshole--" I kept up a steady stream of insults while I fought against his grip, but he'd gotten a hold of my other arm, too, and well, he at least felt stronger than he looked.  I managed to hit him ineffectively on the shoulder with the Walkman a couple of times before he dug his fingers into my wrist and I dropped it.

"Calm down," he said through gritted teeth.

I stopped struggling so much, and the second he loosened his grip, I pulled my hand away and took a swing at his nose.  He managed to dodge the worst of it, but my fist clipped the side of his face as he turned, and I saw a few drops of blood fly from his lips.  If he thought he had any right to tell me to calm down, he was sorely mistaken.

That seemed to be the final straw, though.  He grabbed my shoulders and shoved me back on the couch.  I pulled him down on top of me by his shirt collar, and as he tried to pry my fingers off, my other hand latched on the side of his throat.

He choked, however briefly, and pulled my hand away so forcefully his nails scraped off my skin, leaving big red welts and pricks of blood on my wrists.

My fingers tightened on his shirt collar and he drew back and punched my face, his class ring hitting me right on the cheekbone.  I could feel the stone grind my bone and was certain I heard a crack, though I didn't dare imagine what that could have been.

For what seemed like forever, I couldn't even think.  I wanted to kill him, I wanted him fucking dead, but for some reason, I couldn't move.  It took me whole seconds before I heard this hollow, panting sound, and then I realized I was gasping, barely even getting any air.  It was like there was a noose around my neck.  It was only the realization that I was going to pass out that forced me to take a deep breath in, but the pause in the gasping only left room for the inevitable realization that I was in fucking pain.

I could feel a baseball sized lump rising up in my throat, and my eyes started to burn.  Oh god, I prayed I wouldn't start crying; I was going to blow snot all over everything.

On the plus side, Stevie was totally taken aback.  He was sitting, still straddling my legs and frozen solid for the longest time, until I rolled over to hide my face, at which point he jumped up like I was on fire.

There was a pregnant pause, during which I swore I could hear him mentally processing how the situation had changed, before I felt him kneel down by my side.  He hesitated, then put his hand on my shoulder, and I instinctively tried to shake him off.

"Dodge, I'm sorry," he said tentatively.  "Are you okay?  I am so sorry."

I buried my face into the couch cushions so I wouldn't have to look at him.

"I swear I didn't mean to hurt you."

He reached out to smooth my hair, and I hid what little of my face was still exposed behind my hand.

"Dodge, please," he said.  I could feel his breath on the back of my hand.  "Please say something."

I shook my head.  Fuck no, I wasn't going to let him hear me choke on my words.

"Let me take a look at it."  I turned away.  "C'mon," he repeated.  "We should put ice on it."

I could feel a string of snot trailing from the couch cushion to my nose.  I shook my head again.

I heard him stand up, and I thought at least he was going to leave me alone so I could make a fool of myself in peace, but no.  About a minute later, he came back and knelt down beside me, his fingers suddenly frigid where they rested on my shoulder.

"I brought you an ice pack," he said.

Why, why couldn't he just leave me alone?

I thought maybe if I just took it, he would go away, so I reached up for the pack without raising my head.

"Dodge, let me see."

"No.  Leave me alone."  At least the lump that had been expanding in my throat ever since that first punch had shrunk back to allow words to spill out around it.

He sighed, and the fact that I could frustrate Stevie Bell with my immaturity was almost enough to make me start crying again.

"C'mon, I don't know what to do."  And he did sound lost.

But then, I don't know how, he must've figured it out, because he wrapped his arms around my back and his palms pressed on my ribs and he kissed my shoulder-blade.  Then my neck and dammit now was not a good time, and it simply was not fair of him to use my overactive teenage sex-drive to manipulate me at a time like this, but he did, and eventually I stopped resisting and let him roll me over to face him (having wiped my nose both thoroughly and covertly on the couch) and kiss me on the lips, softly but assuredly.

After several seconds of this presumptuous lip-lock, he drew back and took my chin in his hand.  "Are you okay?" I could tell, by the way he was looking at me that he was searching for something. For truth or forgiveness or mostly likely surrender, but I didn't want him to find anything.  I refused to meet his gaze.

I don't know where his eyes went then, but the next thing I felt was the shocking cold of him pressing the ice pack against my face.

"It doesn't look so bad," he said, one hand holding the ice pack to my cheekbone and the other in my hair.