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drugs or something, because I’m hyper-alert, so much so I’m practically having an out-of-body experience. Which is probably why I notice D. ambling down Passyunk with a wrapped-up cheesesteak in his hand, completely fucking oblivious, happy in the moment, raindrops falling on his head and shit, probably thinking about nothing but eating his greasy bun full of meat and cheese on the ride back to campus then maybe trying to peel my clothes off for a little pre–Turkey Day action.
Found the wishbone!
D. is still living in the old universe, where a cop wasn’t watching us, and didn’t just pull me over, and didn’t just find a lot of pills in his jacket.
—But your boyfriend, he ain’t vegan is he? You know how many times I’ve seen this, a guy comes down here to score AND get his cheesesteak on?
—I don’t have a boyfriend.
—Male friend, whatever. We’re just going to sit here and wait for him, see who these pills belong to. How about that?
How about we’re totally fucked. And D. has no idea. But with all of this hyper-clarity comes a thought. Yeah, D. lied to me. Yeah, he put me at risk here. But that wasn’t his intention. He just needed a ride. Am I really going to be the one who helps send him to jail? I’m the one who let the cop search my car. This is just as much my fault. I can’t do this to him.
You understand Mom, right? Tell me that if you were in my shoes you wouldn’t do the same thing.
I place two fingers on the turn signal lever then hook my right arm over the seat and turn to face the cop and tell him, okay, okay.
—Okay what?
—I think I know what happened.
A smile now.
—What’s that, Honors Girl?
—Okay, obviously someone used my car as a place to stash some drugs. As you probably know St. Jude’s is in a not-so-great neighborhood.
—Uh-huh.
Flick flick. Flick flick.
—Can you, like, run windbreakers for DNA or something?
The cop stares at me a moment before breaking into an amused chuckle.
—DNA? Are you serious? Do you really think we need to get all
CSI
on this?
Flick flick. Flick flick. Come on, D.! Look up!
—I’m pretty sure you know the owner of this windbreaker. Tall skinny guy, bright red pants?
Yeah. I know him, and I wish he’d clue the fuck in. I keep working the lever: Flick flick. Flick flick. High beams. Universal highway code for A COP IS WATCHING! Sure, it’s out of context, but, considering the circumstances, it’s the best I can do. I try to send a psychic message to D. but the cop in the backseat seems to pick up on it instead. Suddenly he shifts in his seat, leans forward.
—The fuck are you doing with the lights?
Two desperate flicks of the high beams later, the cop gets it, curses, kicks open the back door, heaves himself out of the car. The suspension rocks.
—Shit.
I look out the front windshield. D., at long last, has finally received the message. He drops the Pat’s and darts across Ninth Street. I’ve never seen D. move so fast. It’s like a gazelle bolting away from a predator.
     
    Wildey is halfway across the street when the entire world slips out from under him. Skinny Boy’s body hits the chain-link fence across the street with a metallic
ching
that echoes off the nearby walls. Wildey’s body weight is momentarily supported by his left knee before momentum carries his body the rest of the way and his right side slams into the asphalt. Brakes squeal—headlights splash over him. Wildey is confused. What the fuck he just slip in? As he scrambles to his feet, he smells it, then visually confirms it a second later: a burst-open Pat’s cheesesteak, grease and cheese and onions smeared over the blacktop like it had committed suicide from the roof of a nearby row house. The driver of the car who almost turned him into creamed corn glances down, sees the badge dangling from the chain, and immediately stops his cursing. Wildey gives him a hard look anyway.
    Meanwhile Big Red goes
ching-ching-ching
up the fence and over it.
    Wildey sucks in air