Play With Me

consider Quinn a real friend, even though he
worked for the police. And not just because he’d made a stop at McDonald’s to
buy me a sandwich when he’d volunteered to take me back to the orphanage after
his shift. He was someone who saw me, the teenager, and not the criminal.
    During the good
year we had known each other, he had never passed on a chance to try to talk
sense into my rebellious head. And today was no different. His nostrils flared
as he heaved a hopeless sigh. “What did you do this time?”
    Riley punched
his fist on the countertop, the purple sweater clenched between his chunky
fingers. “ Jim Hawkins here went fishing at Camden Market.”
    I rolled my
eyes. “Jack. It’s Jack Hawkins. Someone should smack a copy of Oliver Twist over your head.” I’d have volunteered if I had a book within reach that was
thick enough to leave a dent in his bonehead. And, of course, if I wasn’t
currently shackled. I cast Quinn a meaningful glance. “Why are you surrounding
yourself with idiots?”
    Riley started
forward with fire in his eyes, but Quinn held him back by his arm. “Thanks for
bringing her in, but I better deal with her now.”
    The stout
officer snarled, but finally trudged away throwing off steam that would make
Thomas the Tank Engine proud.
    Once Riley and
his partner disappeared, Quinn regarded me with wry sympathy. “You know, Abe
will have your head for this.” He paused as I gulped.
    Stealing a
Nintendo from T&B Electronics eleven months ago had gotten me the first
chance to see a courtroom from the inside and make the acquaintance of Judge
Abraham Smith. I liked to call the balding judge a special friend, even though
“ a plague” became his choice
description for me.
    Minor offenses
cultivated our friendship extraordinaire ever since. Although Miss Mulligan
continuously saved my butt, the last time I saw Abe, he had sworn he’d lock me
away for the next five hundred years if I showed up in his office again. I’d
half-expected steam to come out of his ears. He’d sent me out of his office
with a glare as sharp as Superman’s laser vision. I wasn’t too keen on meeting
him again anytime soon.
    Quinn stood up
and placed his palm on my shoulder. Unlike the other officer’s hand, I allowed
Quinn’s to stay. “Let’s fill out the forms, kiddo, and then we’ll call Miss
Mulligan. I can’t get off right now, so your warden needs to come here and pick
you up.”
    My stomach
dropped. I could picture the freckled beanpole freaking out when she heard
about me being at the police station—again. My eighteenth birthday was only
seven weeks away. Six weeks and five days to be exact. She wouldn’t make her
threat real and turn me over to the hands of law so close to my release from
the orphanage, would she?
     
    *
     
    A couple hours
later, Miss Mulligan led me through the wide double doors of the institution.
My eyes focused on the gray linoleum floor, but the whispers and contemptuous
stares of my fellow inmates didn’t escape me.
    “Go to your
room,” Miss Mulligan ordered. The effort it took for her to control her temper
reflected on her red face. “I’ll make a call to Judge Smith now and deal with
you later.”
    Calling Abe?
Thank Goodness, she was on my side after all. I knew her tactics from the past.
First, she called the court and tried to reason with the officials, promising
to make up for the damage or in this particular case, the stolen sweater. Then
she’d take me to a hearing where I would show my good will and act very, very
sorry. In the end, I might get away with being locked in my room for a couple
of weeks and probably no TV.
    Acceptable.
    The warden came
to my room on the third floor that evening to inform me the dreaded audience
with my friend Abe was set for next Tuesday—and to tell me she would be the
happiest person in the world the day that I turned eighteen and left the
orphanage for good.
    No reason not to
believe her.
    The four days
between my capture and the meeting at court I spent in my sparsely furnished
room with dirty white walls. Curled up on the worn metal cot, I stuck my nose
deep in a book, my feet shoved under the thin blanket. The weak bulb of the
lamp placed on the stool that served as my nightstand provided hardly enough
light to decipher the letters on the pages at nights, but that didn’t stop me.
    I read the story
of Peter Pan and how he taught his friend Wendy to fly above a sleeping London.
Bloody hell, I should leave my