Free Narc by Crissa-Jean Chappell Page B

too embarrassing.
    “You can just drop me off at the Metrorail.”
    “Actually, I was going to swing by Lincoln Road,” said Sheryl, “so it’s really not a problem, stopping downtown. No trouble at all.” She flashed her teeth at me.
    I winced and smiled back. “Can I have another plate first?”
    I shouldn’t have wolfed down that second helping. My stomach burned like venom as we barreled down the expressway. I sat up front with Sheryl, who knew the words to every hit on the Top 40 countdown and sang along. Loudly. I rubbed my thumb, like Haylie mentioned, but I couldn’t shake the stabbing behind my eyes.
    “So what’s it like, growing up on a military base?” Sheryl asked me.
    “Pretty much the same, everywhere you go.”
    Morgan said, “I thought you lived in another country? That’s what you told me, right?”
    Yeah, that’s what I told her. I’d totally forgotten about that stupid lie. Now I was backpedaling. Again.
    “I don’t remember much about it. I mean, I was too little,” I stammered. “It was kind of a long time ago.”
    Rain needled down the windshield. Soon we were plowing through a downpour.
    “Where now?” asked Sheryl.
    “Stay on ninety-five north,” I said.
    Skyscrapers gleamed along the horizon. I watched the above-ground train, the Metromover, snake over the Miami River.
    Sheryl swerved into the exit lane. “Turn off here, right?”
    “Not yet,” I said.
    A car let out a long, lingering honk.
    “What the hell, Sheryl?” said Morgan.
    “Watch your mouth, young lady.” Sheryl flipped off the driver behind them, inciting another round of honks.
    We rolled past South Miami Avenue, the tail end of Little Havana, otherwise known as Calle Ocho: boxy apartments with Xed-out windows, as if masking tape could hold against a hurricane.
    “Aaron,” said Sheryl. “Keep me honest. Are we going the right way?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I said, slipping a finger inside my sock.
    She hit the gas and we rattled over the potholes. At the end of the block, cars streamed around Burger King. A poster of a cartoon dog said Perro Perdido in bold-faced Spanish.
    “This is a long way to commute,” she said.
    “A long way,” Morgan agreed.
    We inched through a traffic jam at the Brickell Bridge, which had split open to let a tugboat pass beneath it. Rain sprayed off the statue at the base—some dead guy pointing a bow and arrow.
    “Look at all this construction,” said Sheryl, as if she’d never driven here before. Maybe she hadn’t.
    By the time we reached my shitty neighborhood, Sheryl had locked the doors and windows. Biscayne Boulevard didn’t look any safer in the daylight.
    “Check out that crappy building. The paint is flaking like a sunburn,” said Morgan, pointing at my apartment.
    “It’s not that crappy,” I said.
    As we braked at the intersection, a bum with a Tommy Hilfiger umbrella stumbled into traffic. Two trucks and an SUV swerved around him, blaring their horns, but he just punched his fists at them. I felt bad for the guy. Everybody ignored him, like he was invisible or something. I knew exactly what that was like.
    “Turn,” I told Sheryl.
    “Now?” she said, blinking.
    “Make a left.”
    The bum stalked toward my window and thrust a bouquet of palm fronds at me. Their tips had been braided into weird shapes: grasshoppers and rosebuds. I shook my head. He lurched to the other side of the car.
    “No, no.” Sheryl hit the wipers. The bum yelped and wobbled backward, clutching his thumb. He burned his gaze into mine, a look of pure rage.
    “Shit,” I said.
    In one quick motion, he grabbed the wiper blade and tugged.
    Sheryl slammed her fist on the horn. “Get away from my car.”
    The wiper snapped like a turkey bone. The bum just stood there, gawking at it. Then he chucked it into the street.
    The light still hadn’t turned, but Sheryl pumped the gas and we squealed around the corner.
    “There’s a cop behind us,” said Morgan.
    “I see him,” said