Free Breaking Point by Alex Flinn

them…
    â€œI wouldn’t, if I were you,” Charlie said.
    The cop turned back, smirking, letting his light shine in Charlie’s face. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
    How did Charlie keep from moving, squinting? A mosquito buzzed my ear, but I didn’t dare swat it. Charlie said, “You have no warrant, have you, to search his truck?” Charlie’s voice stayed cool. “We’re nowhere near it—certainly not close enough to grab any weapons. We present no danger. We’re not stoned or anything. We definitely haven’t given our permission. What would happen if someone investigated this search?”
    â€œWhat do you know about it?” But the cop moved away from the truck, toward us. It dawned on me that Charlie knew something about the law, somehow. And the cop was listening.
    â€œPlenty.” Charlie didn’t move. “My mom’s a U.S. attorney, Mary Good—no E . Works in Washington, mostly. Her specialty’s prosecuting cops who do bad searches.”
    The cop didn’t move. I stopped picturing Mom pulling her hair.
    â€œDon’t think she’d look kindly on you harassing her son.” Charlie shrugged. “You know how moms are.”
    The cop shrugged too. “Hey, I wasn’t going to search the car.”
    Charlie smiled, understanding. “Didn’t think so.”
    â€œBut you’re not supposed to be in the park this time of night.” With his flashlight, the cop lit the sign posting park hours.
    â€œOh, is that all?” Charlie stood, gesturing for us to do the same. “Well, men, we’d best leave, then.” I followed, barely finding my feet beneath me. “Thanks for the advice, Officer…” Charlie squinted at the cop’s badge.
    â€œWolofsky,” the cop said.
    We piled into the car, managing not to break up for a block or so. Charlie sat, trancelike, saying, “Keep a cool head. That’s what Big Chuck says.” Then, Meat started to giggle. St. John followed, a full, hollow laugh. Not me. I watched the fading streetlights, the roadside benches flashing by, the Dumpster where we threw the uneaten bagels, and I knew that with Charlie, I was safe. Charlie could get away with anything.
    Monday in chapel, the sermon was “Thou Shalt Not Steal.” I couldn’t help but glance at Charlie when Reverend Phelps announced the topic. He sat, hands in lap, listening like the perfect Christian schoolboy. Maybe he even was.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    â€œWrite about a childhood memory,” my English teacher had said, probably thinking she was being profound. Thinking that it would be easy, anyway. Miss Bundy, who reeked of CK cologne and drove a new white Saab her parents had probably bought, couldn’t have imagined childhood would be a difficult subject for anyone. But it was for me. Oh, I knew what the clones would write: “My First Bicycle” or “Our Third Trip to Europe.” But my childhood stretched behind like so many identical calendar squares. Read with Mom, watched television, wished Dad would come home, then regretted it when he did. Nothing ever happened. At least, nothing memorable. Nothing memorable had happened until this month. Until Charlie.
    Maybe, I thought giddily, I could write about smashing mailboxes or stealing bagels. That would be an A paper, all right.
    I calmed myself.
    I stared out the window, flipping through memories like tabs on a notebook. All I remembered was trying to keep Mom happy, keep my parents from fighting.
    Finally, I wrote about going to Disney World when I was five. I could be a clone, too.
    â€œWhen I walked into class, everyone turned to stare. Then, they looked away.”
    Amanda was reading her English essay. I fidgeted, suddenly uncomfortable in my clothes.
    â€œI was nine, and it was my fourth school.”
    Beautiful. Perfect. Hot . Adjectives hit my ears like enemy missiles, then fell away, harmless. Roget