Heart Shaped Rock by Laura Roppe Read Free Book Online Page A

a three-one-seven in the area of Beach Boulevard and Fourteenth?”
    I sneak a peek at Tiffany. She raps on the boy’s window with palpable disdain. Oh man, she’s practically scratching her belly and chewing tobacco.
    The boy rolls down his window. He’s bug-eyed and agitated.
    “Hello,” Tiffany huffs, her voice two octaves lower than normal. She’s pressing her talk button so I can hear the exchange from my seat in the car. “May I see your license, please?” Did she just use a faux Southern accent?
    His hands shaking, the nearly pre-pubescent boy hands Tiffany a neatly folded piece of paper. “It’s my temporary license,” his voice cracks. “I just got my license yesterday.”
    Tiffany shoots me a quick glance that says, Bingo . “There’s been a report of a bank robbery in the area,” she mutters in her Boss Hogg voice, “and the description of the assailant’s car matches yours.”
    I can see the boy’s profile. He looks like he’s going to pee his pants. “Are you, like, an undercover cop?” he asks, wide-eyed. He seems to have an epiphany: “Oh my God, are you, like, Twenty-One Jump Street or something?”
    Tiffany smirks at him. Then she puts her head down (chomping on her imaginary tobacco I suppose) and examines the kid’s temporary license. I’m absolutely dying from my vantage point in the car.
    From the static, I can tell that Tiffany has released her finger on the “talk” button. That’s my cue. “Breaker, breaker, unit six-two-oh, repeat, unit six-two-oh, come in.”
    Tiffany compresses the “talk” button again so I can hear the conversation. “No, young man,” she mutters, “we’re just concerned citizens. We’re part of a volunteer task force, just trying to keep our streets safe.” She lets him digest that pile of crap for a moment and then adds, “Lucky for you, you don’t match the description of the bank robber.” She hands his paper license back to him. “You can go.”
    His exhale is audible, even through my walkie-talkie. With shaky hands placed precisely at the ten and two o’clock positions on his steering wheel, the boy slowly pulls his minivan back into traffic.
    Tiffany jogs back to her car and throws herself into the driver’s seat, squealing. “Did you see that? That was insane. I thought he was gonna hurl.”
    “I thought he was gonna crap his pants.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this. This feels incredible.
    Tiffany starts her car and pulls back into traffic.
    “Okay, your turn next,” she commands. “You’ve got to feel the rush.”
    It’s so outside of my comfort zone, so unlike me... but I’m feeling almost euphoric. This is such a relief from the darkness I’ve been drowning in for so long. I can be anybody I want to be. I’m not Poor Little Shaynee Sullivan right now. I’m part of a volunteer task force, keeping our streets safe. “I’ll do it,” I declare, and Tiffany whoops in celebration.
    “Okay,” Tiff says pensively, scanning the road. “We’ve got to find our mark.”
    She drives her car up alongside a small sedan filled with teenagers. We make a big show of talking into our walkie-talkies, but they start laughing and pointing at us.
    Tiffany yells for them to pull over, and one of the guys in the backseat shouts, “Sure, baby,” and makes an obscene gesture.
    “Ewww.” Tiffany groans, and speeds up to leave them in the dust. “What about that car?” Tiffany asks after a moment. It’s an economy car, something a teen would drive. But when she pulls alongside it, the driver’s an old guy with a long beard.
    “Hello, Dumbledore,” I mumble, and Tiffany chuckles.
    We drive along for a few more minutes, scanning the available crop of potential candidates. Our natural high is starting to come down. We’d better find someone young and gullible lickity-split, or else I’m going to lose my nerve.
    Tiffany pulls the car alongside a dude on a motorcycle. He’s wearing beat-up jeans, a black