Rebel, Bully, Geek, Pariah by Erin Jade Lange Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t a laugh that escaped so much as a gasping snort, like a giant face fart that echoed through the trees all around us.
    The response was instantaneous.
    â€œWho’s down there?” The megaphone blared behind us.
    It was followed by the much quieter but more chilling sound of a gun being cocked.
    Now
that
killed the laughter.
    The three faces around me were murderous. Yes, obviously, this whole scenario was my fault. Never mind that at least one of us had been drinking and another was a thief—my laughter was the real crime. I scowled back at them, then squared my shoulders, making a decision.
    I marched out of our cluster of trees with my hands up, because “hands up” seemed like the proper response to an officer drawing his gun.
    That gun was aimed and ready to fire.
    I swallowed hard. I hoped the moonlight was bright enough for him to see that I was just some unarmed kid and not the usual trash that prowled these woods at night. To my left, still sheltered by the huge oak and its surrounding trees, three sets of eyesbulged. In front of me, the officer’s gun pointed steadily at my chest.
If only there were a way to make myself invisible now.
    I forced myself to lift my gaze from the gun to his face.
Make eye contact. Look innocent!
    But I probably just looked confused, because the face above the gun was familiar. I couldn’t place the guy, but for some reason, his mug made me think of Mama. Confusion hardened into anger. No doubt this must be an officer who had busted Mama once upon a time. How many times had I seen cops put her in handcuffs over the years?
    Twice, when Grandma called the cops on her. Once when Mama was in the hospital.
My fault, sort of.
Once when I was in the hospital.
Her fault, definitely.
    I wondered whether the officer recognized me, too, or whether he’d seen so many traumatized children that our tear-streaked faces all started to look the same. Maybe he wouldn’t remember me without those tears. I hardly recalled what I looked like with tears myself; it had been so long.
    Behind me, but definitely closer now, the megaphone cop spoke again.
    â€œIf you’re down there, best come on up now.”
    The boom of the disembodied voice shattered my silent standoff with the trigger-happy officer. His head swiveled in the direction of the megaphone, and his gun arm finally, mercifully, lowered to his side. I waited for him to answer back, to let the other officer know he had everything covered down here, but instead he did something inexplicable: he whipped around and raced off into the trees after his partner, toward the river.
    My breath came out in a whoosh—
How long have I been holding that in?
—and I lowered my arms, which ached from hanging in the air.
    â€œHe left,” I whispered. I turned to the trio hiding in the shadows to my left and repeated, louder, “He left!”
    York tentatively stuck his head out from behind the tree to confirm what I was saying, and then he spun around in place as if looking for someone. “Whose car is that?” he asked, his voice low. “We need a ride.”
    â€œThey’re probably up there getting a ticket,” Boston said, equally quietly. He pointed back in the direction of the party.
    â€œI think it’s Carrie’s,” York said to himself. “It looks like hers.”
    There was a faint but distinct noise then, from the direction of the river—the sound of feet on wooden slats. The cops were coming back up the dock.
    York grabbed Boston by the arm and started dragging him toward the wide-open SUV, then turned and called back to us. “Let’s go!”
    I stared stupidly after them, not sure what they were doing, until the megaphone opened up one more time.
    â€œStay where you are!”
    The party police had heard us. I looked back up the hill into the thicker part of the woods and saw a bright light flashing as it bobbed around trees, slicing through