Good Rich People(46)

Six deer are standing on the shore, with one lone buck watching over them, antlers lifted like benevolent hands. And behind them, a black trash bag laps gently against the shore, clamoring with teeth and hands and feet.

I am blessed. God really does look out for people with money.





LYLA



The security guard passes me over to the police. They Breathalyze me. The security guard seems disappointed when it comes up clean. He won’t look anyone in the eye and he keeps muttering phrases like “criminal damage,” “attempted bribery” and “I’m supposed to be on my lunch.”

The officers look too ordinary to be cops. They have no necks. Their hair smells oily. They seem distracted and confused by their own roles.

“Should we book her?” one says.

“She broke the law,” the security guard points out.

The other officer looks at me. I think they’re uncertain about booking a rich white woman, like they might get punished for it. “I guess.” He shrugs.

I try to convince them to let me off too late. Now that they have decided to “book me,” they are righteous with it.

“But you just asked him if you should even book me!” I say. “It’s obviously not a big deal!”

The officer seems not to remember. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“You’re going to cuff me?”

“You’re resisting arrest.” He is getting more into it now, like I am just making it more fun.

“I’m not resisting arrest. I’m just not thrilled about it.” I huff and put my hands behind my back. He cuffs me and escorts me to the back of his cop car. I pull against the restraints. I might as well get some good handcuff bruises.

“You guys having a good day so far?” I ask the officers. “Busy?”

The driver’s eyes flick back at me in the rearview mirror. His partner grunts. “Ma’am, this is serious.”

I laugh once. “Sorry,” I say. “Serious.”

I am so distracted by the booking process—Mug shot! Fingerprints! Blood test!—that I forget about my phone call. I remember on the way to my cell and stop in my tracks.

“I forgot my phone call! I get a phone call!”

A female guard shoves me forward. “Keep moving.” It’s like something out of a movie.

She takes me down a narrow hallway to a small, windowless cell. I thought I would be with other inmates in the drunk tank or something like that. It seems unfair that I have to be alone.

“I get a phone call,” I tell the guard again as she locks me in. “You’re breaking the law.”

She just grins at me. I guess it takes a special person to be a prison guard. At least she enjoys her job.

I pace around the cell, looking for things to do. They really limit your options in jail. There is a slim mattress rolled up on a cot, a crumby blanket and a deflated pillow, like the ones they give out on airplanes. There is a small silver toilet in the corner of my cell. A barred door looks out onto the hall, but I can’t see or hear any other prisoners.

The guard drops by once to deliver two identical ham sandwiches. I never knew food could taste like a punishment.

Other than the ham sandwich drop, I’m alone all day. If I’m going to be in jail, I would at least like to have an experience. I have never been arrested before. Like most things, it’s a total letdown. I would give it one star. Don’t believe the hype! Jail is super boring! Try prison.

I roll out the mattress and sit on the bed. I stare at the wall instead of my window.

I wonder what happened to Demi. She probably just waited a while and then went back, slipped through the hole I made in the fence. She probably thinks I just ditched her, which is only going to make her more wary of me.

I am more worried about what Graham and Margo will think. It strikes me now that this was an idiotic plan. Even if it had worked and Demi had gone to jail instead of me, all she would have gotten is a slap on the wrist. It would hardly destroy her life. It wouldn’t make her lose everything.

I need to think bigger if I ever do get out of jail. But first I need to face the music back at home. To be honest, I’d rather stay in jail.



* * *





I SIT UNTIL I think its nighttime and then I fall asleep. I dream that I am on my own street. I see our outdoor light on the porch calling me home. When I reach the house, all the lights switch on at once. I see Graham at the dinner table. A woman dressed in black crosses in from the kitchen, carrying a serving tray. She bends over him and turns to face me. It’s Demi, and she smiles richly at me and purrs, You live downstairs. Go down.

The cracks in the street open beneath my feet, glowing like embers, spreading wide. I fall so fast, it wakes me up.

I’m still in the cell, but it’s dark. They have turned out the lights.

I am so bored, I think I will do anything to stop it.

So I detonate myself like a weapon. I cry—heaving, crazy, wild sobs. Graham hates when I do this. You can’t scream like this, Lyla. You can’t act like this.

I think someone will come, but no one does. It’s actually kind of freeing, just crying and crying with no one making me stop, asking me what I want, giving in to me.

I consider that maybe I would feel better if I didn’t always get what I want.