You Are Here(33)

“Afternoon,” said the cop, a balding man whose name tag, perhaps ominously, read officer hurt, and whose uniform strained against a belly that made it look like he was hiding a bowling ball under his shirt. He lowered his face so that it was level with Peter’s, glancing at him and then at Emma as if puzzled by how the two of them had ended up here together.

“You were doing a fair amount of weaving back there, son,” he said, turning a suspicious eye back to Peter, who hitched his glasses up farther on his nose and attempted a smile that seemed to go sorely wrong. “I’m gonna need to see your license.”

As Peter fumbled through the glove compartment for his wallet, the dog took the opportunity to dart forward between the seats—eager to greet this visitor to his new home—and let out a bark so loud it rang against the sides of the car. Startled, Peter jerked away, managing to bump the back of his head hard against the cop’s chin.

“What the hell?” the officer said, drawing back from the window and clapping a hand over his jaw. He narrowed his eyes at Peter. “Out of the car.”

“Both of us?” Peter asked, shooting Emma a desperate look.

“Just you’ll be fine.”

Officer Hurt swiped the driver’s license from Peter’s hand before he was even fully out of the car, then stood examining it for what seemed like far too long. Peter shifted from foot to foot and tried not to look too guilty, following the flight of two crows circling overhead in the glassy sky. A guy in an old green Chevy gave them all the finger as he drove past.

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Finnegan?” the officer asked, and even as he shook his head and croaked out a feeble “no,” Peter could feel his face turn an incriminating shade of pink. The cop looked at the picture on his license and then back up at him several times, and Peter felt sure that at any minute he’d realize who he’d found, would recognize in him the same jawline and freckles and thin brown hair as his father. As the seconds wound past and neither of them spoke, it seemed impossible that he couldn’t have made the connection, and it seemed that in only a moment he’d reach for his walkie-talkie to send out a nationwide bulletin, listening back as thousands of sighs of relief came in from all over the country— That damn Finnegan kid’s finally been caught in Maryland —and the one faint whoosh of air that would be his dad shaking his head in a mixture of anger and relief.

But instead the cop looked up, twisting his mouth into a frown. “Son, I’d like to see you take nine steps along that line right there,” he said. “Do you think you could do that for me?”

Peter stared at the faded white line that ran beside the metal median of the highway, then looked back at the policeman. “Um, sure.”

“Wonderful,” he said, nodding as if by answering, Peter had just correctly completed the first stage of the test. “And then I’d like you to turn on one foot and walk right back, okay?”

Peter opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and instead turned to begin the walk. His face was burning as he held his hands out unsteadily at his sides, trying not to look at Emma, who was still sitting inside the car. He squared his shoulders and set a foot down on the line just beside a ladybug, which scurried away and disappeared onto the other side of the highway. He toyed briefly with the idea of just turning himself in—rather than going through this particular kind of humiliation—but forced himself to thrust his arms out, place his heel in front of his toe, and begin to walk. At the end of the nine steps, he spun on one leg like a graceless flamingo, then made his way quickly back to the car.

“Fine,” the officer said, looking unmistakably disappointed.

“I don’t drink, sir.”

“You’re sixteen,” he said, as if that meant something. “Anyway, you were driving pretty haphazardly.”

“The car’s old,” Peter said miserably. “It can be sort of … tricky.”

Officer Hurt looked unmoved by this. “Tricky?”

Peter watched as he began a slow circle of the car, considering it with an appraising eye and making little grunting noises here and there, his boots clicking on the pavement. Even if Peter himself weren’t flagged on some kind of police network, he was sure the car must be, and his mouth went chalky as he waited for the verdict.

“And the dog?”

Peter stifled the urge to groan. Of course, he thought; of course we’d dodge everything else and get caught because of a stupid stray dog.

The back window was open a crack, and they could see the dog’s black nose snuffling along its edges as he twisted his head to get a better whiff of the world outside. After a moment, he set about licking at the window, his great pink tongue covering every inch of glass as if it were a giant ice cream cone.

“It’s yours?”

Peter hesitated, glancing at the car, where Emma was nodding through the window. “Yes, sir?” he said, unable to help it from emerging as a question.

The cop peered into the car once more. “He’s got no collar or tags.”

“No, sir,” Peter agreed with a sigh.

Suddenly, Emma was out of the car too. She let the door hang open as she jogged around to the other side, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement.

“Miss, you can’t just …,” the officer began rather futilely. “Please get back in the—”