Chapter One

Alex

A good day never begins with sitting in the back of a police car. Handcuffed. The sun barely up. You know it’s only going to go downhill from here. As if picking up that thought, Meaty Jones, sitting next to me, says, “Well, Coffee Cup, we’re in deep shit now.”

My name is Alex Coffey, so Meaty thinks his nickname for me is cute or something. I just find it irritating. He’s the only one who calls me that. A teacher at school overheard him once and told me I should tell him I don’t like it. I’m sure Meaty, the same age as me at fifteen, would say, “Why, sorry Alex. I didn’t realize you didn’t appreciate it. Please accept my apologies, and I won’t do it anymore.” The more likely scenario would be he’d do it ten times more or think of something worse to call me.

Meaty’s real name is Demetrie but no one calls him anything but Meaty. Not because he’s chunky or anything like that; in fact, he’s real skinny. He likes his nickname and has the tattoos to prove it. Him and me hang out together. I guess you could call us friends. He’s useful to me because he is a reliable source for drugs and occasionally, when his father is passed out drop-dead-drunk, he lets me flop on his couch for the night. I’m useful to him because he thinks he can boss me around and get me to do whatever he wants. He’s not wrong. I hate that about myself but there’s lots of things I hate about me. That one ain’t even near the top.

The day could be worse but the cops must be in a generous mood. They are charging us with misdemeanor drug charges and criminal trespassing, but not burglary, which is a felony. The house we spent the night partying in has been sitting empty for some time. It was easy to get inside through a broken window on the backside of the building. We aren’t the first to help ourselves to the place, and I could hear the cops complaining about the absent landlord. Seems like they are madder at him than us.

A cop drives us up to the courthouse side entrance where we sit and wait. And wait. And wait. I’m not surprised at how long. I have a frequent flier pass. Can’t say that about the cop. Marty Koontz is the name on his badge. He’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Keeps looking at his watch. He’s practically screaming get me out of here.

He doesn’t get any sympathy from the cops who have been at this longer. One older looking policeman walks past our car. Officer Marty hangs his head out the window and hollers, “Hey, I’ve been sitting here two hours!”

he older cop gives him a smirk. “Yeah, and you may be two more. That’s what you get when you arrest kids. You’ll learn to look the other way whenever you can.”

Marty grumbles, “I don’t see why I can’t just drop them off at the station.”

The older cop shifts his cup of coffee to his other hand so he can get a bite of his breakfast biscuit. It looks good to me. It’s been some time since I’ve had anything to eat. He talks while he chews. “You had that in the big city where you first worked, but here in the sticks we don’t have the space to separate juveniles from adults, so you get to babysit them in your car till the court folks do the processing.”

As if on cue, the juvenile court worker strides out to the car with forms in his hands. Meaty catches a break. The call to his parents nets his mother, rather than his father, and she’s going to come and pick him up. If his father had gotten the call, he’d have come too, but more than likely he’d beat the shit out of Meaty when he got him home. His mom will never be a mother of the year candidate herself, but the advantage for Meaty is he can easily get away from her as soon as they get home.

I don’t remember my father at all. Mom had been an off and on guest of the county jail and women’s state prison so she was no one to mess with. She was pregnant when she went to prison the second time and lucky me, I got to be born at the Cumberland Valley Women’s State Prison. She got an early parole partly to come home and take care of me. It wasn’t long after that my father ended up in prison. It was like they were playing tag team. A few years later he was released and rejoined our happy little family.

But it wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. Good old Dad wasn’t smart enough not to piss her off while she was higher than a kite with a gun in easy reach. The resulting manslaughter charge earned Mom a trip back to the joint. Her hepatitis, from all her drug using, got worse there and she died during the third year of her prison term. A great family legacy, huh?

This brings me back to the problem at hand and the never-ending question: Is it better to have lousy parents or none at all? In this particular situation, a shitty parent would be better than nothing. Because when the judge says release to parents that only works if you’ve got one.

What happens now?

I think I know.

After dealing with Meaty, Mr. Prescott, the juvenile court worker guy, looks at me and sighs. “Alex, we must quit meeting like this.”

I smile. “Miss me?”

“Terribly. I called your social worker and she said the group home won’t take you back since this is the third time you’ve run off from them. She doesn’t have any foster home or other placement for you right now. So, you’re going to have to go to juvenile detention until something else can be worked out. You understand?”

This is not happy news but completely expected. I know the drill.

“Yeah, I get it.” I also get that Mr. Prescott is sugar coating it. Something else can be worked out isn’t going to happen.

He knows it.

I know it.

After a few words with the fuming cop in the front seat, he goes back in the building. A short while later, when Meaty’s mom arrives, he comes back out. At a gesture from Mr. Prescott, the cop gets out and opens the door on Meaty’s side. Meaty’s mom looks none too happy to see him. And she’s even less happy as Mr. Prescott has her sign things and explains she needs to bring her son to court on Wednesday for an arraignment on the charges. She scribbles her name, then wads up the forms, and stuffs them in her large black bag. She turns and addresses Mr. Prescott and the cop at the same time.

“I hope you all are ready to come get my other kids when I lose my job and can’t afford to feed them. I already had to leave early today and the boss ain’t going to be happy when I have to ask for more time off.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand how troubling that can be.” This isn’t Mr. Prescott’s first rodeo.

Stepping out of the police car, Meaty turns to me and says, “Later, Coffee Cup.”

As Meaty gets in his mother’s car, Mr. Prescott hands more papers to the cop, then we’re merrily on our way. The car is warm and compared to other places I’ve been lately, fairly comfortable. I try and count my blessings. There’s that matter of hunger. I’m starving, and where we’re going I will get fed. It’s been days since I’ve had a shower so that’s definitely needed and I’ll get that as well. I lean my head back and close my eyes. I’m not normally awake at this hour. Might as well get some sleep.

But it’s a no-go. Seconds later I open my eyes and sit back up. I can’t quiet my head enough to sleep. Thoughts keep popping up and I play whack-a-mole with them. As soon as I beat one down, another jumps up to take its place. Usually, all that matters to me is right here, right now. There’s no sense thinking about the past and definitely, not thinking about tomorrow. But sometimes, I can’t help myself.

Gazing out the window, I watch the scenery flash by. Soon I’ll be seeing nothing but walls so I might as well take advantage of the views while I can. As we pass by fast food places, car lots, and the school I won’t be attending tomorrow, a terrible emptiness wells up inside me and makes me feel sick. Like sick, sick. A jab of nausea hits me and my stomach rolls. I knock my head against the window glass to distract myself.

Don’t think.

Don’t hope.

Don’t care.

I hit my head even harder.

“Hey, stop that!” The cop twists around to glare at me.

Instantly I feel better when I scream back at him, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!”

He mutters something under his breath as he turns his attention back to his driving, but I ignore him. I’m back in control now. Control. That’s all that matters.

As long as I have control, I can take anything. Haven’t I been doing that all my life?

Copyright 2025 Vicki Reed