“No, we don’t put someone in jail for standing up to bullies,” said Officer Damon. “But we do put people in jail for assault and harassment. I’m afraid your friend is in some serious trouble. I’ll let you speak. So try to talk some sense into him. We want what’s best for everyone. I’m starting to think that he’s proud of being in jail. That won’t play well when he faces a judge.”
“A judge?” I asked.
“He assaulted Mr. Peter Mandrake. He’s already confessed to the crime. And Mr. Mandrake is pressing charges. It’s very real.”
I felt my stomach drop again.
“So try to help Alex see the seriousness of it all.”
The police officer led us to a small sand-colored jail cell—maybe eight feet by five. There were no windows and the ceiling lights were outside the cell, so shade striped Alex’s face. It was horrible to see him locked up like an animal. And yet I was pretty sure he’d acted like an animal that needed to be caged, which scared me.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Never been better,” Alex said as he hopped off the small bed. “I’m like Henry David Thoreau in here. Nelson Mandela. Jesus Christ, even.”
“This isn’t a joke. They’re pressing charges,” I said.
“Let them.”
“What?”
“I said let them.”
“You could go to jail.”
“Already here.”
“But for good.”
“I doubt it. I’m a minor, first of all. And if they put in jail everyone who ever punched someone, there would hardly be anyone left outside. Why don’t they put the kids who punched Oliver in jail? Why isn’t anyone asking that?”
“I didn’t want you to do this,” Oliver said.
“I know,” Alex said. “But I had to. And I’ve never felt more alive in my life. Like I’m finally calling the shots—like they know I won’t put up with it anymore.”
“Put up with what?” I asked.
He smiled and quoted Wrigley from The Bubblegum Reaper: “ ‘They can’t make me into a joiner without my permission.’ ”
I didn’t know how to respond. I had underlined that bit many times because I loved it so much, but when it led to seeing the only boy you ever kissed being locked behind bars, the quote took on a different connotation. And I wondered if that was the problem with literature—it made sense only in theoretical situations and didn’t often help in real life, where it took a hell of a lot more courage to live than to turn pages all alone, hidden away from the world in a corner or a bed or under a tree.
“I’ve been writing poetry in here. This experience has been like a muse,” Alex said. “Words are bursting out of me. I wrote one about last night called ‘There Is Power in Knowing.’ ”
I noticed the notebook on the bed. A pen was resting on top. I was surprised they let him have these things in a cell.
When he saw me looking, he picked up the notebook, ripped out the poem, folded it up, and handed it to me through the bars.
Worried the cop would confiscate Alex’s words, I quickly slid the poem into the front pocket of my jeans. “You can’t write poetry in jail, Alex. Have you lost your mind?”
“What are you talking about? Jail is the perfect place to write poetry! Poetry is the language of the oppressed!”
He sounded insane.
“But what about our mission?” Oliver said. “What about Sandra Tackett and figuring out the mystery of The Bubblegum Reaper?”
“All in good time, my friend. All in good time.”
“Alex,” I said. “You’re in jail. Jail! This is serious. You can’t just go around punching people in the face.”
“I didn’t ‘just go around punching people in the face.’ I was defending Oliver and the rights of all who have ever been in Oliver’s position. A principle is at stake here. I’m not afraid to pay the price for my convictions. Wrigley would agree.”
“Did you ask Booker what he thought of your ending up in jail?” I asked.
“Booker is an old man. You can’t ask an old man to advise you on something that a young man needs to do. But you can read The Bubblegum Reaper. You can sure do that. And I’ve read it a million times!”
A mania had taken up residence in Alex’s eyes. It frightened me, but at the same time, it was attractive—the honesty he brought to the conversation. Not even jail could make him put on a mask and lie for everyone else. It was madness, plain and simple, but an alluring sort. It was like standing next to a great fire that dances and warms and illuminates everything—but it also threatens to consume you in the process. How much more of this could I take?
Finally, Officer Damon came back and said we had to leave.
Alex gripped the bars of the prison cell and in a calm voice simply stated, “I love you, Nanette.”
A boy had never before proclaimed his love for me like that, and I froze.
We were in a jail.
Oliver and the police officer were there.
But mostly, I wasn’t sure whether I loved Alex anymore, and I didn’t want to lie, so I just nodded and followed the officer out of the police station.
“Why do you have a black ribbon on your thumb?” Oliver asked the officer when he raised his left hand to buzz us out.
“You don’t have to answer that,” I said to the officer.
“No,” he said. “It’s okay. I tie it there so people will ask me that exact question. My son was abducted and killed ten years ago. He was six years old. Hence the sixth.” One at a time, Officer Damon wiggled the fingers and thumb of his right hand. Then he held up the sixth digit—his left thumb. “Six. Would’ve been about your age now, Nanette. Joshua was walking home from school. He was snatched right in broad daylight. Pulled into a van and then driven away. Just like that—my son was gone. I can’t bring Joshua back to life, but I can be a police officer, trying to keep the neighborhood safe. I went into law enforcement because of that incident.”