Riptide

Everything was blurry. I didn’t know if it was because of the tears forming against my will, or the lights on top of the police car. The officer next to me was talking on the radio, saying my name to whoever was on the other end. I didn’t care. I was trying my best to enjoy the last thirty minutes (or an hour, if I was lucky) of peace.

Because I knew my wonderful stepmother would show up and scream at me.

But despite my best efforts, I couldn’t enjoy the silence. The store manager—some old man—kept staring at me and shaking his head in disapproval. At first, I felt a spark of shame, but after the fifth time, it was just annoying.

What pissed me off the most, though, was that my so-called friends had put me in this mess in the first place. This wasn’t my first theft. In fact, I was the one who taught them how to steal, how to run when things went south. But instead of pushing a doll or a cart to help me escape, Eris shoved me—and ran off with the rest of the girls.

Thanks, bestie.

As the scene replayed in my head, I felt my anger rising again. The old man’s stares didn’t help, and now another officer had joined in—this one with pity in his eyes. Somehow, that was even worse.

I couldn’t help it.

“What?” I snapped.

The officer shook his head and said, “Get in the car, miss.”

This wasn’t my first run-in with the police, but this officer was new. The last time, I got caught being out past curfew, and they made Annie come get me. Before that, I was spotted near some graffiti downtown—thankfully, no one caught me holding a spray can. I always slipped through somehow. So yeah, it never actually went all the way to the station. Not until now.

When I didn’t move, he took a step closer and pulled out handcuffs.

“Whoa—what are you doing?” I asked, eyes wide.

He wasn’t supposed to cuff me. People were already staring. That would just make it worse.

“We’re taking you to the station. If you want to make things easier, get in the car.”

He opened the door.

“But this isn’t how it usually goes. I mean—” I hesitated, confused.

The officer cut me off.

“One can only get so many second chances, miss. It’s time you’re dealt with properly.”

His words stunned me. And when I heard the metallic clink of the cuffs in his hand, I quickly slid into the seat. My anger faded, replaced by something colder: fear.

Was I going to jail?

No. I was way too young for that. Right?

But what if they put me in juvie?

My palms started to sweat.

I didn’t like being home—except for the few months a year when Dad was actually around. My stepmother was loud, nosy, and never happy with me. She always hogged my time with Dad when he was home. I hated her.

The only good thing was that she worked at the hospital and was gone most of the day. I was happiest when I didn’t see her at all. But even then, I could still smell her in the house—her scrubs always reeked of that disgusting hospital smell.

We arrived at the station too quickly. Not surprising, considering how small the town was, but I still wasn’t ready.

The officer led me silently to the questioning room.

“Your mother will be here shortly,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“She’s not my mother,” I muttered, but he was already gone.

Left alone, the weight of what I’d done finally started to settle over me. Up until now, I’d only stolen chocolate bars and candy. Why, you ask? Because that witch wouldn’t let me have any. She kept ranting about sugar being unhealthy—until my dad said it was okay to ban it from my house.

Sure, he’d sneak me sweets from time to time, but it was rare. And even though she gave me lunch money, she always asked for the receipt. Her yelling wasn’t worth it—so I stole instead.

The first time, adrenaline rushed through me like wildfire. I felt guilty… but also more alive than ever. It was bad. It was good. It was mine. So I did it again the next day, even though I didn’t even want the candy.

Eventually, the rush faded. No one cared about a missing bubblegum or ice cream. I got sloppy. Got caught. The cashier called the witch directly, and we handled it without the police. Maybe it would’ve been better if they had been involved—at least then she’d have to pretend to be a decent parent.

As if summoned by my thoughts, the door slammed open.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed.

So much for pretending.

She was still in her work clothes. I guess this didn’t rate high enough to bother changing. I stayed quiet, hoping they’d see how she really was.

An officer entered behind her, holding some papers. I let her answer their questions, correcting her here and there when she got my info wrong. Of course she didn’t know anything about me. She was nobody. Just a parasite in my dad’s life.

The officer didn’t love my tone, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered now was the verdict—how would I be punished?

After what felt like hours of questioning—about my “accomplices” and my motives—we finally got there.

“So,” I asked, trying to sound calm, “what’s it gonna be? Are you sending me to juvie?”

“No,” the officer said.

Relief crashed through me.

“Your mother already paid—”

“I ALREADY TOLD YOU, SHE’S NOT MY MOTHER!” I shot to my feet, voice shaking with rage.

“MARINA, THAT IS ENOUGH!” the witch yelled back.

I sat down, but not because I was scared. Okay—maybe a little.

The officer eyed us both, then continued. “Aside from covering the damages, you’ll be doing community service. Starting next week.”

So I wasn’t off the hook after all. Still… better than juvie.

“So where exactly will I do it?”

This time, she answered.

“Since I obviously need to keep an eye on you twenty-four-seven, you’ll be doing it at my workplace.”

Wait—what?

“You’re joking.”

But I knew better. She didn’t have a single funny bone in her body.

I turned to the officer. “Please. I’ll do anything else. I’ll make you coffee. I’ll clean garbage off the street. Please.”

He shook his head. “Terms are already settled. You’ll volunteer at the hospital. Seventy hours total. Maximum of two hours per day.”

Seventy hours?

Two hours a day?

Even thirty minutes in that place sounded like torture. If I only did one hour per day, it would take seventy days. Seventy. That was more than two months.

Suddenly, juvie didn’t sound so bad after all.

The officer kept talking. “Your... stepmother will sign off each day. You’ll be responsible for tracking your hours.”

At least he remembered not to call her my mom.

“You call it volunteering,” I hissed, “but it’s anything but that.”

He ignored me. “You’re both free to go.”