Infinite Repeat Read Free Page B

herself, as if she were the reason I was such a giant screwup.
    Parents, always trying to take the credit for everything.
    “Look,” I started, trying to sound extra remorseful. “What if I walk away and promise never to come back?”
    “It’s a little late for that,” the woman cop said.
    “I’ll pay for it. Or clean it myself,” I said. I hated the thought of erasing what I’d done, but I hated the thought of my mom crying behind her closed bedroom door even more.
    Off to the side, I could see the boots of the TSA agent pacing back and forth in front of me as he talked to someone on his phone. He was using words like suspect apprehended and terror threat mitigated .
    “I think you mean contained,” I said helpfully. “Mitigated just means lessened.” It was stupid to be smarting off, but I didn’t appreciate the guy talking about me like I’d been skulking around the airport with a backpack full of plastic explosives.
    The TSA agent ignored me.
    The lady cop bent down on one knee. “I’ll never understand tagging,” she said. “What is it that makes it worth the possibility of getting thrown in jail?”
    Maybe if I told her the truth she’d take pity on me and let me off with a warning. “It’s the logo for my dad’s band. He died. This is how I keep him alive.”
    “Why here? Why not just go paint on canvas or something?”
    “My mom started selling his stuff the other day. His clothes, his amp, even his favorite guitar. Shit we kept around for five years, and suddenly she’s getting rid of it. I guess I needed to do something major to compensate.”
    “You should have picked a lower-profile place,” she said.
    Handcuffs glimmered in the night. So much for pity. Sighing, I laid my wrists on the small of my back.
    “I see you’re familiar with this procedure.”
    I didn’t answer. It sounded like a rhetorical question.
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Micah Foster.”
    The cuffs slid onto my wrists. One more thing I was familiar with. “What are we going to find when we run your information, Micah Foster?” The cop tightened the cuffs, but not so tight that they cut into my skin.
    “A couple of counts of vandalism,” I mumbled. “And trespassing.”
    The guy cop walked over and hauled me to my feet. I pitched forward and nearly face-planted for the second time that night, but the lady cop reached out and steadied me.
    “Repeat offender, huh?” she said. “Don’t expect to get off easy.”

Chapter 3
    I didn’t get off easy, either. I ended up spending six weeks in juvie. Every time my mom came to visit, her eyes were red from crying. I’ve never felt like a bigger douchebag. Well, except for maybe right now, when my baby sister is looking at me like I ran over her pet Pokémon.
    “Seriously, Trin,” I say. “No repeat of last year.”
    “So when I give you these keys, you’re not going to go tag something?”
    “Well, the part I wasn’t planning on repeating is the part where I got caught,” I joke, trying to lighten the moment.
    Trinity crosses her arms and huffs. “You’re not funny, Micah. This night is hard for me too, you know. Being without Dad sucks. Thinking about him dying sucks.” Her eyes water. “But do you have any idea what it did to Mom to see you in handcuffs? How can you even joke about doing that to her again?”
    I exhale hard, my shoulders slouching forward like I’m deflating. “Sorry.”
    Trinity softens. “I get it, you know. I freak out too sometimes. I want to . . . do whatever it takes to feel better.” She fiddles with a streak of bright green hair that’s coming loose from her left bun. “But isn’t there something that won’t get you arrested? I mean, can’t you just, I don’t know, bake something?”
    It’s not as ridiculous as it sounds. I sometimes throw myself into a new recipe when my brain starts to fill up with dark thoughts. Baking from scratch is a lot harder than people realize. When you’re cooking meat,