It's so hard to express in so many words just how tedious and boring detention is, especially when that detention isn't even with any of my teachers. It's not like I've ever gotten detention before, so I don't really have, like, a scale to operate off of here, but this is definitely doing a great job of deterring me.
I'm not even getting punished. I totally expected to be forced to write a hundred sentences - "I will not karate flip security guards" - on the whiteboard, but instead I'm just sitting there, with a couple of other malcontents I've never met and will likely never talk to again, doing absolutely nothing.
Really, that's probably more punishing for someone like me. I wonder if they know that? Like, if everyone else here has ADHD and they just make all the ADHD kids sit still but all the other ones get, like, corporal punishment or something. No, probably not. That'd be like a dozen kinds of illegal… right?
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"Okay, so here's what I've got so far," Jordan says, spreading a sheaf of papers across the scarred surface of the old foldable poker table in the music hall, with playing cards forming a fine layer underneath. "Ridley's been written up half a dozen times for excessive force, but nothing ever seems to stick."
I lean in closer, scanning the documents with a furrowed brow. Disciplinary reports, eyewitness accounts, even a few blurry cell phone videos - it's a damning picture, one that paints Ridley as a man with a nasty temper and a penchant for violence. "Friends in high places, Jesus. How is this guy still employed?" I mutter, shaking my head in disbelief.
"Agents of the law protect their own," Jordan shrugs, a bitter twist to their lips. "Same way they always are," they sigh. "Circling the wagons. Swimming around like sharks in the water."
I nod slowly, my mind already racing ahead to our next move. "We need more," I decide, tapping a finger against my chin. "Something concrete, something that'll force the school to take action. Clearly, this stuff doesn't get them fired from whatever position they're in in the first place."
"In in?" Jordan asks.
"Shut up, you know what I mean,"
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The classroom is empty save for me and Mr. Heckerman, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of papers as he handles paperwork at his desk. I've been given the option of "sitting there" or "organizing the textbooks alphabetically by subject", a mind-numbing chore that seems specifically designed to sap my will to live.
As I work, my mind wanders back to the previous night's patrol. Jordan and I had split up to cover more ground, each of us tailing Ridley as he went about his evening routine.
Obviously, I feel weird about trailing people, even now. But I felt less weird about trailing a shithead security officer than I did about trailing my dead mentor, so clearly there's, like, levels here. Scales of weirdness. It wasn't much to go on, but it was a start. A thread to pull, a lead to follow. Suddenly, the prospect of spending my afternoons in this stuffy classroom doesn't seem quite so daunting.
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The streets are quiet, deserted save for the occasional passing car as Jordan and I trail our target from a distance. Ridley doesn't seem to notice us – or if he does, he gives no indication, his gait casual and unhurried as he makes his way down the sidewalk.
"You got eyes on him?" Jordan's text message pops up on my phone, little more than a burst of letters on the screen, a passing glance and then they're gone.
"Yeah, I'm about half a block back," I text back, keeping myself silent. "Headed east on Cambria, just crossed Trenton."
A pause, typing indicator. Stops. Starts again. Stops again. Then: "I think he's headed to that dive bar on Aramingo. Wild guess. Just a hunch."
I resist the urge to snort out loud at that. Of course the racist rent-a-cop with a hair-trigger temper would spend his evenings drinking in some sketchy hole-in-the-wall. It's almost too perfectly on-brand.
"Copy that," I confirm instead. "I'll hang back, you get a closer look. Call it if things get hairy."
A moment later, their slight form detaches itself from the shadows shrouding a nearby alleyway, dressed up only as a civilian examining the space rather than their more intimidating - and noticable - superheroic form. Then, they melt into another alley, disappearing from view with all the practiced ease of a professional spy.
All that's left is for me to wait – and try not to dwell too hard on the myriad ways this little investigation could potentially end up blowing up in our faces.
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Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The steady cadence of the clock is like a leadweight around my neck, each passing second weighing me down a little more. I slouch deeper into the uncomfortable desk, fingers drumming out a mindless rhythm against the scarred wood as I struggle to keep my mind from going completely numb.
Stolen story; please report.
Is this what it feels like to be slowly crushed beneath the inexorable march of time itself? Because if so, I think I'd almost prefer getting drop-kicked straight through the next batch of evil plans the Kingdom cooks up. At least then, there'd be some action, some forward momentum to propel me through the monotony.
As it stands, though, the only thing propelling me is an overpowering sense of restless boredom. I huff out a frustrated sigh, flopping back in my chair and allowing my eyes to drift lazily across the room.
Mr. Heckerman is watching me from his customary perch behind the teacher's desk, his expression a mask of disapproval so deeply carved it might as well have been chiseled from granite. I meet his gaze and hold it for a few defiant seconds, chin tilting upwards in a silent challenge.
Then, abruptly, I look away – turning my focus back towards the ticking clock as I try in vain to will the second hand to move just a little bit faster.
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"Okay, talk to me," I say without preamble as Jordan slips back through the ratty curtains separating the storage area from the main room. "What'd you find out?"
They shrug, one shoulder hitching upwards in a dismissive gesture. "Not a whole hell of a lot," they admit, dropping down to sit cross-legged amidst the cluttered detritus. "Your boy Ridley seems to be a real regular at that dive, though – the bartender knew him by name."
I frown, mulling that over. "So he's got ties to the area, at least," I muse. "Maybe some kind of… I don't know, illicit business interests or something?"
Jordan snorts at that, rolling their eyes skyward. "Unless his 'business interests' involve getting shitfaced on Yuengling and picking fights with other drunken assholes, then probably not," they counters. "From what I could gather, he's just your garden-variety raging alcoholic with a shitty day job and a mean streak a mile wide."
Well, that's… underwhelming, to say the least. I purse my lips, disappointment and frustration warring for dominance somewhere deep in my gut.
"So we've got jack shit, is what you're saying," I conclude flatly. "Wonderful."
Undeterred, Jordan shakes their head – a tiny, tight motion, but one filled with grim determination nonetheless.
"Not nothing," they insist, fixing me with that intense stare I've come to recognize as their 'Determined Face.' "We've got a lead, at least. A thread to start pulling on."
I raise my eyebrows at that, skepticism written plain across my features. Jordan just smirks, leaning back on their palms with a casual shrug.
"Hey, you want to crack this asshole's secrets wide open or not?"
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The clock mocks me, its insistent ticking filling my head like a relentless drumbeat. I glare at it balefully, counting down the seconds until the end of the period with all the intensity of a bomb technician tensed over a tangle of live wires.
Across the room, Mr. Heckerman clears his throat – a pointed noise clearly intended to remind me that my baleful glowering isn't going unnoticed. I straighten up in my seat with a huff, pretending to busy myself with the battered stack of texts arrayed across the desk in front of me.
It's a fruitless effort, though. No matter how hard I try to focus on the mindless drudgery of re-alphabetizing and re-shelving, my thoughts just keep spiraling back to the previous night's activities – trailing Ridley to that dive bar, the (lack of) revelations gleaned from Jordan's undercover op.
There's got to be something more to the guy, some crucial piece of the puzzle we're still missing. I just can't shake the feeling that if we can find it, if we can dig deep enough to uncover that one critical lead, then everything else will start unraveling like a ball of yarn kicked down a hill.
My pen taps out a percussive rhythm against the desktop, frustration and impatience beating a staccato cadence as my eyes drift back towards the clock. C'mon, I think, willing the second hand to move faster. Hurry up, damn you…
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"Well, well, well," Jordan murmurs, studying the grainy image on their laptop screen with a mix of satisfaction and thinly-veiled disgust. "What do we have here?"
I lean in closer to get a better look, my brow furrowing almost immediately. The picture – clearly screengrabbed from some kind of security or traffic cam footage – shows a slightly blurry, but still unmistakable figure emerging from the dingy doorway of what looks like… a bar? Maybe some kind of hole-in-the-wall watering hole, if the flickering neon signs are anything to go by.
It's the man himself, though, that has my gaze narrowing in recognition. Even filtered through the low-res graininess, there's no mistaking that hulking form, that shitty combover and ruddy, flushed complexion.
"Amazing. An alcoholic goes to a bar. What will you think of next time we go stalking someone, Jordan?" I ask, skeptically.
Jordan scowls, lips quirking into a thin, predatory smirk. "I promise, this is interesting. South Philly, just off the waterfront," they confirm. "Real classy little spot, too – the kind of dive where they wipe the urinal cakes on your glass instead of a towel."
"Why don't you tell me why this is important rather than about the bar itself?" I ask, folding my arms over my chest. "So far we've got a week full of nothing interesting in particular while this guy and his friends have been doing their best job to make me late for classes over and over again. Is there anything actionable here, or is this guy just a garden variety asshole?"
Jordan smiles. "Patty's? I mean, it's a little interesting."
"Is that what it's called?" I grumble. "Cool! Amazing!"
"Yeah. Remember how every other place was just a random bar that he liked to go to to cause himself liver damage? Up and down Aramingo we go?" Jordan asks, rhetorically.
"Get to the point, Jordan," I respond, my patience growing thin.
Jordan rolls their eyes at me. "It's a cop bar, you doofus."
"And what does this mean to me?" I challenge.
Jordan laughs. "Cops are inherently untrustworthy and are doing crimes constantly. But, even if they weren't…"
Connor peeks over the couch. "I'm listening."
"Go away, shrimp," Jordan waves him away with a hand before clicking over to the next tab on their browser screen. "This cop bar has a cape team."
"Ah," I mumble.
Jordan clicks to another tab. "A cape team with a noted record of drunkenly harassing civilians."
"Ah?" I ask.
Jordan clicks through the news site, and back onto their open traffic cam's connection. They point at the screen, and I recognize the vague, grainy-colored silhouettes of familiar faces and bodies. That high and tight bun of Officer Nguyen I'd recognize anywhere. "And every single mall cop that's been on your dick this week is a regular there."
"Ah." I say, with a bit of finality, nodding my head in agreement. Yes, I understand now.
Time to go pulling threads.