Chapter 5

My alarm wakes me up with a jolt, and I blink really quickly, willing my memory to catch up. Do you ever wake up and it takes a good few moments to realize where you are, what day it is, and what you need to do? Personally, I always love it when I shriek with panic at the time on the clock, and rush into my clothes and am halfway through shoving both legs down the same pant-leg when I realize it's Saturday.

No such luck today though, but at least it's Friday, nonetheless. And—I wait for the thought to come zooming back to me—I'm doing my ride-along today after school. I stumble out of bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes, and it occurs to me that I haven't given something very important an ounce of thought: what to wear. I mean, really. What do you wear when you're chasing down hardened criminals, barking orders into your radio, and all of that other police business? Besides a uniform and duty belt and stuff, that is.

At this point in time, the much saner portion of my brain (as sane as it can be at seven-something o'clock in the morning) says "Now, Kylie. You're not going to be chasing down hardened criminals, barking orders into your radio, and doing all of that other police business. You're a civilian—and a minor at that—and you're working on a school project. GIVE IT A REST!"

And about…now, the other portion of my brain (the hyped up, excited, "slap 'em in irons" portion) says something to the effect of "Great. You just had to ruin it for me, didn't ya?" Then a mass amount of eye-poking and hair-pulling ensues.

Isn't life grand?

Whilst this admittedly asinine conversation is taking place in my head, I turn back to the situation at hand: getting dressed. I settle for jeans (you can't go wrong with jeans) and a t-shirt (you could easily go wrong with a t-shirt. I therefore—wisely, in my opinion—decide against anything in the logo, brand name, or scarlet woman-suggestive category and instead settle on a solid polo-type thing. I look professional, but not scholarly; put-together, but still casual enough for school.)

Once the tornado that is me getting ready blows over, I flounce into the kitchen where Holly is already up, making breakfast. From the dulcet tones issuing from the counter, I deduce that Holly inventing another kind of early-morning smoothie (she's been trying out new recipes ever since her last one gave us all the runs for two days).

While I'm saying my hello's and good morning's to Holly, my dad stumbles out from the hallway, and says what might be a "Good morning," but it's really difficult to tell as he's yawning at the same time.

"Hi Dad," I say, going over and kissing him on the cheek as well. Once the early morning greetings and whatnot have been observed, I focus my attention back to what Holly's doing. The blender has stopped and she's pouring out its thick, deep purple contents into three glasses.

"So what's in this one?" I ask as I pick up mine. I don't sip it—not yet—out of concern for my gastrointestinal tract. I notice out of the corner of my eye that my dad isn't exactly bottoms-upping his either.

"Nothing to worry about, I tried it yesterday. Lots of blueberries—antioxidants, you know."

At this point, I begin to tune out Holly the Health Nut's antioxidant anecdotes while I sip my smoothie. It isn't bad, either. The smoothie, that is—not that her anecdotes are bad, just a little on the dull side…

I'm distracted from my musings when I see Holly shooting my dad a Look across the table.

"Carlos…" she says, sounding very un-Hollyish. Her voice has a strangled sort of rasp to it, and she continues looking at him, then nods very pointedly at me.

"Right," he says, almost flustered. Puzzled at the exchange that just took place, I look eagerly at him when he turns to me.

"Okay, Kylie, we just wanted to talk to you about—what you might see today. I know you're not naïve or anything—" he adds hastily, upon seeing my look of indignation. "But you might see some things on the street that are a little bit—new to you."

Oh my God. Oh my God, I'm getting the Concerned Parents' Speech.

"So, look. I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you get into any trouble, you know I'm in Adam 55-3 and Holly's in Boy 55-3. And we have our cells, and you have yours." I nod. It seems the appropriate place to insert a nod.

"Well, uh—" I say, clearing my throat semi-awkwardly. I'm not entirely sure what just happened here. "I better get going, don't want to be late," I say significantly. "Love you both," I say as I get up and put my glass in the sink.

I grab my bag and hightail it outta there, properly excited about my upcoming "adventure." I mean, really, my dad made a big deal about it just now, and Holly talked to me about it last night. What's the worst that could happen?