No Fixed Address

POLICE
POLICE
November 27, 12:05 a.m.
My leg jiggled up and down. I shifted from one bum cheek to the other. My palms felt damp and my heart was pounding. “I’ve never been interrogated before.”
“You’re not being interrogated, Felix. We’re just having a chat.”
“Are you going to record it?”
“Why would I do that?”
“It’s how they do it on TV.”
“We’re not on TV.”
The cold from the metal chair seeped through my pajama bottoms. “Do cops watch cop shows?”
“Of course.”
“But isn’t that like bringing your work home with you?”
Constable Lee smiled. Her teeth were very straight. My Powers of Observation, or P.O.O., told me that she came from a middle-class family, one that could afford an orthodontist. My P.O.O. also told me she enjoyed her food: the buttons on her uniform were strained to the max. “Not really,” she answered. “It’s escapism for us, too. And we get to shout at the TV if they do something totally bogus.”
“Like what?

“Like record this type of conversation. We only record a conversation if someone has been charged with a crime, or is a suspect in a crime.”
“Are you recording Astrid right now?”
“I can’t answer that.”
Oh boy. I hardly ever cry, but all of a sudden I thought I might burst into tears, right in front of a cop. I think she could tell, because she added, “I highly doubt it.”
I breathed in. I breathed out. I sat up straight. I tried to look calm and dignified even though I knew my blond curls were sticking out in all directions, because until everything went so terribly wrong I’d been in bed. Plus I was wearing my ancient Minions pajamas, which were juvenile and way too small. Constable Lee and her partner hadn’t given us time to change. “I’d like to call my lawyer,” I said.
“Let me guess you got that from TV, too.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a lawyer?”
“No. But legally I’m allowed one, right?”
“Except you don’t need one. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“So I could just leave?”
“I suppose. But where would you go?”
I thought about Dylan. And Winnie. Then I remembered that I’d told them I never wanted to see them again. “When will they be done talking to Astrid?”
“Soon, I’m sure.” She stared at me, clicking her pen, open, shut, open, shut. “Mind if I ask why you don’t call her Mom?”
“She says it’s too hierarchical.” I scanned the huge room, full of desks and a handful of people, for the hundredth time. For the hundredth time, I didn’t spot Astrid.
It’ll be okay, I thought-messaged her, because she’s always telling me she’ll receive anything I send her. I don’t believe that anymore, but under the circumstances, it was worth a shot. “For the record,” I said to Constable Lee, “Astrid is a great parent.”
“Good to know.” She tapped on her keyboard. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, okay?”