Read Online Shot Girl by Karen E. Olson - Free Book Online Page A

short-sleeved button-down shirt with khakis—circled them, his camera hiding most of his face. He wasn’t kidding—he was going to get as many shots as he could and get the hell out of there to go to his next assignment.
    "These young people are from the projects," Shaw said softly. We were just out of earshot. "They’re all from broken homes; they’re barely making it through school; drugs and guns and sex are part of their lives. I hope through this project that I can show them there’s hope."
    Now, this is where my compassion should’ve kicked in. But with my experience covering the police beat, all I could see when I looked at them was a bunch of deadbeat kids who’d end up like their parents or in my police blotter, either dead or charged with some serious crimes. Even with Shaw’s charisma and example, the odds were stacked against them, and most probably couldn’t pull themselves out of the hole they were born in. But I was stuck with this, so I might as well try to get what I could.
    I made some sort of mmm sound to indicate that I understood, sort of like the smile-and-nod you give people when you’re not really paying attention to what they’re saying.
    Wesley was done by the time we reached the garden beds. He shook Shaw’s hand, thanked him, nodded at me, and went on his way. I wondered if a picture layout and captions could say a thousand words so I wouldn’t have to.
    Shaw introduced me to the kids, who gave me only half their attention. No curiosity on their part—the feeling was mutual. Somehow, that made me feel better. I took out my notebook and started writing down everything Shaw was telling me about starting up the garden project, how he’d gone into the schools to find these kids—apparently they were handpicked by the administration—and what sorts of vegetables and flowers were being tended to.
    One of the most goddamn boring assignments I’d ever had. And that included the planning and zoning meetings I used to attend as a town reporter years ago. At least at those, someone was always ranting about some injustice—a development was being proposed on wet-lands or endangered birds would be driven out if a marina was expanded.
    I pretended to be interested and even peered closely at one boy’s plantings as Shaw helped a girl who broke a nail while weeding. Tough luck.
    One of the plants looked oddly familiar, and I glanced up at the boy, who wore an oversized T-shirt and jeans that hung precariously on his hips with a belt, showing off his boxers. His head was swathed in a do-rag, one of those things that made it look like he was wearing a pair of panty hose, the "legs" wrapped around, tied in the back, creating a tail. He had a smirk on his face, and I knew I was right. I looked around the garden bed and saw a couple more of the same plant.
    Jesus. This kid was growing pot.
    Now, I had to give him credit. It was dispersed enough between legal plants that probably no one would notice. I wondered if it would show up in Wesley’s pictures. That could cause a stir.
    I opened my mouth, but the boy put his fingers to his lips as a smile stretched to his cheeks. He shook his head. "He don’t know," he whispered, cocking his head at Shaw.
    Yeah, right. And pigs fly, too.
    "Bet he does," I whispered back, like we were in third grade.
    "No, he doesn’t. It’s only over here. And every time he gets close, she"—and he indicated the girl with the broken nail, who was now leaning close enough to Shaw so her pert, teenage breast pressed against his arm—"distracts him."
    Shaw’s face was close to the girl’s, and the sun illuminated a slight drop of moisture above his upper lip under his nose.
    "What about the rangers? Don’t they know?"
    The kid chuckled. "Shit, they leave us alone. The Rev, well, he’s got some power."
    I still didn’t believe that Shaw didn’t know about the plants, but I did the smile-and-nod thing—I was getting damn good at it—and with one hand pulled my hair