Read Online Tag Along by Tom Ryan - Free Book Online Page A

but that doesn’t stop Candace.
    â€œAnd people wonder why teenagers hate cops,” she says.
    â€œNah,” he says. “Nobody wonders about that. Everyone knows teenagers hate cops because cops are always keeping teenagers from doing dumb shit. It’s pretty straightforward. I’ve been around awhile. I might not be able to prove anything, but I promise you that if you give me any reason at all, I will have no problem making hay with it. I take vandalism very seriously.”
    â€œCome on,” I say, putting my hand on Candace’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”
    â€œYou should probably listen to your boyfriend, sweetheart. You guys go home and make some popcorn and stay out of trouble. By the way, you must really think I’m stupid if you think I’m buying that fake voice you’re using.”
    Candace makes a face at him but follows me to the truck and jumps into the passenger seat. She rolls down the window and sticks her head out. “Oh hey, officer ,” she says in her normal voice. “I’ve got some advice for you too. Don’t call girls sweetheart . It’s sexist, and it makes you sound like a pervert.”
    I pull away from the curb.
    â€œAsshole,” she mutters.
    â€œWhat should we do?” I ask as I circle out of the cul-de-sac. “I can’t leave my dad’s ladder back there—he’ll kick my ass.”
    Candace turns around and looks out the back window. “What the fuck? He’s still following us!”
    I check the rearview. She’s right; the cop is trailing close behind us. I turn onto one street, then another, and he follows me both times. He’s definitely sticking to me on purpose.
    â€œOkay,” says Candace. “This is starting to feel like creepy hillbilly shit. Doesn’t he have anything better to do?”
    â€œI doubt it,” I say. “There’s not a hell of a lot going on around here tonight. At least, not until prom is over. He’s just messing with us because he’s bored.”
    â€œStupid cops.”
    I pull onto the main drag, then into the parking lot at Bizzby’s. Sure enough, the cop pulls in and parks a few spots away from us. We look over and he grins and waves at us.
    â€œOh my god, what a jerk!” says Candace.
    â€œOkay, this is stupid,” I say. “We’re not going to shake him. I’m going to take the truck home and get my mom’s car. Then we’ll go back and get Andrea and Roemi. I’ll deal with the ladder later.”
    I pull out of the parking lot and the cop follows, creeping on my bumper all the way to my street. When I get to my house and pull into the driveway, he slows down and watches as we get out of the truck.
    Finally he drives away, with a brief honk and a wave.
    Candace gives him the finger. “ Hasta la vista , asshole!”
    My mom’s car isn’t in the driveway, and the door to the porch is locked. “I don’t know where they are,” I say as I unlock the door. I stand to the side and hold the door open for Candace. “Come on in.”

CANDACE
    You can tell a lot about someone by seeing where they live. Until that point, the only information you have to go on is the way a person dresses and talks, maybe the music they listen to. But being inside someone’s house, it’s intimate or something, like all of a sudden you have a whole new set of clues.
    I remember the first time I saw Rick’s apartment. He lived with his dad, who worked night shifts, so we would go there a lot. The first time he took me there, I remember noticing how dingy everything was. Not much furniture, dirty dishes in the sink, an overflowing ashtray in the middle of the coffee table. When he opened the fridge to grab us some beers, I noticed that there was almost no food. But it was his room that really caught me by surprise. The walls were covered with a giant graffiti mural in progress—he’d