Chicky woulda clapped her other hand over the first, except it was still clutched around the ridiculous Saint Michael statue.
The cop. The cop. Had just reamed their racist asses out. And now he was smiling at Chicky, as tall boy turned progressively redder and camo boy tried to disappear into his hoodie, and it wasn't even an ugly you want some'a this? smile. It was a neighbourly, nice weather we're having, how's it going kind of smile.
She was in straight-up opposite world.
In that one dizzied moment, Chicky forgot that that the guy was a cop and she couldn't trust him, shouldn't trust him. In that moment, he was just a pure badass. He was the guy who'd walked in on three bullies in hundred-and-fifty-dollar Nikes kicking up shit over a seven-dollar bottle of cologne and who'd reduced them to a bunch of stammering boys.
She never meant to blurt it out. She knew the correct answer, like it was part of a script – no, sir, they're right, it was a misunderstanding – and she opened her mouth to recite it. But the truth, coiled frustrated in the base of her throat, saw the opportunity and sprang, too fast for better judgement, "They used some love-drawing cologne. It's not a tester bottle, I just asked 'em to pay for it. That's the truth."