She barks out a laugh. “Bishop Troyer is so lame!”
“Fighting is lame. Look at you. How could you disrespect yourself like this? You’re going to have a black eye.”
Looking only slightly chagrined, she lowers her voice. “I’m serious about leaving, Katie.”
Suddenly, I feel as if I’m tiptoeing through a minefield without the slightest idea where to step. “I’m not the person you should be discussing this with.”
“Why? Because you left?”
“Because I’m a cop, and I’m not going to discuss it. Do you understand?”
She holds my gaze. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t fit in. I’m drawn to all the things I shouldn’t be. Music and … art. I want to … read books and watch movies and see places I’ve never seen. I want to go to college and…”
“You can pursue all of those things without fighting and getting into trouble,” I tell her.
“I can’t do those things and remain Amish.”
“You’re too young to be making such an important decision.”
“I hate being Amish.”
“You don’t know what you want.”
“I know exactly what I want!” she retorts. “I’m going to design clothes. English clothes. For women. I know that sounds like some stupid pipe dream. Or according to my datt: devilment.” She does a decent impersonation of her father. “He doesn’t get me, Katie. I’m so good with the needle and thread. Just ask Mamm. She knows I could make a go of it. Only she won’t admit it.”
She motions at the tank she’s wearing. “I made this! Look at it. It’s beautiful, but Mamm won’t let me wear it. She won’t even let me sell it at the Carriage Stop. She says it’s got too much ornamentation and that it’s prideful.”
The words tumble out of her in a rush, too fast and falling over one another, as if she’s been holding them inside and some invisible dam has burst. I recall a vague memory from a couple of months ago: My sister, Sarah, telling me about this girl’s needlework. I hadn’t paid much attention at the time; my sister and I have been dealing with our own issues. But Sarah had gone on about Sadie’s talent. How she’d already sold a dozen quilts at one of the tourist shops in town and customers couldn’t seem to get enough. There’s a part of me that hates the idea of snuffing out that kind of passion. Too many people slog through their lives without it. It is a view, of course, that would not be welcomed by the Amish.
“So are you going to take me to jail?” she asks, looking a little too excited by the prospect.
“I’m going to take you home.”
Sighing as if jail is the better option, Sadie reaches into her pocket, pulls a brown cigarette from a pack, and lights up. I can tell by the way she does it, she’s not a smoker.
“Put that out,” I tell her.
“Why, Katie? You smoke. I saw you. At the graebhoff. Why can’t I?”
“Because you’re fifteen and it’s illegal.” I snatch the cigarette from her and toss it out the window.
She stares at me with clear, watchful eyes that don’t miss a beat. It’s strange, but I find myself feeling self-conscious because, for some crazy reason, this girl looks up to me. She’s learning things she probably shouldn’t, wanting things that, if she remains Amish, she won’t ever possess. It’s a recipe for heartache, and I want no part of it.
“I don’t want to go home,” she tells me.
“Here’s a news flash for you, Sadie. You don’t always get what you want.” I glance over my shoulder. All but two of the kids have left. Glock is speaking with Angi McClanahan. She’s flirting with him, probably trying to get him to remove the cuffs. He jots something in his notebook, steadfastly unaffected.
“Stay put,” I tell Sadie. “I’ll be right back.”
I start toward Glock. He glances up and meets me in the center of the bridge, so that we’re out of earshot of both girls. “What do you think?” I ask him.
Glock shakes his head. “Were we that dumb when we were teenagers?”
“Probably.”
He glances down at his notepad. “Apparently, the two girls were fighting over some guy. McClanahan made contact first. Other girl threw the first punch.”
“I’m so glad I’m not a teenager.”
“I’d kinda like to be the guy they were fighting over, though.”
We grin at each other.
“So who’re we taking to jail?” he asks.
“I’m going to let them off with a warning and have a chat with the parents.”
“Good call.” He nods his approval. “Fewer reports to write.”
“Will you drive McClanahan home? Talk with her folks?”
“Sure.”
I glance over at Sadie Miller and sigh. She’s leaning against the windowsill, her foot propped against the wall, smoking a clove cigarette, watching me. “I can’t believe kids still smoke those things,” I mutter.