Fake It Till You Ace It

The sound of the sirens hit Iverson's ears like a bucket of ice water. The murderous rage vanished from his eyes in an instant. The cold, calculating genius took over. He immediately let go of the metal pole. It clanged loudly against the concrete. Rocco collapsed forward, coughing and gasping for air, clutching his broken wrist. Iverson stepped back. He reached up and violently dragged his hands through his hair, messing it up completely. He grabbed the collar of his hoodie and yanked it hard, stretching the fabric so it hung off his shoulder. He forced his breathing to become shallow and rapid. He shrank his posture, pulling his shoulders forward to make himself look smaller, weaker. "Police! Nobody move! Put your hands in the air!" Three uniformed officers burst through the fire door, their service weapons drawn and pointed down the hallway. Iverson immediately threw his hands up. He pressed his back against the wall and began to shake. It wasn't a fake shake; he forced his muscles to tremble by hyperventilating slightly. He looked exactly like a terrified teenager who had just survived a nightmare. Rocco rolled onto his side, pointing a shaking, bloody finger at Iverson. "He's a psycho! He tried to kill us! Arrest him!" The lead officer lowered his gun slightly, his eyes scanning the carnage. Four massive, tattooed gang members were bleeding and groaning on the floor. In the corner stood a skinny teenager in a baggy hoodie, shaking like a leaf. The officer's eyes narrowed in confusion. The math didn't add up. Two officers stepped forward. They grabbed Iverson by the shoulders, spun him around, and slammed him face-first into the cinderblock wall. It was rough, but Iverson didn't resist. He let his body go completely limp. The cold metal of handcuffs snapped tightly around his wrists, biting into his skin. He complied perfectly as they patted him down. Behind him, another officer kicked Rocco's dropped butterfly knife away from the blood puddle. "We got a weapon here. Looks like the victim's." They dragged Iverson out of the building and shoved him into the back of a police cruiser. The heavy door slammed shut, sealing him inside the cage. The red and blue lights flashed rhythmically across his face. He leaned his head against the hard plastic seat and closed his eyes. Miles away, the air smelled of fresh-cut grass and expensive perfume. The Country Club was bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. Adelina O'Neal sat on the terrace, wearing a pristine, tailored Chanel suit. She held a delicate porcelain teacup, her posture impossibly straight. Across the table sat Beatrice, a woman whose face was pulled tight from three different surgeries. "I heard the news about Brandon," Beatrice smiled, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "An Ivy League recommendation letter already? You must be so proud of your stepson, Adelina." Adelina returned the smile, a perfect, practiced curve of her lips. "Brandon is exceptionally driven. The O'Neal family expects nothing less." Her private cell phone vibrated violently against the glass table. She glanced at the screen. It was an unknown landline number. "Excuse me for a moment," Adelina said gracefully. She stood up, walked to the edge of the terrace, and answered the call. "Hello?" "Is this Adelina O'Neal?" The voice on the other end was bored and cynical. "This is the Blackwater District Police Precinct. We have your son, Iverson Sharp, in custody. He was involved in a violent altercation." Adelina's perfect smile shattered. Her stomach plummeted. A hot wave of pure humiliation washed over her. Her fingers gripped the phone so tightly her manicured nails dug into her palm. Again. He is doing this to me again. She felt the eyes of the country club women burning into her back. The Rust Belt. The police. The violence. Iverson was a walking reminder of the trashy life she had fought so hard to escape. "I will be there shortly," Adelina hissed through her teeth. She hung up the phone. She took a deep breath, smoothing down the non-existent wrinkles on her skirt. She walked back to the table. "I am so sorry, Beatrice. A minor emergency at the estate requires my attention." She walked out of the club, the heels of her Louboutins clicking furiously against the stone path. Her driver, Hector, was standing by the black Maybach. He saw her face and immediately opened the rear door. Adelina slid into the leather seat. "Blackwater Precinct. Drive fast." The Maybach glided out of the wealthy suburbs. The scenery outside the tinted windows slowly shifted from manicured lawns to broken pavement and graffiti. Adelina stared out the window, her chest tight with rage. She pulled a gold compact mirror from her purse and reapplied her red lipstick. Her hand was shaking. She would not let those low-class police officers see her sweat. The luxurious Maybach pulled up to the curb, parking directly in front of the crumbling brick building of the Blackwater Police Precinct. The contrast was sickening. Adelina snapped her compact shut. She was ready for war.