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Okay. One more question, then I’m done.
    “Is that why you’re sitting off to the side?”
    “No, this is different. This is the heaviest shit you’ve ever known.”
    I’m about to go against my plan and ask him what that means when Tollevin leaps up onto the rock and yells, “PO-PO!”
    The what now?
    And like lightning, the candles are blown out and snatched up, the instruments are packed away, and the kids are running, like stampeding cows. One kid, a hardcore-looking punk rock chick, comes running backward past us. “Didn’tyoufuckinghearhimmanhesaidthepo-poareherefucking-RUN!LaterCasey!”
    Casey waves drunkenly. “Later, Ivy.”
    I spy two policemen wriggling their fat asses over the edge of the rock, grunting stuff about permits and big trouble. A couple of the punks and metal heads start throwing rocks and bottles, which isn’t helping. Suddenly there are two night-sticks in two chubby Irish hands, ready to beat some counter-culture ass. Randall shoots me a frantic look, nods, and bolts into the park.
    “Shit! Casey, c’mon!”
    Casey slowly gets up and nearly falls to the ground in the process. “Shit,” he says, giggling. “Fucking whiskey… ”
    One of the cops sees us and points to the other one. Two words come ringing out over the din that make my blood drop a couple degrees: “HEY, YOU!” I’ve never had a run-in with the cops before, and personally I don’t want to. Getting picked up downtown by my mom would suck. Even worse, I don’t want to start an argument with people who won’t listen, which is exactly what these two fat, badged, on-edge pieces of shit look like. If the venom breaks out, there would be less Partying without a Permit and more He Must Be on PCP. So I do the only thing I can think of: I hook one of Casey’s arms around my shoulder and we start running.
    I expect the cops to leave us be when we sprint away, but no dice. They’re on our asses from the moment we hightail it. Zigzagging, ducking through bushes, nothing works; I glance over my shoulder and they’re behind me, stumbling through the park and swearing under their breath. The 72nd Street stairs come into view, and I begin panicking, because our options are down to Riverside or the Trump Pier, both of which are gonna be packed on a Saturday—
    Something catches my eye. The venom twitches nervously, assuring me that it won’t work, that confrontation’s the only option. I swallow it down and go with the only glimmer of hope I have.
    I wheel Casey like a sack of potatoes under the picnic table by the park’s baseball diamond, and duck underneath it, squeezed in next to him, our breath quick and purposefully shallow.
    “So gentle,” he slurs.
    “Shut the fuck up,” I hiss.
    Through the opening between the bench and the table, I see the cops, their silhouettes distinguishable only by their cute little hats. They stop, the fatter of the two leaning over on his own knees, panting.
    “You see ’em? Did you see where they went?”
    Pant, pant. “I think”—pant, pant—“I think we lost ’em back”—pant, pant. Goddammit, just leave—“by the restrooms.”
    “Ah, shit.” The less fat one whips back and forth, hoping to catch a blur of frightened teenager, but no dice. “Unbelievable.”
    “Long.” Pant. “Coat.” Pant. “Couldn’t’a gone far.”
    “Fucking kids. Let’s head back, clean up.” The thinner one stalks back to the rock. The fatter one follows, gulping and gasping as he goes.
    A full minute after they disappear, I start breathing again. Casey and I duck out from under the picnic table. We somehow drag our carcasses up the stairs to the tunnel leading out to Riverside Drive. My brain is bobbing in a sea of adrenaline. I can barely hold the cigarette I jam into my face. The night air was never this refreshing before.
    Casey laughs like a terrified madman, head back, brow glistening. “I can’t believe…we…that was inten—” Before the word ends, his body lurches like it