Page 108 of Clinically Awkward

I stood there for a moment, staring at my phone. I looked at my pizza and then at the TV, where someone’s meringue was weeping.

“Same,” I said again as I sat back down to finish eating and watching my show.

Ninety minutes later, I found myself shivering in the cracked parking lot of the New Haven Police Station. The midnight air was thick with the scent of damp asphalt and distant fryer grease, and the security lights flickered like they were as fed up as I was. My hands were shoved deep into the pockets of my oversized hoodie, but that did nothing to stop the chill, or the regret creeping up my spine. I stared at the faint scuff marks on the pavement, questioning why I was dumb enough to answer my phone in the first place.

It was 11:47 PM, peak hour for bad decisions and I was sporting sweatpants, an ancient hoodie emblazoned with “World’s Okayest Auntie,” and the kind of simmering rage that could probably set off the police station’s metal detector as a battered Prius rolled in beside me. Winnie emerged, slamming her door with more force than necessary, her expression halfway between homicidal and “I need a nap.”

“So,” she called, raising an eyebrow, “did our favorite British disaster bite it yet, or do I still get a turn?”

I snorted and shook my head. The cold breeze nipped at my ankles. “Not yet, but I have a feeling the night’s young. You bring the shovel?”

“Left it in the trunk,” she muttered, glancing at the station doors. “And for the record, if he ever says, ‘I thought it would be fun’ again, I’m going for the knees first.”

We fell into step together, our shoes scraping against pebbles and the occasional fast-food wrapper. The streetlights overhead fizzed and buzzed above us, doing their best impression of Fitz’s brain on caffeine. “So,” I asked, voice low and conspiratorial, “on a scale of one to ten, how dead is Fitz? And can we count emotional scarring?”

Winnie didn’t miss a beat. “Fifteen. At least. I’m adding five points for every time he tries to justify it as ‘community service.’”

I grinned despite myself. “That’s generous. I was going to add double if he mentions the Queen.”

“If he does, I’ll make sure he’s singing ‘God Save the King’ in soprano after I’m done. Maybe some light dismemberment, just for educational purposes. Nothing fatal, promise.” She flashed a wicked grin as the two of us dissolved into quiet laughter, our breath hanging in the chilly air as we reached the door, and Winnie pulled it open before we stepped inside.

The New Haven Police Station smelled of stale coffee, industrial cleaner, and poor life choices. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A tired-looking officer sat behind a desk, looking like he had seen too much and cared too little.

And then I heard it. A voice.

A British voice. Coming from somewhere deeper in the building.

“—absolutely no excuse for poor hygiene, regardless of one’s circumstances. I don’t care if you’re homeless, incarcerated, or the bloody Prime Minister. Basic bodily maintenance is a human right. Soap exists. Deodorant exists. There’s simply no reason⁠—”

“Oh my God,” Winnie whispered.

“Is that?”

“Fitz,” we said in unison as we looked at each other, then we looked at the officer behind the desk. He looked back at us with the expression of a man who had lost all faith in humanity.

“Let me guess,” he said flatly. “You’re here for the British one.”

“Unfortunately,” Winnie said.

“And the other four idiots,” I added.

The officer sighed. “They’re in holding. Follow me.”

We followed him down a hallway, past several doors, until we reached a large room with benches and bars.

And there they were. All five of them.

Quinton looked exhausted and vaguely traumatized.

Gabriel sat with his head in his hands.

Nathan stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention.

Hayden looked like he had aged ten years in the last three hours.

And Fitz.

Fitz. Stood at the bars, gesticulating wildly at a disheveled man in the corner who looked like he had been living on the streets for at least a month. “And another thing,” he continued talking, “just because you’re experiencing temporary housing insecurity doesn’t mean you should abandon all sense of personal dignity. A little soap, a little water, perhaps a comb. These are not luxuries, my friend. These are necessities. I myself have been arrested. Unjustly, I might add, and I still managed to maintain my appearance. Look at me. Do I look like a man who’s let himself go? No. Because I have standards.”