The Year I Almost Drowned - By Shannon McCrimmon Page 0,2

own idea about the club and concluded it was some secret society where people wore black cloaks and stood around a blazing fire during a full moon chanting crazy things that didn’t make any sense. It was just odd to me, that the club’s headquarters were nowhere near town. Nana had given me directions, but I still found myself lost out in the country. The roads were unfamiliar, and I had a bad sense of direction anyway. I hadn’t had enough experience driving on the terrible roads in Graceville. Most of them were unmarked and those that were marked turned into another road right in the middle of the road you were driving on.

I held the piece of paper with Nana’s directions. I glimpsed at it again, trying to decipher exactly where I was and then looked back again at the road. All ahead of me were acres and acres of peach orchards. There wasn’t a house, a building, or any other sign of civilization within sight.

The sound of a police siren blared from behind me. I looked in my rear view mirror and saw flashes of blue and red whirling in a circular motion. My heart thumped wildly and my sweaty hands gripped tightly onto the steering wheel. I’d never been pulled over by the police. Not once. Not ever. I glanced in the rear view mirror again and saw that it was Cookie, one of Graceville’s oldest police officers, shuffling my way.

Everyone called him “Cookie” because he sputtered things out that sounded like they had been stolen from a Chinese fortune cookie. Cookie was a Graceville institution of sorts and probably should have retired years ago, but since Graceville’s crime rate was dismal, he was able to keep his job on the force. He and my grandfather had met in elementary school and had been friends ever since. They played bingo together, and Cookie was a regular in the diner. I liked Cookie even if he did say strange, philosophical things that didn’t seem relevant to the discussion. He was a kind, trusting man and probably should have chosen another line of work.

I felt a sense of relief seeing that it was him coming my way. I knew if he was pulling me over, once he saw it was me, he’d give me a warning for whatever it was that I did and tell me to go on about my business.

The relief was short lived. I peered into the rear view mirror one more time and saw another police officer approaching my car. This one was well-built, tall, and much, much younger than Cookie. I didn’t recognize him. My heart started to beat a mile a minute.

Cookie peered down in my window and motioned for me to roll it down. “Hi, Finn,” he said. He spoke slowly and enunciated every single syllable with a long southern drawl. A toothpick hung out of the corner of his mouth. Cookie was very thin and appeared older than he really was. Lines and creases inundated his face, his skin loose and sagging. His white mustache covered his thin upper lip. There was very little hair left on his small oval shaped head. “Confucius once said ‘Be slow in your words and earnest in your conduct,’ Finn.”

Whatever that meant, I’m not sure. I had to keep myself from rolling my eyes at him. The other police officer lowered his head to the window, his caramel-colored eyes met mine. A subtle five o’clock shadow showed on his youthful face. He was a little older than I thought, maybe in his mid twenties. Golden streaks blended in his short light brown hair. “License and registration, please,” he said in an authoritative tone.

My hands subtly shook. “What did I do?” I asked Cookie. I pulled my license and registration out of my purse and almost dropped them before handing them to Cookie.

“You were speeding and you ran a stop sign,” the stranger answered.

“I was?” I said in a surprised tone, still looking at Cookie.

Cookie nodded his head and frowned.

The stranger studied my license and said “You were going twenty miles over the speed limit. It’s thirty-five, Miss Hemmings,” he said, making direct eye contact with me, “not fifty-five.”

“I didn’t see a stop sign and I thought the speed limit was fifty-five,” I protested. I know it’s not prudent to be argumentative with a police officer, especially when he is holding a stack of tickets and a ball point pen in his hand, but I was