Author: Spring Writing Contest 2022

Pleading guilty to a state crime was one thing, but a federal crime? That was something else altogether.

First of all, the sheer amount of paperwork required by the feds was intimidating. Alice sat in the waiting room of the federal probation office with a stack of papers on her lap, waiting to be interviewed by a probation officer about the man she lived with, William Casey Battle. Billy had pleaded guilty to three counts of intent to distribute ten kilos of opioids and was being held in jail pending sentencing. The purpose of her interview was to talk with Agent Riley, who was preparing the presentencing report for the judge, about Billy’s character.

That was another thing about the feds—the probation officers were a far cry from the doughy, indifferent social workers who handled probation for the state courts. Federal probation officers were trim, neatly dressed FBI agents with close-cropped crew cuts and good posture. When Agent Riley introduced himself, Alice had straightened her shoulders, discretely sucked in her belly, and cursed herself for not wearing control-top pantyhose.

“S-swim team w-w-wasn’t m-my idea,” Stuart said, his voice muffled by pineapples and pink flamingos.

“Take that towel off your head,” Mom snapped, then she cleared her throat. “You’ll do great, honey.”

“Great,” Benny crowed. He reached over from his car seat and whacked Stuart’s arm with a slimy granola bar. Stuart shuddered and brushed off the crumbs.

“Sorry I can’t stay and watch, but I have to take Benny to visit his new school. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot when the meet is over.”

“O-k-kay.” The fewer people there to watch him the better. And no Mom meant no Benny crying or getting drool on his towel. Stuart gathered up his things and opened the car door.

“Have fun!” Mom called. “Be safe!”

Drip, drip, drip. Her eyes stuck to the laptop screen, flicking through the thirty browser tabs, trying to find the one with the good quote that was halfway down a page somewhere next to the weird graph . . . drip, drip, drip. How strange to hear a dripping sound inside? Oh, how she hated dripping sounds, and where the hell was the quote? And why did everything always. Have. To. Sound. So. Annoying? 

Oh shit.

Maggie slammed her laptop shut and stood up. The drips grew louder and faster behind her, morphing into a trickle as she turned around to face the kitchen.

David Livingston Parker was finally attempting to read his novel out on the balcony. But it was Friday night, which meant another Sol Vista at Bayside pool party with free tacos, Dos Equis beer, and steel drum music worming its way out of tinny speakers right into his ears. He fumbled for his AirPods to muffle the noise.

Today’s theme was “Welcome Summer,” but in Florida, there are only two seasons, rainy and dry, so how can you really tell? A nagging voice in his head urged him to go mingle. But it had been a long week and he was not keen on trying to juggle a mask, taco, and beer while making small talk at six paces. Or get into another discussion on mask etiquette. He’d spend another night alone, which was just . . . easier.