Chelsea was wrong about the location. Chris isn’t serving hard time in prison. Not yet anyway. However, she wasn’t wrong about the police picking him up. I pull into the Aurora police department and double check that I’ve got my wallet, keys and phone in my bag before I summon the courage to leave my car.

The officer on the phone wouldn’t discuss what he’d been picked up for with me, she only instructed me to come down and get him. From her tone, I could tell that she probably thought I was some kind of stereotype. Just another black woman picking her son up from the cops. I can’t help but wonder if my son wasn’t black if I’d still be coming down here. I guess I’m about to find out what Chris did that was so terrible that they’re holding a nine-year-old in custody. Part of me is already boiling up with indignant outrage, but another part keeps whispering: what if this isn’t about the color of his hands, but whatever he did with them?

I nervously open the large double doors leading into the building and walk over to the Admissions Officer. She looks unimpressed as I make my way over to her station, greeting me with an arched eyebrow.

“Hi, I’m Chris Brickman’s mother. I’m here to pick him up, please.” I hold my purse strap on my shoulder to give my hands something to do.

The officer settles her blue eyes on me and her pale lips turn down. “I figured.” She types something into the computer and then picks up her phone without uttering another word to me.

“Hey, yes, Ms. Brickman has showed up to pick up her boy. Ok, thanks.” She drops the cradle back on the phone and keeps typing on her computer, without giving me another glance. “You can take a seat, Lieutenant Rogers will be out here in a sec,” she waves her painted nails in the general direction of the chairs against the wall behind me.

I turn around and cross the floor. If this lady is any indication of what the cops are like at this station, then maybe my theory on why Chris got picked up is right. Before I make it to the tired looking light blue seats under the window the door to the hallway opens.

Standing in the doorway is a thirty-something, black man with a shaved head and a strong jaw. He smiles at me, “Ms. Brickman? Come with me, please. Down this way,” he guides me.

Maybe not.

Officer Rogers holds the door for me as I pass through, closing it carefully behind him. “Right this way,” he holds out his hand like a signpost. “Now, Chris is sitting with my partner right now in another office,” he walks slightly ahead of me and opens another door for me. This one leads into a small office decorated with little more than a desk and chairs. “But, before you go get him, I wanted to have a chance to talk to you about what happened today in private.” Again, he holds his hand out, guiding me to a seat at the desk.

“Sure, ah, is he alright? I’m not even clear on what happened today.” I ease back into the chair and watch Lieutenant Rogers as he sits down. He looks so relaxed, leaning back in his chair with his hands draped off the arms, I can feel my own anxieties melting away a little.

“Oh, he’s fine. Not a scratch on him, don’t worry about that. Now I can see that you’ve rushed over here from work,” he nods at my exercise gear, “so I won’t take up too much of your time. The reason Chris got detained today is because he and his friends decided to skip school today and vandalize the 7-11 on Havana street.”

I don’t tell him that Chris wasn’t skipping class because he was already expelled. I don’t think that will help anything.

“What did they do?” I cling to hope that “vandalism” means the same thing to this officer as it did to Chris’s principal. Does my son just have a strange obsession with cherry bombing public restrooms?

“They swarmed the store at around 10:50 this morning, Chris and seven other boys, and they started ripping juices and milk out of the back fridges, smashing them on the floor. Chris ran down the aisle and cleared the racks of chips and junk, sweeping it all onto the floor. Then, when the other boys started to run off, Chris knocked over a newspaper rack into the store window, shattering it.”

Okay, so not cherry bombs then. Holy shit. What is going on with him. I open my mouth, but my throat is a desert so all I can do is make a strange clicking sound.

Officer Rogers looks at me with sympathetic brown eyes, “I can see you’re upset. This is probably a lot to take in. The thing is though, we caught all of the boys and questioned them here. It seemed pretty clear that Chris wasn’t just following the crowd on this one, Ms. Brickman. From what we’ve gathered, this little operation was his idea and the other guys were following him. Even the store clerk mentioned that it was your son who broke the most stuff and then also took it upon himself to take out the window too.”

I try to imagine Chris being so violent. Not only heading down a path of self-destruction, but leading the pack. Instead, all I can think of is how only two years ago I had a sweet seven-year-old who still told me he loved me when I tucked him in at night. Now, I apparently have a nine-year-old delinquent going on twenty. More like, gonna get locked up for twenty, if I can’t get him straightened out.

“I don’t know what to say. This is, well, I knew he was getting out of control, but this is shocking.” Tears build up in the corners of my eyes and blur my vision. I don’t want to break down right now, but my throat burns as I struggle to keep them from falling.

“I can see that,” the Lieutenant lifts a tissue from his Kleenex box on the desktop and hands it to me. I dab my eyes, sniffling. “Chris mentioned that his father died last year when we were talking to him. It’s the only time he showed any emotions. I’d like to propose that Chris goes to a group therapy session in town here that’s specifically for boys who are tweens and teens who’ve lost a parent. I think that it might do him a world of good to learn to cope with his emotions constructively, and see that he’s not alone in grieving his loss.”

“Is that expensive? I mean, I’ll make it work, but I’m just not sure how …” my thoughts begin to spiral as I start calculating how much I have on my line of credit.

“No, it will be free. I’m going to contact the program co-ordinator and recommend Chris to the sessions like a community service program. That way it won’t cost you anything. Also, if you do agree to send him, I can use that as a deal to prevent the store owner from coming after you personally for damages.”

“Me? Oh my God, I definitely don’t have that kind of money.” The very idea of being tied up in legal litigations makes my head feel like it’s about to split open. “No, of course I do want him to go. Even if it wasn’t for the damages part. I just want him to get help.” Tears roll down my cheeks and I quickly raise my hand to soak them up with the tissue.

“I can see that, Ms. Brickman. I think you’ll find it will make a big difference. Chris is young and he’s troubled but he has a mother who truly cares about him. I think with this group therapy, you’ll see him turn around. He’s already got a lot more going for him than almost every one of those kids he was vandalizing that store with this morning.”

“Thank you, I do care,” my voice cracks. “He’s my world, I’ll do whatever it takes to get him back on track. I swear to you, before his father died, Chris would never have even thought of doing stuff like this. Never. All he wanted to do is play sports, video games and normal kid stuff. Now the only sport he gives a crap about, sorry,” I look up at him, but Officer Rogers just smiles back. “The only thing he still cares about is football, everything else is a wash. I just want my old kid back.” I choke on my words as tears form again, but this time I can’t hold them back. The dam breaks and a stream of sadness and worry flows down my face.

Lieutenant Rogers waits patiently for me to get myself back under control, handing me more tissues. Thankfully, after a few deep breaths, I manage to stop crying.

“Thank you,” I mumble from behind a handful of crumpled Kleenex.

“Certainly,” he answers with a friendly smile. “If you’re ok, I can take you to the other office to pick up Chris now?” He doesn’t stand up or try to rush me out of his office, even though I’m sure he has other things to do today. Instead, he waits for me to answer.

“Yes, thank you. I’d like to take him home now.” I blow my nose and throw the tissues in the trash bin at the side of the desk.

“Great, ok, follow me. And remember, Ms. Brickman, your son is clearly dealing with a lot right now, but your little boy is still in there. Don’t give up on him, take him to those sessions, I think you’ll find the kid you miss before long.” He looks at me softly and I swallow the lump in my throat before it has a chance to rise and spill over into another bout of crying.

“Thank you, Officer. I will.”

“And you are going to march into your grandmother’s house and apologize to her and your aunt for what you’ve put everyone through today. Do you understand me, Christopher?”

He shrugs without breaking his stare out the passenger window. The tears I spilled in the Lieutenant’s office a few hours ago have long since been steamed away by my anger.

After spending the better part of my day at the police station, filling out forms for my son’s upcoming group sessions and to get him released into my custody, I’m kinda over the crying thing.

I pull the car into my mother’s driveway and throw the car in park. Chris doesn’t move, still staring out his window.

“Let’s go, young man! Now!” I bark at him, but he moves with sloth like speed to unfasten his seatbelt.

“Whatever.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I know he’s testing me. I have no idea why, but it’s clear as day that he is. Instead of giving him the reaction he’s clearly searching for, I just leave the car and wait outside the door. I send a silent prayer up to God to give me the strength I need to deal with my boy.

Chris reluctantly joins me as I walk up the short path to my mother’s front door. Before I have a chance to grab the handle, the door flies open with my sister, Chelsea standing in the doorway.

“Oh my goodness! Ma! It’s Chris and Lauren. Are you alright, Chris? What happened, Lauren? I’m so glad you’re home!” she rambles, blocking our entrance to the house.

“Everything is sorted out, for now. You wanna let us in?” I gently remind her to get out of the way. Chris, on the other hand, pushes past his aunt like a linebacker.

“Chris! Apologize to Chelsea right now. You don’t push her around.”

“Sorry,” he rolls his eyes. I can feel heat rising up the back of my neck as I try to keep the flames of my temper extinguished.

My mother walks into the living room with us, with worry etched on her mahogany face. “Oh, Christopher! I’m so glad you’re back. You gave me a real scare today. What were you thinking?”

Chris just shrugs, refusing to look any of us in the eyes.

“Apparently he was thinking that him and his friends should go trash a 7-11 for fun and the cops picked him up. They told me that if it wasn’t for the minimum age for delinquency charges in Colorado being ten, Chris would be looking at real charges right now. Luckily, they made us a deal so I won’t have to pay for the damages he caused, like smashing out a window,” my mother and sister gasp.

“Christopher!” Mom interrupts.

“Yeah, so if he goes to a group therapy thing in town, the police are going to kindly let it drop.”

“Wow, Hun, what’s going on in there?” Chelsea rubs his head affectionately.

“Leave me alone,” Chris shoves her hand off his head.

“Christopher! Apologize right now.” I barely grit the words through my teeth.

Chris sighs exaggeratedly, “Sorry. I’m soooo sorry. Sorry for being alive, ok? Is that what you want? Can you stop being such a bitch now?”

Rage prickles my skin and my mind flashes red. My open hand swats him on the back of the head and everyone stares in silence. I’ve never hit my son before. Never. It’s the one thing I’ve never done.

“I hate you!” Chris’s voice cracks and he flees the front door and stomps down the sidewalk to the car. The passenger door slams and I burst into tears.

“Hey, it’s ok. I would’ve smacked him too with that mouth. He’ll come around, don’t beat yourself up,” my mother wraps her arms around me and I cry into her shoulder.

I don’t know what to do. It’s like everyday that passes is just pushing more distance between me and my son. I don’t even know him anymore.

I’m losing him.