I thrust myself into the crowd, using my forearms to move people aside. “Step away! Now!”
A teenage boy with slumped shoulders and a raw-looking outbreak of acne on his cheeks glances at me and takes a step back. Another boy is so caught up in the fight, he doesn’t notice my approach and repeatedly jabs the air with his fist, chanting, “Beat that bitch!” A black-haired girl wearing a purple halter top that’s far too small for her bustline lands a kick at one of the fighters. “Break her face, you fuckin’ ho!”
I elbow past two boys not much bigger than I am, and I get my first unobstructed look at the epicenter of the chaos. Two teenage girls are going at it with the no-holds-barred frenzy of veteran barroom brawlers. Hands grapple with clothes and hair. Nails slash at faces. I hear animalistic grunts, the sound of ripping fabric, and the wet-meat slap of fists connecting with flesh.
“Get off me, bitch!”
I bend, slam my hands down on the shoulders of the girl on top. “Police,” I say. “Stop fighting.”
She’s a big-boned girl and outweighs me by about twenty pounds. Moving her is like trying to peel a starving lion off a fresh kill. When she doesn’t acquiesce, I dig my fingers into her collarbone, put some muscle into it, and haul her back. “Stop resisting!”
“Get off me!” Blinded by rage, the girl tries to shake off my hands. “I’m going to kill this bitch!”
“Not on my watch.” I put my body weight into the effort and yank her back hard. Her shirt tears beneath my hands. She reels backward and lands on her butt at my feet. She tries to get her legs under her, but I press her down.
“Calm down.” I give her a shake to let her know I’m serious.
Ignoring me, she crab-walks forward and lashes out at the other girl with her foot, trying to get in a final kick. I wrap my hands around her bicep and drag her back several feet. “That’s enough! Now cut it out.”
“She started it!” she screams.
Concerned that I’m going to lose control of the situation before backup arrives, I point at the most sane-looking bystander I can find, a thin boy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “You.”
He looks over his shoulder. “Me?”
“I’m not talking to your invisible friend.” I motion to the second fighter, who’s sitting on the ground with her legs splayed in front of her, her hair hanging in her face. “Take her to the other side of the bridge and wait for me.”
I’m about to yell at him, when a girl with a pierced eyebrow steps forward. “I’ll do it.” Bending, she sets her hands on the other girl’s shoulder. “Hey. Come on.”
I turn my attention to the girl at my feet. She’s glaring at me with a belligerent expression, breathing as if she’s just come off a triathlon. A drop of mascara-tinged sweat dangles from the tip of her nose and her cheeks glow as if with sunburn. For an instant, I find myself hoping she’ll take her best shot, so I can wipe all that bad attitude off her face. Then I remind myself that teenagers are the only segment of the population entitled to temporary bouts of stupidity.
“If I were you,” I say quietly, “I’d think real hard about what you do next.”
I look around, gauging the crowd. They’re still agitated, a little too close for comfort, and restless in a way I don’t like, especially when I’m outnumbered twenty to one. Keeping my hand on the girl’s shoulder, I straighten and make eye contact with a few of them. “You have thirty seconds to clear out, or I’m going to start arresting people and calling parents.”
When they begin to disburse, I glance at the girl. She’s eyeballing her friends, gesturing, sending them nonverbal messages teenager-style, and I realize she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
She gives me an “Eat shit” look. But she’s smart enough to know this is one standoff she’s not going to win. “Angi McClanahan.”
“You got ID on you?”
“No.”
I extend my hand to help her up, but she ignores it and jumps to her feet with the grace of a fallen figure skater going for the gold. She’s a pretty girl of about sixteen, with blond hair and blue eyes, freckles sprinkled over a turned-up nose. Her build is substantial, but she carries it well, the way young women do. The sleeve of her T-shirt hangs off her shoulder. I see scratch marks on her throat, another on the inside of her elbow. There’s blood on her jeans, but I don’t know where it came from.
“Are you injured?” I ask. “Do you need an ambulance?”
She gives me a withering look. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?”