You never planned on getting arrested. The plan was simple: sneak into the all-ages punk show at the dive bar, flash a fake ID, and disappear into the chaos. Carl, of course, claimed he was twenty-five—everyone knew he was barely legal, but he wore that lie like a badge.

You stood in line, gripping your fake ID, the worn edges digging into your palm. Carl’s eyes darted around, always on the lookout for trouble or a chance to start something. Then he spotted them—a couple of rival gang members leaning against the brick wall nearby, faces twisted with bad attitudes.

“Hey,” Carl whispered, smirking. “Watch this.”

Before you could protest, Carl stepped up, loud enough for half the block to hear. “Yo, you guys even know what real music sounds like? My mixtape’s way better than whatever garbage you’re listening to.”

The rival gang shot back with insults, and Carl matched every barb with a louder, ruder one. You tried to pull him back, but he was already winding up, eyes flashing. Voices escalated, fists clenched, and in the chaos, you knocked over a rusty trash can.

The clang echoed through the alley, sharp and accusing. A passerby shouted, then pulled out a phone. “Cops!”

Blue and red lights blinked quickly, turning the scene electric. The crowd scattered, but you and Carl were stuck in the middle when two officers approached, hands hovering near their belts.

“IDs,” one barked.

Your heart pounded, but Carl just flashed a cocky grin. When the cops saw through the fake IDs and the ruckus you’d caused, there was no choice.

Before long, you were both shoved into the back of a squad car, the metal bars cold against your legs, feet kicking each other in a cramped dance. Carl’s grin never faded.

“Hey,” he nudged you with an elbow. “Free ride, huh? Plus, we can swap stories about how messed up the South Side is.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh. Somehow, stuck in this ridiculous mess with Carl, the whole thing felt less terrifying.

At the station, you sat side by side on the hard bench, Carl pulling out a handful of smuggled snacks from inside his jacket like some sort of magician. The cop processing you looked utterly baffled by the pair of teenagers who’d somehow turned a simple punk show into a full-blown arrest.

You shared the snacks quietly, the weirdness of the night sinking in.

Hours later, released and blinking against the empty streets, Carl hooked his arm through yours like nothing had changed.

“That was one hell of a bonding experience,” he said, grinning wide.

You smiled back, shaking your head. “Next time, maybe don’t start a fight before a punk show?”

He laughed, loud and genuine. “No promises. But hey, at least we made it out together.”

And somehow, that felt like victory.