Juvie (9 page)

Forty feet down the long, gray hall, C. Miller says, “Halt.” I don’t stop fast enough, though — the way we’re marching, I think we’ll be going a lot farther — and so stumble into Bad Gina’s large friend. She keeps her arms behind her but shoves me back so hard with her hip that I actually fall down.

Next thing I know, Officer Killduff, who’s been trailing the line, is standing over me.

“Off the floor,” he snarls.

I scramble to my feet. Several of the girls in line laugh, or that’s what it looks like from behind: their shoulders shaking but no noise.

“Eyes down,” he barks at me before muttering into his radio. A door opens and we enter the classroom.

A heavy, bright-faced man, his seriously receding hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, stands behind a teacher’s desk, fanning himself with the front of his sweat-stained polo shirt, though it feels cold to me here, like everywhere else in juvie.

We sit around four long tables that have been shoved together to form a big one in the center of the room, surrounded by bookcases with stacks of musty textbooks and workbooks and old maps and boxes of who knows what. A whiteboard that doesn’t appear to have been properly cleaned since it was installed is mounted to the wall. There’s so much up there written on top of so much else that you can’t read a word.

Officer Killduff leaves. C. Miller stands next to the whiteboard, crosses her arms, and stares straight ahead. The teacher, a Mr. Pettigrew according to his ID badge, doesn’t say anything. He just hands out workbooks and big fat black markers. The girls bend over their workbooks, though Bad Gina’s large friend, who sits on one side of me, draws pictures of horses in hers. The Hispanic girl, two chairs away on the other side, just makes dots all over hers, giving each page a bad case of chicken pox.

Mr. Pettigrew plops down in the empty chair between me and the Hispanic girl and drums his fingers on a manila folder. Bad Gina’s large friend flips the horse page in her workbook and pretends to work on something else, though he doesn’t even glance over her way.

“Hello,” he says to me.

“Hi,” I say back.

“You’re Sadie.”

I nod. “I’m Sadie.”

“Junior? Mountain View High School?”

I nod again. “Junior. Mountain View.”

It’s his turn to nod. “Very good. Well. The older girls are working on GED prep. The younger girls are just doing lessons. We’ll get you started on GED prep.”

That catches me by surprise. “I was still planning on getting a regular diploma,” I say. I just assumed I would continue some version of my junior year while I was in juvie, and then start next fall back at my high school as a senior, sort of pretend nothing ever happened, as if I’d just transferred away for a while and then transferred back.

Mr. Pettigrew shrugs. “Whatever.” He tugs a bandanna out of his back pocket and drags it across his sweaty face, then hands me a workbook.

“This is yours,” Mr. Pettigrew says. “Language arts.”

“What else is there?” I ask.

“Social studies, science, reading, math,” he says. “You’ll also do your reading review in this class. You’ll do the others in your other classes. Let me know if you have any questions or if you need any help.”

He pushes his chair back and stands. “You do read, don’t you?”

I look up. He has three chins. “You mean books?”

“I mean do you
read
read?”

“Do I read at all?”

He nods. “Sixth-grade level?”

I say yes, I do know how to read at a sixth-grade level.

“And I’m getting a regular degree,” I say, not that he cares. “I’m graduating with my class next year.”

He shrugs again.

Once he leaves, Bad Gina’s large friend goes back to her drawing. My language-arts workbook turns out to be my reading-comprehension workbook instead, which makes me wonder if Mr. Pettigrew is the one with the reading problem. None of the other girls are talking, and all keep their heads bent over their workbooks, whether they’re drawing, sleeping, or actually working, so I do the same and spend the next half hour reading dry paragraphs on First Ladies, Machu Picchu, potatoes, Cambodian refugees, busy beavers, and how to hang the American flag.

At some point, halfway through the hour, the total quiet gives way to low conversations until just about all the girls are talking to whoever is sitting next to them — Bad Gina and her large friend on one side of me, Good Gina and Chantrelle next to them, with the middle-school girl occasionally whispering in, Wanda and Nell opposite from me at the far end of the table. The only ones not saying anything are the little Hispanic girl and me.

Officer C. Miller’s eyes droop shut, though she still stands in the same spot against the wall that she’s been at since we came in. Mr. Pettigrew sits at his desk nearby, his meaty hands working a cell phone or something else with a keypad and a tiny screen.

Bad Gina’s large friend raps on the table in front of her, then raises her hand.

Mr. Pettigrew looks up.

“Permission to use the bathroom,” the girl says in a much higher voice than I expect.

Mr. Pettigrew nods. C. Miller opens her eyes and nods, too, and Bad Gina’s large friend crosses the room to a small door I didn’t realize was even there next to the crowded bookcases.

Bad Gina raises her hand next.

“Permission to change seats by the new girl.”

“What for?” Mr. Pettigrew asks. All the other girls lift their heads to watch the exchange.

“She asked me to help her with something in her workbook.”

Mr. Pettigrew and C. Miller do their nodding thing again, and Bad Gina slides into the seat next to mine.

“So,” she says with a broad, toothy smile. “What did you need help with?” She grabs my workbook. “Oh, yeah. Here we go. This one is about the American flag. So what it says you do, to hang it the right way, is you send a million American soldiers to Iraq, stomp their Iraq asses, and then you get to hang up the American flag. So the right answer here is D, none of the above.”

“Got it,” I say, taking the workbook back. “Thanks for your help.”

She flashes another smile with her blindingly white teeth. The light actually seems to reflect off them. I feel like I need sunglasses to look at her.

She leans in closer and the smile vanishes. “I know you saw who took the spork last night. It was one of the Jellies, wasn’t it? Wanda Jelly. I know it was. Either that bitch or that bitch’s friend. But it had to be her. She was the closest.”

“I didn’t see anybody take anything,” I lie. I’m not about to get in the middle of whatever is going on between Bad Gina and the Jelly Sisters — any more than I already have, that is. “I just saw it when we were on the floor. Probably it just fell.”

“Then how did it end up ten feet away under the bookshelf?” she asks, somehow managing to sound sweet and vaguely threatening at the same time.

C. Miller stirs from the wall where she’s been sleeping standing up — or that’s how it appears. “Problem over there?” she asks.

Bad Gina’s blinding smile returns. “Sorry. Were we being too loud? We were just excited because the new girl figured out this problem in her workbook.”

C. Miller relaxes against the wall again. “Just keep it down. You know the rules.”

“Yes, sir,” Bad Gina says. I’m surprised C. Miller doesn’t get mad about Bad Gina calling her “sir.” Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to call all the guards, male or female. Maybe it’s just the way Bad Gina says it that makes it OK.

She slides my workbook back in front of her on the table and points at nothing in particular so it will look as if we’ve moved on to another problem. “So?” she says. “How did it end up there?”

“Are we still talking about the spork?” I ask.

“Yes, we’re still talking about the spork,” she says evenly, as if it takes some effort to keep the threatening tone out of her voice.

“I don’t know,” I say, lying again. “Maybe you dropped it. Maybe it accidentally got kicked there. I don’t know. I wasn’t on spork duty.”

Bad Gina glances at me sharply, just for a second, eyes like knives, but then softens just as quickly. She laughs softly, too. “You weren’t on spork duty. That’s a good one.”

It really isn’t a good one. It’s dumb. But I definitely prefer Bad Gina’s smile, and her laugh, to that other look she has — the knife eyes.

She lays a warm hand on my arm. “Sorry I kind of went off on you. It’s just really, really hard in here, and I know those Jelly Sisters are out to get me. I don’t even know why. They just are. They think they own the place, and I guess I don’t exactly like doing stuff just because somebody tells me I have to. We get enough of that from the guards, right?”

“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “I guess so.”

Bad Gina’s large friend comes back from the restroom then and sits where Bad Gina was sitting earlier.

Bad Gina doesn’t turn to look, just cocks her head in her friend’s direction. “This is Weeze,” she said. “Her real name is Louise, but everybody calls her Weeze.”

Weeze grins. “Just since I’ve been in here,” she says. Her teeth are the polar opposite of Bad Gina’s: crooked and stained. She has a broad nose that lists to one side of her face. I can’t see much of her eyes because she has a bowl cut and her bangs are too long.

Mr. Pettigrew stands up suddenly from his desk, as if he’s just remembered something important.

“Time,” he says.

And that’s the end of class.

The Jelly Sisters glare at me from their end of the table as we pass up our notebooks and fat markers.

“Watch out for them,” Bad Gina whispers. “Looks like you’re on their shit list now, too.”

And that’s pretty much how it goes for the next couple of days: boring classes, boring TV, boring meals in Styrofoam boxes, boring interminable nights in our green-walled cells with Cell Seven sobbing until everybody wants to kill her — until, just as suddenly as she starts, she stops.

Every night is a dark night of the soul, every morning a nervous awakening to this palpable tension between the Jelly Sisters and Bad Gina. The rest of us try to stay out of it, but that’s hard, especially for me, since Bad Gina seems to have decided we’re pals, and seeks me out so often to talk that I can tell Weeze is jealous, and so now I probably have to worry about her, too.

I decide it’s a bad idea to tell anybody too much of the truth about why I’m in — or about anything else — so when Bad Gina asks, I tell her I stole a car and shot my boyfriend. Bad Gina looks over at Good Gina and Chantrelle, then back at me.

“In the hand, right?” she asks sarcastically. “Like her?”

I shake my head. “I wish. It was just in the foot, though. I didn’t know the gun was loaded.”

She knows I’m lying, but I guess it’s a good enough lie, or a dumb enough lie, that she decides to let it go for now.

Officer Killduff and Officer Miller march us down to the gymnasium after classes on Thursday. Officer Killduff has been on me since Tuesday if I so much as think about an infraction of any of the juvie rules, and there seem to be rules for everything. C. Miller is a lot nicer, not that we actually talk or anything, but it’s obvious that she’s just trying to do her job and treat us like we’re actual human beings, which is a lot more than I can say for Officer Killduff or any of the other guards I’ve seen so far.

There’s a full basketball court in the gym, the ceiling so low that the rafters seem to barely clear the top of the backboards. A row of chairs is set up at the center line facing an open half-court, while various bins and equipment bags and torn, duct-taped tumbling mats litter the other half behind the chairs.

Officer Killduff grabs a couple of basketballs from a sack and tosses them to the open side of the court — the first time that’s happened. I scoop one up, happy for the first time all week, and launch a three-pointer. It has too much arc and nearly hits the rafters, then clangs off the rim. I have to chase the ball myself because the other girls mostly just stand around, waiting for orders or something. Chantrelle follows me over after a few minutes and takes a couple of weak shots that barely graze the backboard, then she and Good Gina break into a slow jog around the perimeter of the gym, in anticipation of what they know is coming next.

“Drop the balls and give me ten laps!” Officer Killduff barks. The rest of the girls groan and then plod after Chantrelle and Good Gina, more shuffling than running. I park both basketballs under the goal and quickly catch up. It’s hard running so slow, so I decide to pick it up a little.

“Slow down and run with us,” Good Gina calls after me.

“Can’t,” I say.

It feels good to stretch my legs and fill my lungs and let myself fly around the perimeter of the gym the way I’ve done thousands of times at thousands of basketball practices, and I pretty quickly catch up to the slow-moving herd of girls before they’re even halfway around the gym.

Bad Gina pretends she’s going to trip me as I run past. I slide around her in my juvie sandals, which don’t have much traction and make corners difficult.

Chantrelle calls after me this time as I pass them, though not so loud that the officers can hear: “Slow down, girl. You’re making everybody look bad.”

I ignore her and keep running, picking up the pace a little more, and pass them all again just as they’re starting their second lap.

Bad Gina jumps in and runs alongside me, her blond ponytail whipping behind her.

“Damn, girl,” she says. “You got the need for speed or what?”

She elbows me and I lose my stride, but just for a second.

“No,” I say. “Just feel like running.”

“You know you’re just running circles, right?” she says. She doesn’t seem to be having any trouble keeping up. “It’s not like you’re going to get anywhere.”

I don’t reply, and Bad Gina doesn’t say anything else, just grins for the next couple of laps until I pick up the pace a little more, to see how it feels and to see how she’ll do. She responds by cutting inside and making me work harder at the corners. We keep running hard for several more laps and keep passing the other girls, neither of us stopping when we get to ten.

After several more laps, Bad Gina sprints out ahead. I strain to keep up with her. Sprinting is even harder with the sandals on. We skid every time we round the corners. My breathing turns ragged, but at least hers does, too.