Cry Baby

by Ginger Scott

  The pounding at my door is normal, so I step to the small sliding window to see what I need to do. Sometimes it’s the guards delivering hygiene kits, other times it’s a message from a judge or an update from a parent. I haven’t gotten a piece of mail yet, so that would be nice, but I can see pretty quickly that this guard’s hands are empty.

  “Lopez, you have a visitor,” he says. Maybe Lauren’s here today.

  “Okay,” I say, tossing my book to the bed and waiting for my door to unlock so I can be escorted. They don’t cuff us in here. It feels risky to me, and there are a few guys I’ve seen I think I’d prefer to be in cuffs when they’re walking around in here, but I’m glad this policy works in my favor. I didn’t like being cuffed. It made me feel helpless, even if I wasn’t going to fight back.

  I walk just in front of the guard down the hallway and through two of the security doors to the main visitation room. It looks like the school’s cafeteria, metal tables welded to the ground, four attached stools at every circle. A mother is visiting her son at the table closest to me, and my eyes go there first. My stomach sinks in and my chest collapses when I realize Riley’s waiting on the other end of the room. She isn’t alone—she wouldn’t be allowed. Her dad brought her here, and I’m ashamed.

  “Thank you,” I say in a hushed voice as I move from the guard toward her. Every movement I make is broadcasted on TVs mounted in the room. The guards in here see them, and the feed is watched on the other side of the glass too. Nothing gets missed in this place.

  “Hi,” Riley says, her hand reaching out slightly from her hip, fingers stretching like she wants to touch me, but she doesn’t. She motions toward the table, so I sit. Her dad sits a table away, and I force myself to confront him.

  “Hello, Mr. Rojas,” I say.

  “Tristan.” His deep voice is serious. He’s not here to talk to me, he’s here for his daughter. I respect that.

  I rest my hands, folded, on the tabletop and widen my eyes to Riley, urging her to do the same.

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry,” she stammers, bringing her palms flat to the table.

  “They like to see the hands. I like visitors, so I overdo playing by the rules,” I shrug.

  Riley laughs. It’s a pity laugh, and a nervous one. I think about making a spy joke to her dad, mentioning his menu, but I talk myself out of it quickly. He probably won’t remember what I’m referring to, and he probably also isn’t in the mood to joke.

  “How are you? My mom said they sent you home from the hospital the same day?” She was kicked so hard. I relive the beating we both took in my sleep every night. Sometimes, I wake up screaming.

  “Just deep bruising. The doctors said I must be pretty tough,” she says, laughing out words that couldn’t be truer.

  “Toughest person I know,” I say.

  My right fingers spread over my left palm, flexing and wanting to reach for her, but I stay disciplined. It’s amazing that she’s here, but she needs to move on now. I won’t tempt her into chaining herself to me and my unpredictable future.

  “We won a game!” She sits up tall with this news, and it interjects energy into me, forcing a smile on my face.

  “Yeah? Against who?” I never looked at the schedule. I held four practices in total, certainly not enough to call myself coach on a resume.

  “Well…they were a little younger than us, but they’re good.”

  I start to smirk and she rolls her eyes.

  “You played the junior high,” I say, snickering.

  “Yes, we did and we won, thank you very much!” She draws her hands in toward her body, and I frown, taking it personal. Her eyes fill with guilt, so I shake off my reaction.

  “A win is a win,” I say. “Nice job, Mr. Rojas.”

  “Meh,” her dad says, his eyes moving to mine briefly. He took over the coaching gig from me. Lauren told me he’s not bad, but he gets injured a lot trying to play with them.

  “How’s the scouting website?” She’d only mentioned it once or twice, so I hope she went back to it and made more contacts.

  “It’s good, actually. I got Lotus to help me take some videos. I’ve been playing at the court. I can’t do anything really aggressive yet, because it still hurts when someone touches me anywhere…around…” Her hands wave up and down the front of her body, and I grimace.

  “Don’t,” she says, bringing her palms back to the table.

  I look at her chin, not able to hit her eyes.

  “Tristan, I would not be alive if it weren’t for you. Don’t you dare feel bad about some bruises,” she says. The reality of what she says forces a hard swallow in my throat. I nod a little and flit my eyes to hers, then look down again. Her hands slide forward, both of them covering mine. Her warm touch pushes into my core, ripping a hole right down the center of my body, my pulsing heart beating loudly and my lungs squeezing at the same time.

  “They’re calling Paul a hero,” she says. Nobody knows he isn’t. He tried to be, even though I think he really just wanted to find a way out.

  “Good,” I say, my lips tight as I offer a tentative smile.

  “That was nice of you,” she says, and it takes a moment for me to register what she means.

  My gaze lifts quickly when I do, and I panic.

  People can’t know. It always has to be Paul. That’s how this works—Paul was the informant, and I was unlucky. I’m a minor—no different than the five or six other teenagers who were picked up and detained.

  “Paul’s mom had a funeral,” she says, and I snap out of the fear into the present.

  I close my eyes and picture him, that ugly sweater. I wonder how she presented him, if the casket was closed. I wonder who came.

  “Did you go?” I ask, and she nods along with her dad.

  “Of course,” she says, smiling softly. I move my hands underneath hers, letting her fingers fall in between mine. I can’t hold her like I want, so I have to build a memory out of this. I need to remember every groove, the curve of each bone and the lines that tell her story on the outside and inside of her hands.

  Her dad clears his throat, nodding toward the guard, so I back away, but the tips of our fingers hold on until the very last second.

  “I’ll come again,” she says, standing to join her dad. He smiles briefly, not happy that she wants to see me more, but not forbidding it. She told him I saved her life, probably going into detail and making me sound braver than I was. His hesitation is the fact that I put her life in danger in the first place. But so did he. There are so many other places to live.

  “You don’t have to come. I mean, if you’re busy, it’s fine. I’m okay in here. I’m getting my GED and…I’m reading books by old, dead white guys,” I say, laughing with her.

  “That will take you far in life,” she jokes, but what she doesn’t realize is that it might. All of this that’s happened, me being locked in here, the forced break from our neighborhood, the noise and pressure—it’s going to let me taste the fantasy for real. If I play my cards right, I may just have a shot.

  “Next time I’ll bring you lasagna,” she says, and I glance at the guard who shakes his head.

  “No food. It’s okay, like I said. Don’t feel like you have to…”

  “I’ll see you Tuesday,” she cuts me off, her eyes glowering a little. She’s making this light, but I can see how scared she is for me in her eyes.

  I remember that look all night, and it’s the same face she makes in my dream—when Dub is kicking her while I’m held down and helpless.

  When Tuesday came and Riley didn’t show, I was heartbroken. Even though I told her not to come, most of me expected her to anyway. That’s how things are for us—I make requests and she ignores them.

  I finished Huck Finn and moved on to Tom Sawyer. Mr. Herrera said I should have read them in the other order, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference to me. Maybe if I’ve read more than three books ever, I would notice things like that. My first book had mostly pictures, so it hardly quali
fies.

  I’ve gotten into reading. I think it’s the escape it gives me, and I start to wish that I’d taken Ms. Forte’s journaling more seriously. I could have created my own world to travel into, though I guess I created one in another way—I ran away into Riley’s.

  By Friday, I’d given up on seeing her again. I mentioned it to this kid named Toby. He and I talk a lot out on the basketball court during rec hours. He told me I should just make her up in my head and talk to her that way. He’s a year younger than me, and he’s in here because he likes to set fires. He still talks about fire a lot, which makes me think he’s not in the right place for the rehabilitation he needs.

  I took his crazy advice and tried talking to make-believe Riley. I waited for nighttime, when I was alone in my bed. I hugged my pillow, but it was just mushy and cold. My imagination isn’t vivid enough to smell her or make something so unreal feel warm. I could only whisper, and sometimes I just moved my lips. If people saw me talking to myself, it would invite problems, and I’ve worked so hard to eliminate them.

  The next morning, I woke up feeling worse, feeling let down and disappointed. I skipped basketball that day, and I didn’t read either. I wallowed.

  I’ve gotten back to my new normal now, though. I wrote a paper yesterday about Mark Twain, and the case worker promised to show it to my mom. It’s smart…at least I think it’s smart. I found all of the similarities between his characters’ lives, and mine and Joker’s. I call him Paul in the paper. All that’s good about him was…is Paul, and that’s how I want people to see my friend—even some hack GED teacher in the county prison system. Joker dies with Dub—and with me.

  I’m anxious for visiting hours. My mom said Paul’s mom wanted to come with her, and I’ve been practicing my apology. She won’t want to hear it, but I need to say it. He was my brother, not by blood, but by something more. I should have taken better care of him. There was more I could have done, and I will always feel that way.

  “T. Lopez,” someone calls my name. I look around from the lunch table, one of the guards is scanning the crowd and his eyes stop on me. He holds up a letter, so I scoot my tray closer to Toby’s and glare at him.

  “Don’t even think about touching the potatoes,” I say.

  He winks, and I know he’ll dip his gross spoon in there. I ate most of them, so I give up on the rest.

  A few people make jokes as I walk through the benches to the guard, teasing me for getting mail. That’s what everyone does around her, and it’s because we’re all jealous when we don’t get any. I booed someone last week for getting a thick envelope from their mom.

  “Thank you,” I say, nodding and taking the letter in my hands. I don’t look at it until I get a few steps away, but when I see Riley’s name, my heart leaps, and I begin to walk faster.

  Someone slaps my butt as I pass, and one of the guards whistles and yells. I don’t stop for any of it, my head down and eyes centered on the way she forms her R, the feel of the paper in my hand, the place where the edge is peeling up because the guards didn’t stick it down tightly after ripping it open.

  I get to my seat and my potatoes are gone. I glance up at Toby and he shrugs, so I flip him off.

  “Who’s it from?” he says.

  “A friend,” I say, because this isn’t make believe. This is real Riley, and this is private.

  I slip my finger inside and tear the envelope gently, feeling the thickness of the folded paper as I do. It’s more than one page, and for some reason, that excites me. It means that this will last. I can savor this, as long as it doesn’t hurt.

  “I’m going to the library for a bit,” I say, holding the letter close to my chest and ignoring Toby’s crass jokes that draw more attention to me as I leave. Others join in, joking that I’m off to spank it to porn and shit like that, but I let it roll off me. They can’t ruin this. I’d given up.

  “Library pass, please?” I ask.

  The guard at the main window slides the clipboard out and I sign my name, taking the paper she gives me, and I leave the cafeteria, moving from one guarded space to another. It’s usually quiet in here. A few people taking their GED seriously come in here to study sometimes, but today it’s empty.

  I find a table near the reference books, knowing it’s the last place anyone will want to sit if they do come inside, and I unfold her letter and lean over it on the desk, cradling it as if it were her really here with me.

  * * *

  Tristan,

  I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to visit. My dad got a new job. He’s driving trucks full of oranges and lettuce around the state. It’s great, only now he can’t coach, and he’s on the road sometimes. He’ll be home a lot more soon, but right now he’s trying to impress people. Anyhow, I can’t come without an adult, and I feel strange coming with your mom, so that’s why you’re getting a letter.

  I called and they told me you can get these, so I hope it comes. I guess if it doesn’t get to you, you’ll never know.

  Now that my dad can’t coach, Lauren’s mom is coaching. She’s actually pretty good. She’s good with the girls, too. She got two more to join the team. They still suck, but they’re bodies. The school made her a part-time aid because the one in the special education class left for a job in Maryland. We’ve won three games now, and yes…that includes the one against twelve-year-olds. They were tall for their age!

  I have other news, too. I hope you’ll be as excited about it as I am. I’m worried it will make you sad, though. I’m having a hard time writing it down, but I need to just do it.

  I got in to Ball State.

  That’s in Indiana.

  * * *

  I put her letter down and stare at that line. I have a mix of pride and grief flowing through me. I want this for her, but it means that distance will be between us too—not just lockdowns and floodlights and barbed wire.

  She was right to worry, but it’s not fair for her to have to. The letter goes on for another page and half, but it takes me five minutes to move on from that line. I think of Paul, and how I should have done more for him—how I need to give that energy to Riley now, and eventually I begin to read again.

  * * *

  It’s not until August of next year, and I might not make the team. I got in on grades, and the coach there said they’d like to take a look at me. They gave me a partial scholarship for academics, but if I make the team, I might get a full ride the next year. That’s why my dad’s working so hard to save money.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this. I forgot I applied. I did it before we moved here, with the counselor at my old school. It was on a whim—she had me apply for everything. I never thought I’d actually get in, but now…

  I’m sorry.

  * * *

  This is the end of the first page.

  I stop here and feel the weight of that word—sorry. She shouldn’t be. I scan through the rest of her letter, stories about practice, shooting at the court with Lauren. She mentioned that Jaden asked about me, and that part made me smile. She said he’s doing well, and she sees him on the weekends at the courts. The courts…they’re different too, I bet. I come back to the hard part again, though, after I read her signature and trace the heart she drew with my finger. I wish it was the word—love. It’s better that it’s not, though.

  My chest heavy with selfish disappointment, I leave the small table and walk up to the library guard.

  “Can I have paper? I’d like to write a letter.” He looks up at the clock, and I know I don’t have much time before rec. They force us all to go outside, and I know it’s so they can tear our rooms inside out to make sure nobody’s hiding anything. There aren’t many places to put much, though. My first night here, someone was busted for drugs, but other than that, every single search has turned up empty.

  The guard reluctantly hands me a sheet of paper and a short, stubby pencil. I thank him and rush back to my spot in the corner, my hand working fast to get out everything I need to say. I beg
in with the important things first.

  * * *

  Riley,

  I am so proud of you! I won’t get into the part of your letter where you apologized because you never should. Not to me. I made choices and they landed me here. Yours are taking you where you’ve always wanted to go. Ball State is going to want you on their team, and they won’t be the only ones, so make sure they’re the best. Make sure you let them know you beat some pretty fierce seventh graders, too. (Kidding!)

  Since you wrote something hard to say, I think maybe I should do it too. You might be upset with my next few words, but I think eventually you’ll forgive me.

  * * *

  I stop there and stare at the page, my handwriting barely legible and my spelling wrong in so many places. I’m no honors student, and the fact that my old counselor thought I could be in the same league with any of those other students—with Riley—is funny as hell. She believed in something in me, and that’s the part I hold onto now. Ms. Beaumont saw potential. I have potential. And I think it’s because I’m good inside. I want to be good, to do good—to give. That’s why I need to finish this letter and send it without giving it more thought.

  * * *

  This letter needs to be the last you hear from me. I am a better human being because I met you. You changed me. You woke up parts that I didn’t think I had, but your work is done. I got to love you for a little while, and I hope there were moments when I made you happy.