by Skye Warren
“Guidelines say twelve to sixteen.” He looks up. “I’m seeing sixteen. And it’s already started.”
“You can’t stick another in? Maybe ask her…” Because guidelines are made to broken. Like rules. Like people.
He looks back down. “What about modern lit? That one’s not full.”
“I’m more interested in contemporary memoir,” I say. That’s Ms. Winslow’s sixty-four-dollar name for the class. Contemporary memoir.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I wait. If he asks her, she’ll say yes, and we both know it.
When you’re inside, everything has a certain value, and if you want it, you have to trade for it or fight for it. Cigarettes, protection, information, fresh air. If this guard was a fellow prisoner, I could strong-arm him a different way. But he’s a guard, and so we bargain.
“Fifty bucks…”
“Guidelines say sixteen students,” he says.
Damn. “A hundred.” It’s all I have.
He shakes his head. No.
This is dangerous. He knows I want it bad. He smells it—the guards have a sixth sense like that. But I have to get in. Teachers like Ms. Winslow don’t last long; I’m betting The Kingman Journal won’t make it past the first issue. And I need to put a little something in that issue.
I pull my iPod out and slap it onto his desk. My music. It took me months to save for the thing. Even more to buy a few good songs from the shit selection they have at the canteen. No Internet, remember? Well, that’s about to change.
Dixon pulls out the jack and takes the iPod, leaving me with the earbuds. And just like that, I’m in.
Three
~Abigail~
The English department hallway smells like dust and aging paper. I breathe it in, and my heart rate slows. This is a far cry from the cold, gray prison.
On the first day of class, I’d stood at the front of the room, hands clasped together, knuckles white, as sixteen men in orange jumpsuits filed in. I know what they saw—a prim, buttoned-up schoolgirl. They could sense my uneasiness. I gave out the syllabus, fumbling my speech, stiff and unnatural. The only good thing about the class was that the man from the east entrance hallway wasn’t in there.
Ms. Winslow.
I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, and I can’t go back. I just can’t.
I head toward my advisor’s office, determined. Desperate. I need her to let me out of this project. One of my classmates is doing a memoir project with high schoolers. Others are working with veterans, nurses, the elderly. It’s not fair that I got the prison inmates. Not when it drags up every bad memory I have. Not when I think I might belong there more than anyone knows.
No one can ever know.
I take my seat outside my advisor’s office in Kendrick Hall. Scuff marks from thousands of students cover the faded hardwood floors, and the walls are still a vibrant mahogany, untouched by the years except for the gouges in the molding where people have etched initials and dates.
This building is like an ancient oak; we can leave marks, but the tree was here long before us and it will remain long after. I close my eyes. I’ve fought hard as hell to get here. I’ve made it two years—I’m a college sophomore now. I can’t let this stop me. My whole life, the darkness has threatened to swallow me up, but I won’t let it.
The door opens, and I stand. The woman who greets me is beautiful—glamorous, even—with bow-shaped lips and low-lidded eyes that makeup can’t replicate. Her hair is blonde, bordering on gray, arranged in a wispy chignon.
“Abigail,” she says with a smile. “Please come in.”
“You could have called through the door.” As usual she ignores the small note of worry in my voice. Politeness is a big deal for her. I understand that—it’s a big deal for me too. Sometimes I think it’s the only difference between the slums I come from and where I am now.
She winds her way through the cluttered office with ease. It would be impossible to tell she was blind if I didn’t already know. It probably helps that she’s worked at the same university, in the same office, for twenty years. She invited me into her office after my first day in her class, and I’ve been beyond grateful for the special interest she’s taken in me.
Until our project started. Prison? No.
“So,” she begins, settling into her seat, “did you blow them away with your eloquence and poise, the way you blow me away?”
I laugh unsteadily. “Not really. Not at all.” I hate the idea of disappointing her. So few people have ever cared about me. But I hate the idea of that prison even worse. “It’s not working. Isn’t there any way I can change projects? The prison. It’s too dark.”
Like the way I am inside, but I can’t tell her that.
“All the more reason to teach the class, Abigail.” Her voice is faintly reproving. “What’s really bothering you?”
She’s not going to let me out; I can already tell. Panic bubbles up in me and pours out as words, desperate words. “I can’t be effective in there. I’m wasting project funding. I’m wasting prison resources. They don’t take me seriously—”
“You get them to take you seriously by taking them seriously,” she says. “If you treat them like people, they will respond as people.”
My mind flashes to the man in the hallway, the one who whispered my name. I think about telling Esther about him, but what would I say? There was a man who made my heart beat twice as fast, who made me feel hot and cold at the same time.
“It’s not safe,” I say.
Concern washes over her features. “Did you feel like you were in danger?” she asks.
I wish I could lie to her. “Not exactly danger…”
“Guards stayed with you?”
“Always,” I admit.
“And the men? They behaved?”
“I guess. Aside from a few class comments. One suggested I got lost on my way to the little girl’s room. Another suggested some alternate uses for my pointer.”
A smile plays upon Esther’s lips. “At least they won’t lack for creativity. I do remember that,” she says, and suddenly I’m the one remembering. Esther hasn’t always been blind. And I already know she taught a class at the prison, back when she was an undergrad like me. “Did you feel as though you were in physical danger?”
“No.” It’s not the inmates I’m afraid of, not really. It’s the whisper that says I might not be different from them.
“Then what’s the danger, Abigail?”
I know what she’s thinking—that I’m too timid, too safe, in my writing and my life. Be more open, be more willing. If it doesn’t scare you, it’s not worth writing about. She’s always pushing me to explore the shadows inside me. She doesn’t understand.
“It’s not right for me.”
“I know you don’t want to be there, but it’s not only about you. Those men have committed to your class—you can’t fail them now, and contrary to your own very faulty self-assessment, you have what it takes to be a wonderful teacher for them. I see it, even if it’s hard for you to do the same.”
I’m shaking my head, glad she can’t see me.
She sighs. “Two more classes. Stick it out for two more sessions and if you still don’t like it, we’ll talk about changing your project.”
“Really?”
She purses her lips.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Those men may seem resistant to what you do. But a few of them need desperately to speak, to tell their stories. Some people need to tell their stories in order to be healed, to be whole, and you can give them a space in which to do that. You have a gift, Abby. You care deeply about stories, about people. That’s what they need.”
I think of the man in the hallway and wonder what story he might tell.
Four
~Abigail~
I set the last memoir essay on top of the stack and take a deep breath. I may hate being here, in this room more like a prison cell than a library, but I have to admit the
essays were some of the best things I’d ever read. Raw emotion tossed onto the page as if it weighed nothing.
My dad was in lockup for hitting my mom. I tried out for orchestra even though he said not to. He couldn’t do nothing from jail. I didn’t make the cut, though. It’s probably for the best cause he got out early for good behavior.
Did Teke’s father hit him too? Was that what had changed him from the hopeful musician to a hardened criminal? I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. Get it together.
A loud clang. They’re coming. The library is small, but it takes them a long time to wind around the tall metal shelves in their orderly formation. I can hear them shuffling, the clink of metal cuffs a chilling accompaniment.
Our classroom is a space in the back of the resource center with sixteen chairs and desks arranged, like everything in this prison, in an unimaginative square—four up the side and four across. A desk and chair set reserved for me faces the area where the men are to sit, like an old-school classroom. The desk at the head of the class is a reminder that I’m in charge, even if I don’t always feel it.
The furniture is bolted to the floor so it can’t be used as weapons. No walls or doors separate us from the main area, but I don’t mind. The guys spend enough of their day penned inside. In the library, with the scent of old paper and book glue wafting through the air, they can be in the open.
I greet each student as he rounds the nearest shelf. “Hello, Teke. Griff. Good morning, Jacob.”
Some of them return the greeting. Others grunt or nod. A few ignore me completely, not meeting my eyes.
All the seats are full. I wait for Mr. Dixon to round the corner. He’s the guard assigned to watch my class, and he always brings up the rear. Never turn your back, he explained the first day. I’d asked him then if he’d like to participate, since he had to sit in anyway. He blushed and told me he’d better focus on the task at hand. That was too bad. I bet he’d have stories to tell.
Except the man who turns the corner after all the students are seated isn’t wearing a brown guard’s uniform.
My breath catches. Him.
My gaze darts away, running for cover, before I can stop myself. Chin up. I may be young—younger than anyone else in the room—but I’m in charge. I’m the teacher, even if it’s only a required project for my undergrad class. My pulse thumps unsteadily, and my hands become slick with sweat.
It’s not his fault that his eyes are like dark diamonds, hard and deep. It’s not his fault that he stands a whole head taller than Dixon, the guard, or that his neck is as thick as a tree trunk.
It’s not his fault that he’s terrifying—and strangely compelling too. So handsome it’s hard not to look. Offensively handsome.
I force a smile. I can do this. “Hello, I’m Ms. Winslow.”
Of course, he already knows my name. He mouthed it from across the hall.
No, I’m overthinking this. He’s probably forgotten it by now. I’m nothing to him. I’m nobody. That theory seems to hold when he nods and says simply, “Ma’am.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you earlier,” Dixon says. “There’s one more student for you.”
One more student I can deal with. But him? “He’s already missed two classes.”
Dixon looks uneasy. His gaze doesn’t meet mine. “Grayson’s a smart one. Won’t cause you any trouble, I’m sure.”
Grayson. There’s something almost regal about it. About him.
But Dixon is wrong—Grayson is already causing me trouble. The class is sitting idle while we figure this out. And I’ll have to work with this guy one-on-one to get him caught up, and that feels so personal. Memoirs are personal, which is exactly why I don’t want this guy in my class. Bad enough I have to be here; I don’t need this strange awareness I have of him. Attraction.
I shake my head. “Maybe he can join a different class. There’s not really a desk for him anyway.”
That seems to stump Dixon, who touches his shirt pocket as if the answer to this problem might be in there. But it’s not like he can bring in a new desk and chair and weld them to the floor.
“I’ll stand,” Grayson says in that low voice.
I raise an eyebrow. “Then how would you write?”
The corner of his lip turns up, a faint challenge that Dixon can’t see. “One word at a time, same as all of them.”
His comment makes me smile. I’m probably not supposed to. No weakness. But he’s really kind of a bastard.
I hate that I like it.
“You’d have to do extra assignments to catch up.”
Grayson nods, his expression somber. I can’t believe he wants to be here, but then I remember what Esther said, about people who are desperate to tell their stories and sometimes they don’t even know it. Who am I to turn him away?
“You can take my desk.”
“Where will you sit?” Dixon protests, but it doesn’t feel genuine.
My smile is wry. “I’ll stand. I’m not the one who needs to be writing.”
“Go on then,” Dixon says, peering down at his iPod or his phone or whatever he’s pulled from his pocket. He’s not very attentive, but I haven’t minded. I’ve never felt unsafe with the sixteen felons in my class. Until Grayson, who makes me nervous just by looking at me. My gaze falls to his forearm, scarred with white lines. The scarring looks almost deliberate, some kind of an X with strange detailing on the ends. Like a barbarian tattoo.
My gaze snaps up to meet his. He’s seen me staring. He moves toward me with a mixture of distaste and fascination. I finger the top button on my shirt, feeling exposed, wishing I’d grabbed my cardigan from my desk, wishing I’d worn pants instead of a skirt, not that it would matter. I feel like Grayson can see right through my clothes, right through my defenses.
All prison aisles and passageways are roomy, wide enough for at least three guys. Mr. Dixon told me it’s that way on purpose—it makes it easier for the guards to cooperate when a man must be subdued, and it cuts down on prisoner conflicts in passing. But Grayson fills the space. He’s huge, invasive. Alive on my skin.
I move to the side as he approaches, making myself small. “Have a seat,” I say sharply. “We have a lot of work to do.”
In a voice deep and velvety, he murmurs, “Yes, Ms. Winslow.”
Shivers slide down my spine. I feel the way I did the first time he said my name, but it’s stronger now that I can hear him. With just a few syllables he puts me off balance. What will he do with a whole essay?
I watch him saunter on toward the front, sooty brown hair cut short, big, muscular shoulders outlined where his jumpsuit pulls tight. His walk is slow and loose and cool. He moves like he owns the room.
Then he takes my seat in the front, settling in his muscular bulk, shifting slightly sideways, making himself comfortable in the shitty, too-small chair, a barbarian prince on a throne. How is he doing this?
And then he smiles at me.
God, that smile. It should be illegal.
I tear my eyes away, feeling flustered and a little angry, and address the class.
“I was so impressed with the pieces you turned in this week. I felt like you guys really ran with the assignment. The art of memoir is bound up in the small things. A long-ago incident. The way the light catches on something.” I go on with my prepared talk, clutching the papers they’d turned in via Dixon.
The first day of class I’d made the mistake of asking for the guys to recall meaningful incidents in their essays, and I’d gotten a lot of bullshit narratives—stuff about cars, hitting home runs, performing musically, even a tale of a ride on a yacht. Just that broke my heart. So for the second assignment, I’d asked for something small and meaningless. The only guideline: it has to be true. And I would know if it wasn’t.
The results are moving—tales of everyday disappointments and small cruelties they professed not to care about. Protesting too much.
I go on, struggling to stay cool and composed—not easy w
ith Grayson’s gaze heavy on my body. I can see him in my periphery, occupying my desk, the one barrier I had.
And suddenly I realize that he knows it. He knows exactly what he took from me. Control is something he understands. I learned about it too, early on. I learned who to avoid on the street. I learned when to stand my ground. He sprawls there, an insolent lion, thrumming with relaxed power.
It’s cool in the library. Goose bumps cover my skin, and beneath my bra, my nipples turn hard. I want desperately to grab the cardigan off the back of my chair, but he’s there.
I swallow and smile brightly. This is my class, and I’m in control. “Today I want to narrow the scope a little bit more,” I say as if my heart’s not pounding a billion times a second. “We’re going to think about objects. I’m going to have you open your notebooks and list twenty random”—here I raise a cautionary finger—“but specific objects from where you last lived. For example, a fork. But you can’t simply say a fork. You have to say something about it. For instance, where I live, we have this fork in our utensil drawer—my dorm roommates and I got it in a silverware grab bag at a flea market, and it’s the best fork in the place. The other ones we have are from Target and they’re flimsy, but this one, it’s thick and substantial, way nicer to hold, so we always fight over who gets it, because it’s just better—”
A few of the guys are chuckling. Others are exchanging glances and stifling laughter. My face heats when I realize what else my description sounded like.
“Hey!” Dixon barks out; then he goes back to his phone.
I make the mistake of shooting a glance up front, at Grayson. He’s not laughing and tittering like the rest of the class. No, he’s just sitting there, brown eyes glinting. I flash on how big he would be, how it would feel to hold him there. My cheeks heat to an epic burn.
And he quirks his lips.
Oh God.
I turn away, a deer caught in the headlights, determined not to lose control of the moment. “But without the dirty double meaning, please. No bananas…” If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right? “No doughnuts, or…you know. Got it? I mean it.” Then I just laugh. It’s my nervousness and the craziness of it all. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that.”