by Randy Mason
But Micki had spent the majority of her time at Heyden in solitary confinement—a recurring punishment for a long list of violent outbursts against staff. Only one incident, the very first day of her incarceration, had involved other inmates. And while she hadn’t even been at Heyden for two months, the staff, with the exception of the psychiatrist, had formed a united and uniformly negative opinion of her. They stated she was combative, difficult to control, had no respect for authority, and showed no signs of improvement. The fact that she’d tested so exceedingly high, both intellectually and educationally, only bolstered their belief that she was putting one over on the staff shrink. It was their considered opinion she wasn’t subject to rehabilitation and would never function well in society. Their recommendation: immediate transfer to an adult women’s correctional facility. Baker agreed 100 percent.
On the other side of the fence were Sergeant Kelly and the aforementioned shrink, who’d written: “Micki is an extraordinarily bright child who’s become embroiled in antisocial behavior due to unfortunate circumstances and exposure to harmful influences. In a fugue state of extensive duration, she is emotionally and psychologically scarred, exhibiting signs of severe depression with violent and self-destructive tendencies. She’s in need of guidance, love, and a stable family environment.” Bullshit, Baker thought. What she needs is a good whipping. He chalked the psychiatrist’s opinion up to the fact that she was, well, a shrink. What would you expect her to say? But Kelly’s stance was baffling. A street cop for something like twenty-five years, he was no pushover. What redeeming quality could he possibly have seen in the kid?
Baker picked up his glass and swirled it around, then drank the water from the melting ice cubes. He didn’t give a fuck what Kelly thought or what the shrink believed he should be doing. Micki was nothing more than another delinquent kid playing the system for all it was worth. And while Heyden may have had problems controlling her, he was going to make damn sure she respected his authority. He wouldn’t take any shit from her and wouldn’t fall prey to any snow job, either. Malone said he had a lot of latitude in dealing with her, and he planned to use every inch of it. He’d take the boot-camp approach: there would be severe repercussions for even the slightest infractions. And since he had the right to search both her and her apartment (for which he had a key), he intended to fully exercise that power. He’d spare nothing because she was female; that had been the deal, right? He’d break her down until every shred of self-esteem she had was gone. She was going to wish she were still in juvi. He poured himself a final drink. If she thought she’d found an easier way to finish out her time, she had another thing coming.
chapter 2
THE ALARM CLOCK’S RING was brash and unrelenting. Micki groaned. Never able to sleep well at night, the hot, humid air hadn’t helped. For hours, she’d tossed and turned, finally drifting off just a short time before the buzzer rang. Her limbs felt like lead. Yesterday’s double shift at Bel Canto had meant nearly twelve hours of washing dishes and cookware in the sauna-like conditions of its tiny kitchen. Going from the cool dining area into the crowded, airless, overheated back room had been like walking into hell itself. She’d washed dishes at Heyden, but that had been nothing compared to this. The restaurant’s automatic dishwasher was too old, too small, and half broken, requiring things to be almost clean before being loaded in. As a result, it was used exclusively for glassware, silverware, and a limited number of small plates, leaving everything else to be done entirely by hand. The innumerable pots, pans, and metal casserole dishes were the worst, usually having some combination of cheese, sauce, and pasta baked on in varying shades of brown and black.
And then there was the heat. Always fired up to the max, there were two huge deck ovens and a large commercial stove—not to mention the steamy water she was using. Constantly in motion, a chef and an assistant chef were adding their body heat along with hers. And with only one marginal freestanding fan and a single small exhaust fan, the air was mostly stagnant—the temperature had to be reaching well over a hundred degrees. Sweat dripped and stung her eyes; her clothes were soaked through in no time at all. And when the night was over—the front door locked, the place empty of diners—she’d gulped down glass after glass of soda before going home to collapse on the bed.
Right before she’d left, Mr. Antonelli had offered her leftover pizza to take with her. But after having had her fill of pasta during her twenty-minute meal breaks, she’d felt too embarrassed. She should’ve taken it, though. Her stomach was growling, and there was nothing to eat in her apartment. Nothing at all.
With a soft little click, the alarm clock’s second hand was ticking off the time, telling her she’d already stayed in bed too long, telling her she’d better get moving. Yesterday, when Miss Gutierrez had given her not only reduced-fare transit passes, but transit maps, her jaw must’ve dropped, because the social worker said, “You just have to take the E or F train to Union Turnpike, then catch the Q44A bus.” When Micki didn’t respond, the woman—with an unconvincing smile—had added, “It shouldn’t be too bad.” Micki thought it sounded like a royal pain in the ass, especially since she only had to walk down the street to get to work.
At least the first day of school started late and was merely half an hour—just long enough to pick up program cards and fill out papers. The second day would start late, as well, but last a little longer, with fifteen-minute periods for each class. But Friday, the third day, would be a full schedule, beginning at 7:50 a.m. If she’d had to be there that early this morning, she would never have made it.
She rolled out of bed, drank two glasses of water, and did her usual routine of pushups and sit-ups. But when she went to take a shower, the water was icy cold, even with the hot faucet opened up all the way. Eight minutes later, the water still freezing, she opted for a quick wash at the kitchen sink followed by a dab of deodorant. It wasn’t until she was brushing her teeth that she thought about her hair, which was dirty and full of restaurant grease. Well, there wasn’t much she could do about it now.
She pulled on her jeans, a fresh black T-shirt, and her vest, the flimsy plastic ID holder Miss Gutierrez had provided going in her back pocket. But as she was picking up her money, she paused to look at the small pocketknife she’d found on her way home from work. Slightly rusted, it was only two inches folded and had a pretty green and black handle. Hidden by a clump of weeds that had pushed their way up through a crack in the sidewalk, her sneaker had sent it skittering across the concrete. Maybe fate had sent it to her—like a lucky charm. She shoved the knife and money in her front pocket, put her sneakers on, and headed out the door.
♦ ♦ ♦
IT FELT COOLER, AT least at first, going down into the subway. Micki held up her transit pass for the token-booth clerk, then jumped the turnstile out of habit. But down on the tracks, it was hotter and more airless than on the street, as if there was less oxygen underground. Alone on the platform—except for a couple by the wall, who were pawing at each other and making out—Micki was watching the commuters on the opposite side. Dressed in stiff-collared shirts and neckties, men were mopping brows with handkerchiefs while high-heeled women transferred weight from one foot to the other, blotting damp make-up with shredding, wadded-up tissues. Faces pinched, people were either checking their watches or craning their necks over the platform’s edge to see if anything was on its way to take them into Manhattan.
An F train arrived, heading further into Queens, and Micki stepped into one of the air-conditioned cars, the sweat on her skin immediately evaporating in the dry, chilly air. And though she could’ve sat almost anywhere, she chose a seat across from two little old ladies with teased-up hair. Side by side, they sat with perfect posture, each holding a black patent-leather purse on her lap. But after they glanced at Micki, they clutched their pocketbooks tightly. When the train stopped at the next station—Queens Plaza—they looked at each other, got up, and sat at t
he other end of the car, near a man in a suit with a briefcase beside him.
Micki watched as the man pulled out a brown appointment book and jotted something down. She watched the train doors slide together, banging shut. She watched the platform disappear as they began to pick up speed. And when the deafening roar filled her ears again, she realized she’d forgotten to bring a pen and something to write on. Yesterday, instead of buying school supplies and groceries, she’d worked in Bel Canto’s steambath. By the time her shift had ended, the stores had all been closed—except for the little deli on the corner. And though she probably could’ve bought a few things there to tide her over, she’d been too exhausted to think of it then. It hadn’t occurred to her this morning, either.
She stared out the window, the murky scenery flashing by: cold, shadowy shapes interspersed with lights shining in a sickly off-white. Here and there, singularly exotic, a bulb was softly glowing blue. And sometimes—beyond the dark, ghostly blur—she could see a vast, empty space with extensive bracings disappearing into total blackness, so that the entire subway system seemed filled with secrets. And maybe nothing was what it appeared to be. Through miles of tunnels and hidden passageways, headlights pierced through an endless night, trains running as if their final destinations were so incredibly important. But, round and round, their wheels stuck to the tracks, they weren’t really going anywhere at all.
♦ ♦ ♦
AT UNION TURNPIKE, MICKI exited the subway and changed to the Q44A, which was sitting at the end of its line. The driver assured her she was on the correct bus, but her stomach squeezed itself into a knot until the clumsy vehicle did a U-turn and headed in the right direction. And though there was quite a ways to go before her stop, her eyes were glued to the street signs passing by—until the strings of stores lining the road turned into homes of all kinds: brick apartment buildings, garden apartments, even private houses—all neat and clean with trimmed hedges, flowers, and well-maintained cars. Sprinklers—gracefully arcing from side to side or rapidly rotating with forceful, even spurts—were watering thirsty, mowed lawns. She turned her eyes away from the window and slumped down in the seat.
The closer the bus got to the school, the more other kids started getting on. Chattering and laughing, they were telling each other about summer vacations. Micki sat in silence. At 232nd Street they all got off, and Micki followed—until it occurred to her that she didn’t have to go to school at all. Eyes bright, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk while kids continued to walk around her. But then her shoulders sagged: with no place to go, twenty dollars wouldn’t take her very far. Besides, they’d eventually get her. It didn’t take them long after she’d escaped from Heyden.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE FIRST THING TO come into view was the athletic field. A few kids were already running track and playing ball while behind them rose the back of the school itself. There was no graffiti. No litter on the sidewalks. And as Micki looked around, it finally hit her: the kids who went here all had parents to take care of them, real brothers and sisters, friends to hang out with, rooms with posters on the walls … She stopped again while kids passed by, their voices growing louder till they were ringing in her ears like a warning. Someone bumped into her from behind, a girl who’d been walking backward as she talked to her friends. Micki spun around to find the girl giggling and blushing.
“Oh—like, I’m so sorry,” the girl said, though she was looking down at the notebook she’d dropped. Restricted by the miniskirt that showed off her long, tanned legs, the girl was awkwardly stooping to pick up the fallen item, her leather shoulder bag slipping down to her elbow. But when she straightened up and actually looked at Micki, the giggling ceased, and the smile faded. She hurried away with her friends.
Steps slower and heavier, Micki started moving again, feet mechanically following those of the crowd.
♦ ♦ ♦
A LARGE, THREE-STORY, WHITE-BRICK structure, Newbridge High School was relatively modern and nondescript. Underneath the school’s name was a huge clock that read 2:47. Permanently. Micki wondered what time it really was. She proceeded up the steps and through the doors until she saw Baker standing in the lobby. Dressed in jeans and a dark T-shirt, he was observing students as they entered. He motioned with his head for her to wait on the side while other kids paraded past like an offhand sample of teenage fashion: bell bottoms, fatigues, hot pants, skirts, dresses … Several boys with slicked-back hair and motorcycle boots looked like greasers.
From behind a large folding table, two security guards, also in plain clothes, were checking out the students, as well. One of them, a black woman in a polo shirt and khaki pants, got up and stopped a tall boy as he came in with some friends. A few quick questions and then she pointed to the door, shaking her head, her large Afro glistening. Laughing, the boy shrugged, then waved to his buddies and left. When the guard returned to her post, she explained the teen had graduated the year before. A real clown, she still remembered him.
Baker nodded. “Good job, Angela.” And once the steady stream of students had died down to a trickle, he told her he was leaving her in charge of the entrance. “Let’s go,” he said to Micki.
A loud bell rang through the corridors. School had officially begun.
♦ ♦ ♦
MICKI FOLLOWED BAKER THROUGH the hall, where they made a left around the general office before entering the security office, which was the next room down. Baker, acting as though she already had some clue as to what was going on, introduced the assistant heads of security, who’d returned from their posts so she could meet them. If for any reason he wasn’t there, she was to report to Mr. Warner. If neither one of them was available, then Mr. Jamison or Mr. Marino would be in charge.
Warner flashed a warm smile and reminded her a lot of the coffee cop from the day before. Though trimmer and far more muscular, he had the same type of curly hair and mustache, only brown instead of red. Jamison gave her a solemn nod. But Marino’s eyes had roved over her body twice already. She gave him a dirty look.
“I’d appreciate it,” Baker said to Marino and Jamison, “if you guys would go back and check on things in the hallways.”
Promptly heading for the door, Jamison replied, “Sure thing, Chief.” Marino, however, tossed his newspaper on the green vinyl sofa, then lingered to leer at her.
Baker stepped between them. “Mr. Marino?”
“Yeah, yeah.” But he took his time leaving.
Baker shut the door, then pointed to the farther of two desks along the wall. “Sit down over there.”
Micki found a sheet of paper and two index cards—one pink and one white—requesting information for school records.
Tapping his fingers on them, Baker said, “Fill these out.”
She looked around the desk, saw a black plastic pencil holder, and reached for one of the ballpoint pens.
He stared down at her. “You came to school without a pen?”
“I worked ye—”
“I don’t give a shit. When you come to school, you should be prepared. You didn’t bring a notebook, either, did you.”
“No,” she said quietly.
“No,” he repeated.
Hands on hips, he loomed over her while she filled out the forms. And though her ID card had most of the information she needed, a few spaces still had to be left blank. As soon as she was done, he snatched the papers away, saying, “Give me that ID card, too.” When he returned it to her, he said, “You know you have to carry this at all times?”
“Yeah.”
“Get up and stand over there.”
She moved across the room to the spot he’d indicated, an empty space between some file cabinets and another desk. She flicked a glance at Warner, now sitting on the sofa beneath the window and reading Marino’s copy of the Daily News.
From the top drawer of his desk, B
aker pulled out a computer-generated card and a thick booklet that said “Student Guide” on the cover. “This is your program card,” he said, holding it up for her to see. “Tomorrow, when you go to your classes, the teachers will sign it. You’re to return it to me on Friday. In case you haven’t figured it out, this is your homeroom; so if anyone needs to know, I’m your homeroom teacher. Whenever there’s an actual homeroom period, you report here. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.” He was acting like she was too stupid to understand the simplest things.
“This book,” he said, raising it up, next to his head, “will explain everything about the school, including the different schedules. You can—” He stopped and looked her over. “Are those the same clothes you wore yesterday?”
“Different shirt, same jeans.”
“Did you even wash today?”
“Yeah.”
“Really? Cause you smell, and your hair looks filthy.”
“I had to wash in the sink, so I didn’t have time to wash my hair.”
“You couldn’t shower?”
“There was no hot water.”
“No hot water,” he repeated. “So you think it’s okay to come to school like this?”
She chewed the inside of her lip.
“Well, let me tell you, then, that it is not okay to come to school like this. Even if you have to freeze your butt off, you take a shower and wash your hair every day. You’re to come to school clean. Is that understood?”
“Yeah.”
He put the program card and booklet on the desk, then folded his arms across his chest. His muscles looked even larger than they had before. He said, “I think it’s time to go over the rules.”