That night I dread returning to my cell. Cardo’s been back with me for a week now, and it’s usually the same routine. He starts off with some kind of insult to let me know we’re not friends. Then, after a few minutes of silence, he starts talking at me just like he used to. Cardo can’t handle silence. Everything with him is for show—his toughness, his renewed allegiance to the Disciples. It’s all part of the act he puts on, the game he’s playing.
I have no interest in f iguring out the nature of this game. As far as I can tell, his future is fucked. And I can’t be sure, but I think he’s doing drugs now too. He’s jittery all the time. Sometimes he’ll jump straight out of his bunk and grind out a hundred push-ups, then bounce around the cell like a caged tiger. Maybe he’s taking steroids.
I f igure I’ll let him lecture me on whatever he thinks I did wrong out in the yard that day, take some unsolicited advice on the best way to deal with psychos like Flavio Pendon, pretend I value his opinion.
The truth is I feel kind of guilty about the whole thing. For better or worse, the geeks are my peeps now and I can’t help but wonder if going after Salim was the Disciples’ way of making up for the fact that they let me off so easy the other day. They have their reputation as hardasses to think of. Maybe by refusing to be punked out in the yard by Cardo, I wound up putting the geeks at risk. You never know. Thug logic and all. So I ask Cardo if he’ll put in a good word with the Disciples for the geeks, tell him none of the geeks have anything personally against Flavio Pendon, the Disciples, or the movie X-Men.
But Cardo’s not interested in helping me out on this one.
“You just tell your geek pussy friend to watch what he writes,” is his advice.
“It was a movie review, Cardo. How’s he supposed to know your friend’s a fan of X-Men?”
“Don’t talk to me about how he’s supposed to know. It don’t matter. He knows now. He pissed my man off. You’re saying he got too hot over this? Okay, that’s your opinion. But I ain’t rushing in to cool him down. They already think I’m too tight with you.”
“Fine. Forget I asked.”
“And stop asking me for stupid shit.” He snorts in disgust. “Put in a word for you. Like I’m gonna do that.”
I know better than to argue with Cardo on this one. No matter how insane it seems to someone like me, it makes total sense to the Disciples that Flavio Pendon will actually kill a guy over a movie review. And there’s not a damn thing anyone can do about that except try to stay out of his way.
Chapter 21
In computer class the next day, I have to do a tutorial on spreadsheets, which, according to Stanley Huang, is a great way to keep track of my “f inances.” And here I was thinking you’re just supposed to keep your cash in a doll under your sister’s bed. As soon as Huang clears off, I open an email from Janelle.
She found me.
My heart sinks. But I knew this would happen eventually. Karen West is lazy and stupid, but even she has enough marbles to f igure out that the best way to track down a middle schooler is at the middle school. According to Janelle, she showed up drunk and demanded that everybody stop “kidnapping” her daughter. When the principal refused to hand Janelle over that very second, she went full-blown bitch about all the lawyers she was going to hire to “bust everyone up.”
I have no trouble picturing this. Anything can set my mother off. An empty booze bottle, the cashier at McDonald’s not giving her enough ketchup packets. Her eyes will shrink into angry slits and her skinny lips will disappear into whatever teeth she has left while she unloads a steaming pile of bullshit.
The principal was so impressed with my mother’s performance, she called the Department of Children and Families on her. My mother split before they got there, but the principal had her address. So a nice social worker from DCF had the chance to observe Karen West’s beautiful home during a surprise visit. And what an impression she made. The social worker was especially moved by the smell of urine everywhere (not just in the bathroom but “everywhere”). Then there was the food rotting on the counter and the dozens of f lies circling the trash can.
Lady says there were maggots on the f loor. Maggots! And then Mom fell asleep while she was inspecting the bedroom. I don’t even want to know what she found in there.
This is actually good news. The social worker had just enough time before my mother passed out to tell her that Janelle would not be allowed to return home. She would probably lose her daughter to the wonders of foster care if she didn’t make some serious changes.
But far be it from Karen West to bow out gracefully—or even to bow out in a puddle of her own puke. No, Karen West is not going to sit by in her house of maggots while Janelle gets “spoilt” by her “cushy,” “charmed” existence in some foster home. Screw that, girlfriend. Why should Janelle have all the fun? My mother can rally. She doesn’t do it that often. It basically takes someone threatening to “kidnap” her children. But if change is needed to keep Janelle within striking distance, then change it will be. She can clean her house. She can empty the trash. And, more importantly, she can enter rehab.
Ah, rehab.
You know she’s only doing it to get me back and it means Mrs. Rodriguez can’t get paid for being a foster mom. Basically she says I can only stay there until she gets out of rehab. Then I have to come back home. And the stupid cow from DCF signs off on this cause a person’s supposed to get a “second chance.” Can you believe that? Second chance? How about, like, f ive hundred chances. You know how rehab goes.
I know exactly how rehab goes. My mother can jump on and off the wagon like it’s barely moving. Rehab is fun. It’s full of people whose job is to listen to her.
Oh and here’s the best part. That lady from DCF got her in some accelerated detox so she’ll be f inished when you get out. I swear to God, Mom manipulated her. I don’t know how ’cause she’s not that smart or anything, but she must have.
Actually, DCF probably made that call so they wouldn’t have to f ind a foster home for me when I get out of juvie. I don’t do so well in foster homes. And f inding one for a sixteen-year-old with a record isn’t easy. That lady was just being practical.
Anyway, at least you’ll be home soon. But Isaac I’m telling you, the second you turn eighteen, I’m moving out with you. I don’t care what it takes. I can’t do this anymore. I’ll quit school and babysit full-time if I have to. But you and me, we’re getting out of here.
Chapter 22
On Monday, Dr. Horton decides to give me a break. We’ve spent the past week talking about guilt and shame, mostly mine, but everyone shared their own stories too. It was like a greatest hits collection of backstabbing, rage, and stupidity. No surprises there. My story isn’t even the worst of them. Everyone in that room is in some stage of “working through it.”
The f irst step is accepting full responsibility for your actions. Until you do that you’re “living underground,” in Javier’s words. Supposedly, this is why I’m so “closed off” and “secretive.” You have to f ind the strength to own what you’ve done, say it out loud.
In my case that means admitting to myself and everyone in there that I’m just as guilty of putting Mr. Christaldi into that coma as Pat Healy is. The fact that I took the rap for Healy means nothing. It’s a legal technicality and it doesn’t make up for the fact that I did nothing while my partner beat a man with a rock.
I know they’re right. And as hard as it was to come out and say it, I know there’s something decent about taking responsibility for what happened that night. It’s the kind of thing that can make you a better person if you let it.
I have nothing but respect for what they’re doing in here. It’s hard work. Sandra struggling to stop disappearing so she can own up to killing D’nesh Patel. Barbie putting herself in the shoes of Enrique Cabron’s mother, imagining that woman’s grief and owning it. And Javier. He’s the bravest of them a
ll, reliving the night he and his brother attacked another kid for the stupidest reason imaginable. The kid insulted his brother’s girlfriend. Now he’s dead. Javier carries that with him every minute of the day. He never lets up, never gives himself a break. He doesn’t disappear like Sandra or go underground like me. He never hides behind a stone-cold game face like Barbie Santiago. He’s a killer and he’s going to be dragging his victim’s corpse around for the rest of his life. I have so much admiration for Javier. I’ve never met anyone so determined to f ight for his own soul.
“So,” Dr. Horton says. “Life stories. Did everyone bring one?”
That was the assignment this time. A life story. It could be happy or sad, as long as it mattered. Barbie promised to write a happy story because it was getting too heavy in there. I couldn’t agree more. Javier actually wrote a poem. By choice.
It’s Riley up now, going on and on about some biology teacher: “So when she asked for a volunteer, Chet Warmley stood up. He didn’t even raise his hand, because he’s the kind of guy who always gets whatever he wants.” Riley clears his throat and, in a high-pitched voice I guess is supposed to sound like his teacher, says, “This is how you do the Heimlich maneuver.” He starts giggling like a little girl. “So then she stood behind Chet and put her arms around his stomach to demonstrate. And . . .”
Another f it of giggles. He needs to work on that.
“Then while she explained to the class about the Heimlich maneuver, Chet got a total boner right in front of everyone!”
There’s a brief pause. Then Wayne tears it open with a laugh like a hyena. Barbie snickers. Even Sandra cracks a smile. The only one who isn’t laughing is Javier.
“Dude, why you be telling us a life story about Chet What’s-His-Name when you supposed to be telling one ’bout yourself?” Javier says.
“Because.” Riley is still caught up in his little girl’s squeal. “Everyone laughed at him, but I laughed the hardest, so I was the one he beat on after school. I guess I should have included that part.” He leans back and points to a scar under his chin. “He’s this big varsity wrestler dude, so I couldn’t even really f ight back.”
“Which would have been f ierce though, right?” Barbie says.
“It’s impossible to say. He had a def inite weight advantage. Anyway, Dr. Horton said we could tell any story we wanted.”
Javier shrugs. He doesn’t care for Riley’s boner story.
Wayne likes it though. He taps his temple. “Excellent story, my man. I’m keeping that one for later. And this dude beat you up?”
Riley nods.
“’Coz he humiliated, that’s why. And he taking it out on somebody else, like you the one humiliated him.”
“Well I did laugh really loud. I mean, like, louder than anyone. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed that loud in my life. I was out of control.”
Wayne shakes his head at this. “Damn, Riles. You one strange MF, you know that?”
Riley stares back, wounded.
There’s some weird chemistry between those two. I can’t put my f inger on it. It doesn’t seem possible that they knew each other outside of juvie, but inside it’s def initely a love-hate thing.
“Anyway,” Dr. Horton says. “It’s not about breaking down these stories today. It’s about sharing. Thanks, Riley. Who’s next? Javier? Do you have a poem for us?”
“It’s not my best.”
“It’s okay. We’re not grading anything.”
“Yeah,” Wayne says. “It’ll still be better than anything we write. My story sucked.”
“No it didn’t,” Javier says. “It was honest, man. That’s what matters. Just like Dr. Horton says. This is all about how honest we can be. ’Coz that takes courage. But sometimes . . .” Javier shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m not sure I’m being so honest when I write in this thing. Like I be working so hard to make the words right instead of just saying how it is. I feel like I know your brother, Wayne, and how he tried to shake those drugs. Don’t need no fancy words for that, no rhyming or shit. Damn, Wayne, you the best writer in here.”
Technically, it’s a compliment. But Wayne looks like he’s just been slapped.
“Well I want to hear your poem,” Barbie says. “I think we were promised a poem, right Dr. Horton? So you ain’t gettin’ out of it that easy.”
“For what it’s worth,” Dr. Horton says, “I have the one you typed out for me framed in my off ice at home.”
“Really?”
“Read it!” Barbie taunts.
Man, these guys sure love poetry.
“Yeah, come on, man,” Wayne says. “But you got to read it twice, ’coz I only understand your poems the second time.”
“Poetry’s like that,” Javier says. “You got to work for it.”
“And we ready to work,” Barbie says. “So lay that mofo down.”
Javier’s torn. He wants to share his poem. But something’s holding him back.
“I’ve never heard your poetry,” I tell him. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever heard poetry. Not out loud, anyway. You gonna deprive me of my rightful education? Man, that’s cold.”
“The boy’s right,” Barbie says. She even smiles at me, maybe the f irst time I’ve ever been on the receiving end of a legit smile from Barbie Santiago. I have to f ight to keep from smiling back like an idiot.
“All right, all right. But this a work in progress. I ain’t even sure what I’m trying to say yet.”
“Just say it slow,” Wayne says. “So we can keep up.”
Javier takes a breath, then opens his notebook and begins.
I don’t deserve this.
The stink, the food.
Somebody always watching.
Somebody always judging.
Claustrophobia. I looked it up in class.
Walls closing in,
I don’t deserve that.
Some fool charge me up.
Some punk hit me up.
Guards mistrusting
Cellie always fussing.
Dirty windows
we can’t see out.
Lights out, ladies.
Lights up, ladies.
Do this. Go there.
I don’t deserve this.
Lawyer don’t know shit.
Judge don’t give a shit.
Lock him up, shut him up.
I don’t deserve this.
I ain’t no king.
I ain’t no disciple.
Why you be spending your taxes on me?
I’m not some kid needs a second chance.
I’m not some kid. Ain’t been one for years.
I’m your nightmare come true.
You don’t wake up from this.
The stink, the food.
The dirty windows.
Walls closing in.
Walls closing in.
I don’t deserve this.
It’s too good for me.
Javier pauses for a second then leans back in his chair.
Nobody moves or says anything.
“Again?” Dr. Horton says.
Javier nods then rereads it. The second time through, he lets his emotions come out, like he’s feeling it all for real. Right there, in the room with us. I’m feeling it too. When he gets to the last line, it shocks me, even though I’ve already heard it.
“Damn, Jav,” Barbie says. “You set that to a beat and you be up there with the masters.”
“It ain’t a rap,” Javier says. “Rappers be selling their lifestyles and how they all bad and shit. This ain’t about that.”
“Yeah, but you could tell it your way,” Barbie says. “Just use them millionaire record companies to get the word out.”
Wayne nods.
“I have to agree with Barbie,” Rile
y says. “It’s a shame to have all that talent and just waste it.”
Even Sandra offers up a quiet “Yup.”
Javier shakes his head. “I ain’t wasting it. I’m giving it to you.”
“That’s wasting it,” Wayne says. “You should have a bigger audience.”
“I don’t want an audience. It ain’t about that.”
“So what’s it about?” I ask. “I mean the rest of us just write down what happened.”
“That’s what I’m doing too.”
Now I’m the one shaking my head. I can’t explain why, but there’s something more to Javier’s poem than to Riley’s or Wayne’s stories. Something about the rhythm and the language makes it deeper, like he’s inviting us all in.
“Have you ever thought about trying to get your poems published?” Dr. Horton asks.
“Like what? In the newspaper or something?”
“Or in a literary journal.”
The words don’t mean much to Javier.
“We should have an open mic!” Barbie says. “Like in them clubs when they let people come up and do their raps.”
“It’s a poem not a rap,” Javier reminds her.
“And then the audience votes on who’s best by making a lot of noise.”
“My stupid cellmate will get up there, no doubt,” Riley says. “He never shuts up. He’s always rhyming everything. Like yesterday I said, ‘Where’s my toothbrush,’ and he goes, ‘You get smoove crush.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Dr. Horton,” Barbie says. “How come we can’t have something like that in here? Don’t you agree it would be good for self-esteem and conf idence and shit? And then the girls can have a dance contest.”
“Barbie, that’s precisely why we can’t do something like that,” Dr. Horton explains calmly. “Every time you girls practice your dance moves out in the yard, some boy on cafeteria duty gets sent to solitary.”
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