Something Like Hope

by Shawn Goodman

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Shawn Goodman

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Goodman, Shawn.

  Something like hope / by Shawn Goodman.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Shavonne, a fierce, desperate seventeen-year-old in juvenile lockup, wants to turn her life around before her eighteenth birthday, but corrupt guards, out-of-control girls, and shadows from her past make her task seem impossible.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89752-8

  [1. Juvenile delinquents—Fiction. 2. Juvenile detention homes—Fiction.

  3. Emotional problems—Fiction. 4. Family problems—Fiction.

  5. African Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.G61442So 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2009053657

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  This book is for the 93,000 girls and boys who

  occupied residential centers at the time of writing.

  May your stories be heard.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  About the Author

  acknowledgments

  Thanks to my wife, Jennifer Goodman, for her endless support and encouragement, and also for reading as though the safety of the universe depended on it. Thanks to Alexi Zentner, friend and most excellent advisor; Oliver French; B. G. Downing; Dana Robson; Ella Blue and Poppy Jane; Seth Fishman, my agent; Stephanie Lane Elliott, my editor; and Krista Vitola, editorial assistant.

  1

  Lying on the cold hard floor of a locked room, I wish. Is it bad to wish? It feels bad, but only because my wishes drift away. They escape from me and go wherever wishes go. Where do wishes go? Better places, I hope.

  Right now I am wishing to get out of here, to go far away where nobody knows me. Maybe a big city where I could blend in and walk for miles through streets crowded with anonymous people. I could listen to the cars and buses, and smell the food from the hot dog carts and pizza stands. I could get a job in an office in a nice building and work hard. With my paychecks I would buy expensive clothes: skirts, blouses, and sweater sets, all with matching shoes. And I would find an apartment, a studio where I’m the only one with a key and I can decorate it and keep it clean. I will have a down comforter on the bed and lots of soft pillows and a tortoiseshell cat that will sleep with me and I will be warm and safe and happy.

  I keep trying to add more wishes, but they don’t take hold. I concentrate hard, to keep the fantasy together: matching dishes, a soft rug by the bed, real furniture. But it all fades. Thick cotton bath towels and a dish of little soaps shaped like fish and shells, and still it goes away. Wishes. Dreams. People. They go away from me. And nothing remains except this cold hard floor and me.

  2

  How long have I been in this room? It seems like a long time, but I can’t remember. I run my tongue over the jagged edge of my tooth and feel white-hot pain—and then I remember … stealing Ms. Williams’s sandwich … busting her pretty face with my elbow in a fight. I got in some good blows until they took me down. I know I should feel something, like regret or remorse. But too much has happened, and I am empty inside, like a boarded-up house with no furniture, no pictures of smiling, happy people on the walls. Maybe the fight was a way to feel something, to know that I am still here and that I still matter. But I am afraid that maybe I don’t matter, because I can’t seem to get out of this place.

  I get up from the floor and sit on a yellow plywood bench next to a stainless steel toilet/drinking fountain combo. It smells faintly of disinfectant, and I wonder if I will have to stay here long enough to use it. I wrap my arms around myself even though I am not cold. I try to focus my mind on something good, but it’s hard. After a while, I find a good memory.

  It’s a warm summer evening, the kind of weather you get before a thunderstorm, when the air is so still and you can almost feel electricity in it. And there’s the sweet heavy smell of ozone. All these businesspeople are hurrying to get home before the rain because they have expensive dry-clean-only suits that shouldn’t get wet. And their hair, with all the styling gel and mousse in it, will get messed up, too. But my mom isn’t hurrying. She’s holding my hand and we’re walking slowly, like we don’t care where we’re going or when we’ll get there.

  I think I am happy, because there’s no knot in my stomach, no fear of what will come next. I feel warm and good and safe. I skip along to keep up with my mother’s long easy strides. She swings my arm and sings, “I can see clearly now the rain is gone.”

  Her voice is beautiful and clear. She sings out loud to me and to everyone around us, like we’re stars on a movie set. But really she’s singing for me, because she loves me. Even if it’s just for the moment, even if it’s just because she’s high on crack and feeling good, my mother loves me. She sings, “It’s gonna be a bright, bright, sunshiny day.” And I love her back. I squeeze her hand in return because, for this single moment in time, I love her too.

  3

  The new shrink, a fat white guy, comes in to see me. He’s wearing baggy mismatched clothes, and glasses with thick tinted lenses that make it hard to see his eyes. He enters the room and walks toward the bench in tiny steps, keeping his arms
in close with his pinky fingers sticking out. It’s like he’s holding those little delicate teacups, one stuck on each pinky. In a strange way he’s graceful, like a hippo or a manatee in the water. Maybe he was a very small man all his life and then woke up one day in a big body.

  “Hello, Shavonne. I’m Mr. Delpopolo. I’m here to talk to you about what happened earlier today.”

  I am still sitting on that plywood bench, eating what’s left over from Ms. Williams’s sandwich (hidden in my pocket throughout the whole fight). When he tells me his name I laugh out loud, spitting a piece of turkey onto the black and white checkered linoleum floor. I’m not even sure what’s so funny. Maybe it’s the strangeness of this guy with his goofy clothes and ridiculous name. Maybe it’s because I’ve been locked in a room for hours and am going a little crazy. He smiles and says, “I know. Some name, eh?”

  I give him my meanest, coldest stare, the one that made the old shrink look away at his art posters on the wall. What does he think he’ll do—just walk in here and make friends? Well, screw him. I’ve seen too many people like this guy before, and not a single one has helped me. They talk nice and get you to open up, to soften, and then they leave. They forget about you. They go home to their own children or they take new jobs. Better jobs, working with kids who aren’t criminals.

  “Fuck you,” I say. “Fuck you and your stupid name. I don’t have anything to say.”

  He just smiles and ignores my words. He points at the bit of turkey on the floor.

  “Is that from the famous sandwich I’ve heard about?”

  “Maybe it is,” I snarl.

  He doesn’t seem bothered by my attitude.

  “You must have been very hungry. Or perhaps you were concerned about Ms. Williams’s cholesterol, what with the bacon and mayonnaise in the sandwich. Is that why you stole it?” He arches one of his bushy eyebrows above the rim of his glasses. I wonder if he’s making a joke, but he shows no emotion. No smile, no chuckle, and of course I can’t see his eyes through those dark lenses. A big fat mystery stuffed into a bad suit. But it is funny, and I find myself laughing again, though I catch myself quickly.

  “Did you say your name’s Mr. Delpopolo? You don’t have a PhD?” I say this because shrinks keep track of each other and their degrees. Plus it’s good to change the subject. That way you become the asker of the questions. And the asker of the questions has control.

  “We can discuss my credentials some other time. Maybe in a couple of days when I’m able to talk with you again. I wanted to introduce myself and I guess I’ve already done that so I’ll leave. Enjoy that sandwich. You certainly paid for it.”

  As he walks away, I throw the rest of the sandwich at his fat ass; incredibly, I miss. He doesn’t notice, or else pretends not to. That pisses me off even more, because I really wanted to eat it, and now it’s ruined.

  4

  Almost a week has passed, so I guess Mr. Delpopolo lied about talking to me in a couple of days. I think he waited so long on purpose, just to make me mad. It’s not like I was waiting or anything. Well, I kind of was, but only out of boredom.

  The guard brings me downstairs to the admin wing. I enter Delpopolo’s office and eye him coolly; he launches right into the usual shrink bullshit. Rules and confidentiality and therapeutic goals. But his heart isn’t in it. He looks tired and worn out; his clothes are even sloppier and more wrinkled than the last time I saw him.

  I look around at the walls, which are painted industrial green and pocked with chips and nail holes. They are bare except for two black-and-white photos. They look like they’ve been torn from a magazine: one of Gandhi, one of Einstein. Missing are the family pictures, knickknacks, and other crap shrinks usually keep around. But there is one thing: a ceramic coffee mug that says World’s Greatest Dad. It’s white with red lettering. The kind you can buy in any junk store for three dollars.

  I bring my attention back to his little intro, which I’ve heard before and which I think is a load of shit. In the Center, guards and shrinks and teachers all put your business out there. They gossip about kids, each other, even the director, Mr. Slater. Especially Mr. Slater. And this guy wants me to be reassured because of his rules and “confidentiality”?

  “How can you possibly help me?” I ask. “You’re a mess. Why are you even working in this place—did you get fired from a real job?”

  He smiles. “You want me to answer those questions?”

  I shrug.

  “Okay, here goes. I don’t know if I can help you. Yes, I am a mess. I work here because, strangely, I get along okay with kids. And maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “Maybe I was fired from a real job.” He says it like he’s not even embarrassed.

  “What job?” I ask, interested now in spite of myself.

  “I was a teacher. At a college.”

  “Oh,” I say. I don’t think he looks like a college professor, though I’ve never seen one. College professors should be older, wiser-looking. Better dressed. “So why did they fire you?”

  He shifts in his seat and says, “Never mind. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. How come you can’t finish your program here?”

  “Who says I can’t finish it? I can get out of this place anytime I want to.”

  “So then why don’t you want to get out of here?”

  “I didn’t say that.” I am no longer interested in talking to this guy. He’s twisting my words around and it pisses me off. “What if I don’t want to talk to you anymore? What if I don’t want help?”

  “Let’s just skip this part, okay?” His words suggest a hint of frustration, but he still looks calm.

  “Who says I need help? You think I’m crazy or mentally ill or something? What’d they tell you? PTSD? Depression? A little intermittent explosive disorder? Borderline personality disorder? Which one do you think it is, Mr. Delpopolo?” I know that I should shut up, that I’m out of line, but I can’t stop. I don’t know why I talk like this. It doesn’t make sense to, except that it’s just how I am. “You people think you know so goddamn much. You don’t know shit.”

  Then the strangest thing happens. Mr. Delpopolo slumps in his chair and sighs. I swear he looks sad. Not angry. Not frustrated. Not busy and out of time, but sad. He takes off his glasses and looks right at me, and I notice the heavy dark bags under his eyes. They are very plain eyes, brown and deep-set. And I see in them now that he too is troubled.

  Maybe he’s sad because he knows I need help but am beyond helping. How can he know that? And if he does, then how can he get up and walk right past me out of the office without really trying? He doesn’t even look at me or say goodbye. Instead, he calls one of the goons over and says, “We’re done for today. When she’s calm, please tell her that I’ll see her in another two weeks.”

  Why doesn’t he tell me this? He knows I’m right here and I can hear him, but he doesn’t even look at me before he leaves.

  5

  I’m so sad. I feel like crying, but nothing comes out. My roommate, Cinda, tries to comfort me. Cinda, the freckled pixie who hears voices and pulls her hair out in frizzy clumps. Cinda, who takes five different kinds of meds and sometimes cuts herself. Cinda, who asks me hundreds of questions.

  “Shavonne, why are you sad? Is it because of your daughter? Do you miss her? I would too, because I saw her picture and she’s soooo cute. Do you want to talk about it? I saved some of my meds if you want to take them.”

  I tell her to mind her own business. The last thing I need is some crazy girl’s pity. Like she can do anything for me anyway. She’s maybe the one person in this place who’s worse off than me.

  Cinda says really strange things that don’t make any sense, like she really loves everybody, or she’s going to burn the place down on Easter. She doesn’t mean it. But once you say things like that, you can’t unsay them, and then there are consequences. For Cinda the consequences are that she has to stay locked up for a long, long time.

  But Cinda is actually my
friend. She’s amazing at doing hair, and braids mine almost every night. She sits me on the floor in front of her bed and lets her fingers go like magic through my hair, twisting and crossing, twisting and crossing. Sometimes I lean back and pretend that I’m at home—even though I don’t have a home—and that it’s my mother who’s braiding my hair. And even though it’s just Cinda, it feels kind of nice to have someone fussing over me.

  Cinda says nice things too. Like that my hair is strong and beautiful and I should be proud of it. “I wish I had hair like yours,” she says. “You know those other girls are so jealous because they have to use weaves and strengtheners to get that look.”

  The guards say Cinda’s been here longer than anybody else—three years. It’s mainly because she has nowhere to go. They say the psychiatric hospitals won’t take her because she’s violent, and the group homes and residential centers won’t take her because she’s crazy and belongs in a psychiatric hospital. Also, she’s set several places on fire, which doesn’t make her very marketable.

  But I want to get back to the crying. I think it has something to do with my session with Mr. Delpopolo. I think he’s trying to use his psychological bullshit to break me down. I certainly don’t intend to let this happen, but then again, I’m tired of holding secrets in. I’m sick of them. They make me sick. It’s like drinking poison and not being able to throw it up, waiting quietly for the telltale signs that death is coming, the dark lines inching up your veins.

  I won’t go on about this, because I don’t like self-pity in other people, and I hate it in myself. But I don’t know if I can deal with all this. I’ve been numb for so long and this asshole, Delpopolo, is messing it all up. He has no fucking clue. You go opening doors that are supposed to stay closed and you end up like Cinda. Does he want to do that to me? Have me go crazy and take a million meds that make me sleep and drool? He couldn’t survive a day in my shoes. Fuck him.

  6

  This whole mess started with a lie. Not a big one, but still a lie. I don’t want to think of myself as a liar, but maybe I am.