Caught Up

by Amir Abrams

  I glare at the judge through tear-filled eyes. My jaw is twitching. I feel like I am on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

  After a few tense seconds, the judge breaks our stare down, looking over at my attorney. “Counselor, I’d advise you to—”

  “I don’t need him to advise me! I want to go home! Pllleeeease! You can’t keep me locked up like this.” I raise my shackled hands. “Like some animal.”

  The judge slams her gavel down, again. “Order in the court! Sheriffs, get her out of my courtroom before I hold in her in contempt! You had a home, young lady. But you chose the streets over your home. You would rather be in the streets with the thugs and hoochie-mommas. Now your home for the next two weeks will be in my house. The Lorna P. Johnson Youth Detention Center. I have found sufficient evidence for probable cause in which case, juvenile to be remanded. Get her out of here, NOW! Next case . . .”

  I let out a blood-curdling scream.

  Just like that.

  It is over for me.

  I am being dragged out of the courtroom, yelling and crying out hysterically.

  41

  “Stuck up, trick!”

  “Yo, word is bond, Kreesha, you should take it straight to her face.”

  “Yeah, you right, I should. But she don’t want none’a dis knuckle work right here.” She holds her fists up and starts punching and swinging up into the air.

  I shift my weight on the steel bench in the dayroom. Please, God . . . you have to get me out of here. These girls in here are crazy! I don’t know how much more of this place I can take.

  I keep my eyes locked on the television mounted up on the wall as I say my prayer in my head. Every so often I glance over at the stainless steel table this Kreesha girl and her groupies are sitting at.

  “That stank bish thinks she’s better than us. Over there sittin’ all up under da COs like that’s gonna stop sumthin’. Pfft. Please.”

  “A’ight, Wilkens,” the female CO sitting at the table with me says sternly, looking up from her crossword puzzle. “That’s enough out of you.”

  Kreesha sucks her teeth. “Yeah, whatever. You can’t babysit that thot forever.”

  I press my lips tightly together and tap my foot determined to not let her get to me. I keep my eyes on her in case she decides to sneak me. I’m learning fast here. Never sleep. Never keep your back facing the door. Always face forward so you can see everything coming and going around you. I don’t want to fight her. Truth is, I think her friends will jump in if I do. Still, she keeps taunting me. And I’m getting tired of her and her cronies bullying me.

  “Mmph. Isn’t that the same stink bish who was effen ya cousin Hennessey’s baby daddy?”

  Hennessey.

  I cringe when I hear that name. Now I knew why she looked so familiar to me. She was one of the girls who were with that Hennessey girl at the restaurant that day when she came in causing a bunch of commotion.

  Ohmygod! This is crazy!

  “Yeah, that’s her. Now she in here ’n’ I bet you her so-called man is back at Henney’s house right now knockin’ it down.”

  Her friends all high-five each other, laughing.

  The Kreesha girl asks one of the COs if she can get up to get a drink of water from the fountain. She gets up from her seat, then heads for the water fountain. On her way back to her seat she makes a fast beeline over to where I am, jumping in my face. “Bish, facts,” she says through clenched teeth. “If you even think ’bout snitchin’ on my cousin’s man, I’ma bash ya eye sockets in . . .”

  My heart drops. I look over in the direction of the guards. They all seem preoccupied playing games on their phones or texting or doing whatever it is they aren’t supposed to be doing while on the clock. I think to write a grievance, but quickly dismiss the idea. The last thing I need is problems with them, too.

  No one likes a snitch.

  Malik’s voice plays in my head. “I need you to ride dis one out for me, baby, ya heard?” That’s what he told me last night when I called him from the social worker’s office.

  “Malik, I can’t. I-I . . .”

  “You love me, right?”

  “Y-yes. But . . .”

  “Am I ya man?”

  Tears started falling from my eyes. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “Yo, c’mon, don’t do that, Kennedy. You know I’m ya man, yo. It’s me ’n’ you. Don’t I always have ya back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then a’ight. You already know what it is. I’d do it for you.”

  “Then get me out of here, Malik! This place is driving me crazy! This food! These nasty girls! I can’t stand being caged in like some animal.”

  “Babe, listen. I hear you. I know what it’s like, feel me?”

  “No, I’m not feeling you. I’m not feeling anything you’re saying. The only thing I’m feeling, Malik, is alone. I’m feeling like you don’t care what happens to me as long as it isn’t you.”

  “Here you go again wit’ dis ish. You know I care ’bout what happens to you. Don’t I pick up e’ery time you call?”

  “It’s not enough, Malik.”

  “Yo, check it. All you gotta do is keep tellin’ ’em it ain’t yours. They have no proof, yo.”

  “Yes, they do. I was the one holding the bag. Your bag.”

  “Yo, chill-chill. You doin’ too much. You know dat bag wasn’t mine. You was mad twisted dat night, babe. Remember how ish popped off? Dude threw his bag down on da ground when he heard Five-oh comin’. Remember? I tol’ you not to touch it, but you did anyway. You was on one dat night, babe.”

  I blinked. I couldn’t believe he was really trying to make me second-guess what really happened that night. Yeah, I had a few drinks. And, yeah, I smoked that blunt with him, but I was still very cognizant of what was going on around me.

  Wasn’t I?

  Yeah. I was.

  That was/is Malik’s bag. And those were his guns and his drugs. Not mine. And not anyone else’s. His.

  “I know what happened that night, Malik,” I whispered into the phone. “And I know exactly what you told me.”

  “Oh, so now you wanna snitch on ya man, is dat it?”

  “No, Malik. I want you to tell da truth.”

  “Yo, real spit, baby. You gonna have ta chalk it up to da game. Da truth is, you were da one holdin’ dat bag. You wanna rock wit’ a baller, then you need’a know how to bounce wit’ da ball. It’s on you, baby. Now what you gonna do? ’Cause if you really love me like you say you do, then ain’t no way you tryna see ya man get bagged.”

  “Malik, please,” I begged. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t I mean anything to you?”

  “Yo, you my world, baby. But you got my head all effed up. I can’t believe you tryna snitch, yo. You my heart, Kennedy; dat’s on e’erything. But I ain’t rockin’ wit’ no rat, yo. You wanna move cheese then do you. But you do know what dey do to snitches, right?”

  I swallowed, hard. My heart pounded in my chest.

  “They wake up wit’ stitches . . .”

  I scream when Kreesha’s fist crashes into my face.

  42

  “CO?” I call out, raising my hand. It’s Wednesday night. And all of the South Wing residents are in the dayroom, either watching TV, playing cards or some sort of board game, reading a book, or huddled at a table talking about whatever it is they talk about. Things I am not privy to. As usual, I am sitting away from the rest of the girls in here.

  Alone.

  Even after that girl jumped me, they all still blame me for her getting put in lock-up. Ad Seg. Or whatever it’s called. The point is, she attacked me. Not the other way around. And, yet, I’m being treated like the villain.

  Whatever!

  “What is it, Simms?” Officer Linden says. She’s a brown-skinned lady with big brown eyes and big thick lips with bad acne and a nasty attitude. She hates her job. I only know this because I overheard her once talking to another CO saying how all this was is a high-payin
g babysitting job. How she hated coming to work and having to deal with “these disrespectful kids.”

  I feel sorry for her.

  I feel sorry for me.

  “Can I have a pencil and four sheets of paper, please? And three envelopes?”

  She lets out a disgusted sigh, getting up from the steel table she’s sitting at, the one closest to the door. She walks out into the hallway, then a few seconds later she returns with a new notepad.

  She gives me permission to walk over to her table. She writes my name down on a sheet of paper, then hands me a numbered pencil, several sheets of paper, and envelopes. I thank her.

  All she does is grunt. Then adds, “Don’t bother me for the rest of my shift.”

  I remind myself to pray for her tonight when I am praying for myself.

  I turn to walk back to the table I was sitting at and there’s a boy sitting there. I blink. It’s the same boy who is always winking and licking his lips at me.

  Hasaan, I think.

  Boys and girls aren’t allowed to sit together unless there’s a CO sitting there with them. He knows this. I glance around the dayroom for another vacant table. There are none.

  He grins knowingly.

  Lucky for me one of the COs notices that he’s moved from his table to mine without permission and yells at him. “Banks, who told you to move?! Get back over where you were sitting!”

  He curses the CO out, tells him to suck his privates. The next thing I know, there are COs hopping up from their seats, tackling him down to the floor, then dragging him out of the dayroom.

  And this becomes the excitement for the night.

  “Yo, dat’s effed up,” someone says when everything finally settles. It’s a guy’s voice. I don’t turn to see who it is. I don’t care. “Franklin ’n’ da rest of da COs in here be on some BS, yo. They ain’t even have ta do my boy dirty like dat.”

  CO Linden barks, “Lewis, shut your trap. Or you’ll be next.”

  He sucks his teeth loudly. Then mutters something under his breath before going back to his card game.

  “I can’t stand that stuck-up bish,” I hear one of the female residents say. She says it loud enough for me to hear it. And I know she’s talking about me. They’re always talking about me. “She stays tryna get someone in trouble. Dat’s why nobody likes her now. Kreesha shoulda knocked both her eye sockets out.”

  Her friends laugh.

  I take a seat at the table, ignoring her comments.

  I have to get out of here.

  God, please get me out of here. I beg of you!

  I stare at the blank sheet of paper, take a deep breath, then pick up the pencil and start writing.

  Dear Mom,

  How are you? I hope you are doing OK. I know you are still very angry with me. I know how upset and disappointed you are in me. I’m disappointed in me. I know I’ve hurt you. And I am so very sorry for that. I hope that one day you can forgive me. You haven’t stopped loving me, have you? I know I’ve said and done some bad things, disrespectful things. But you wouldn’t really disown me, would you? I couldn’t handle that if you did. I think I’d die.

  I’m OK, I guess. I mean, I guess it could be worse. No. It can’t get any worse than this. This is hell for me, Mom. But I am trying my hardest to make the best out of it by following the rules here. Something I know I should have been doing while I was home. I thought your rules were stupid rules. But they weren’t. These rules here are crazy. I take back everything I’ve ever said about your rules being stupid. The only thing stupid was me not listening to you. I’d give anything to have to follow you and Daddy’s house rules again.

  Mom, I don’t know what I was thinking. I only wanted to have some fun. I wanted my summer to be different from all the others. All I wanted was some excitement. I didn’t think I’d get caught up in a bunch of drama. You were right, though. And now I wish I would have listened to you. But it’s too late now. The damage is already done. I am here. At the mercy of a judge.

  Stuck.

  And scared.

  The girls here are vicious. They all want to fight me. They’ve threatened to slice my face open. And stab me in my neck. I am afraid to go to sleep at night, even though the COs have put me in a room by myself. At night, it is the scariest here. I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I am too afraid to. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Sometimes I think about dying. Not that I want to hurt myself because I don’t. It’s just that I’m already dying inside. The longer I stay in here, the more of me withers away. I’ve lost everything.

  But I know I have no one to blame but myself. I am the one who put myself here. It’s my fault. And whatever happens to me in court or in here I know I brought on myself.

  I just wanted to write you and let you know how much I miss you. And love you. I am so sorry for being disrespectful to you and for breaking curfew and sneaking out of the house and bringing drugs into our house. I should have never done those things. Please give me another chance to make it right. I’d do anything to be home, in my own bed. Being here has shown me how much I’ve taken my life, my freedom, and my family for granted. You never really know just how good you have it until it’s taken away from you. You and Daddy have always wanted what’s best for me. I know that now. I was too stupid to see it before.

  I love you so much, Mom. Please, please, please come see ME. Or write me back. Please!!!!

  Love,

  Kennedy

  When I am done, I reread the letter to my mom, then fold it and seal it inside an envelope. My next letter is to Jordan.

  Dear Jordan,

  I know you are mad at me. And there’s a chance that you might not even open this letter or read it. But I had to write you anyway. I had to say I am so, so, so sorry. You were right! There’s so much I want to say to you. All did was use me. And now he wants me to rot in jail and take the blame for something that I had nothing to do with. The only two things I’m guilty of are: falling for a guy who was never any good for me, and dissing my two best friends. Malik never really cared anything about me. I know that now. And Sasha was never a real friend. She was just a girl I hung out with and went to parties with. She didn’t care about me. She was jealous of me. I feel so stupid. Can you please find it in your heart to forgive me? I was such a fool! I’m so sorry for hurting you. I was wrong for putting Sasha and Malik before you and Hope. I see that now. You were so right about everything. I really hope it isn’t too late to make it right between us. I miss my best friend!!! I am so alone in here. And I’m scared, Jordan. Please write me back. If you choose not to, I understand.

  Friends forever (I hope),

  xoxo

  Kennedy

  P.S. Next week I will be on honors level and I will be able to have visits from friends. Two friends can visit. The visiting time is on Saturdays at 10:30 in the morning. Please, please, please, please come see me.

  I neatly fold her letter, then slip it inside an envelope and seal it. I do not know what will become of either letter once they are mailed. The only thing I can do now is wait. And hope. And pray.

  I feel all of my emotions rushing over me.

  And then there’s an aching in my heart.

  Malik.

  Tears spring up from my eyes, but I fight them back, unwilling to break down in front of everyone in the dayroom. I’d given him every part of me. Did things with him that I never thought I’d ever do with anyone.

  I gave up my virginity to him.

  Because that’s what he wanted.

  Because that’s what I thought I wanted.

  Because I loved him.

  I put myself out there.

  Made myself vulnerable.

  Because I thought he loved me.

  But it’s all a lie. Everything. I was so stupid. His sister, Mercedes, was right. His baby mother was right. Hope and Jordan were right. My mom was right. Everyone else knew, saw it, except for me.

  But I got caught up. Caught up in his lies. Caught up in his touch, in
his kisses, in his promises. I got caught up in wanting to believe that I was the girl of his dreams.

  And now I am here.

  And he is out there.

  Free.

  Doing God knows what.

  Perhaps ruining the next girl’s life.

  I lay my head down on my folded arms resting on the table. I am so helpless. The feeling that I am alone starts to overwhelm me.

  “Snitches get stitches . . .”

  “Don’t you love me . . . ?”

  “I’ma need you to ride dis out for me . . .”

  “You gonna have ta chalk it up to da game, baby . . .”

  “You my heart, Kennedy; dat’s on e’erything. But I ain’t rockin’ wit’ no rat, yo.”

  The realization, the gravity of my situation, weighs heavy on me. I can’t breathe. I feel myself starting to hyperventilate.

  “. . . He doesn’t know howta love anything other than what’s between yo’ legs, li’l girl . . .”

  I start heaving.

  I think I am having an anxiety attack.

  I clutch my chest. Then without warning, unmoved by the stares on me, I cry my eyes out.

  43

  Another week flies by, and I am still here, rotting away. Confused. Torn. Hurt. Sad. Dejected. You name it, I’m feeling it.

  I still haven’t heard back from Jordan. And my mom is still refusing to talk to me. My whole life is a mess! And to top it all off, I don’t know what is going on with my case. Or when my next court date is. I haven’t spoken to my attorney since my last court hearing. And I’ve left him several messages, begging him to please come see me.

  My dad is the only who has come to see me since I’ve been here. And as happy as I am to see him, our visits are always strained. He sits across from me looking so, so helpless. So conflicted. Then when it’s time for visiting to end, he stands up and wraps his arms around me telling me how much he loves me. Then I have to sit back down in a hard plastic chair and watch him walk out the door. Sometimes I’d rather he not even bother coming here. Seeing him leave—knowing I can’t leave with him is so painful.