Juvie

by Steve Watkins

  “How old do you think I am?” I ask. I probably haven’t been to Justice since third grade.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “College?”

  “Close enough. And no, girls my age don’t shop at Justice.”

  “So anyway,” she repeats — apparently that’s the way she starts most of her sentences —“what happened was she got mad that I took them, even though she didn’t have any proof it was me, but they found them in my room, so I got in trouble for that.”

  I have a hard time believing they put a seventh grader in juvie for stealing silver dollars, even a hundred of them, and say so.

  “Yeah,” she says. “So anyway, they were just going to make me give them back and pay her back the ones I already used. But we were mad at her, me and my other friends, so we kind of killed her dog by accident. And that’s why they put me in juvie. But I’m getting out next week, at my hearing. Did I already tell you that? I think I did. My mom said.”

  “You did tell me,” I say, shivering as the wind picks up and I go from being just wet to being cold and wet. Karen doesn’t seem to notice. She shakes the fence, spraying more water on us. I put my hand on top of hers to make her stop.

  “So what about the dog?” I ask.

  “Oh. That.” She giggles. “We didn’t mean for it to die or anything. What we did was we got a box of Ex-Lax and mixed it up with a can of dog food and put it out for him to eat. We thought it would be funny when he pooped all over Emily’s house, but we might have used too much Ex-Lax because what happened was the dog ended up pooping himself to death.” She giggles harder. “I know I shouldn’t laugh about that. It’s really sad and all. But it’s kind of funny, too. But my mom told me I’m not supposed to laugh when I go to court. That’s the one thing. I have to let the judge know how sad I am that the dog died, and that it was an accident, and that I really love dogs.”

  I’m nearly speechless. “You poisoned your friend’s dog?”

  “Yeah.” She keeps on giggling. “His name was Pepper. He shouldn’t have died, actually. Even though we gave him the whole box. That’s what this veterinarian said. I guess Pepper was just really old or something, and he couldn’t handle all that pooping.” She giggles some more. “And then my friends, they all said it was my idea, so I was the one to get in all the trouble. I hate them. They’re going to be so dead when I get out of here.”

  I step back to take a good look at Karen, her hair now plastered to her temples and cheeks, water dripping off the tip of her nose, talking as if the subject is new clothes for her Barbie and not some poor dog she murdered.

  “Whose idea was it?” I ask.

  “Well, mine, I guess. Technically.” She rolls her eyes. “But they didn’t have to tell everybody. God.”

  I shake the rain off my own face. “Don’t you feel bad about it?”

  She looks down again, trying to appear contrite, maybe practicing for court, but struggling to keep the grin off her face.

  “Right,” I say, pushing away from the fence without waiting any longer for an answer. “Well, I’m going back over there now.” I point to the building where the rest of the girls are still bunched under the dripping eave. Officer Killduff flicks a cigarette out into the yard with the practiced ease of a chain-smoker, probably getting ready to call everyone into line to go to whatever is scheduled next.

  I splash across the basketball court in my wet sandals and socks.

  Karen squeaks out after me, “Hey, don’t tell anybody any of that stuff I told you. I just remembered I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

  I wave but don’t turn around. I’m busy wishing I had somewhere else to go than back to Bad Gina and the Jelly Sisters and the rest of Unit Three.

  Before I get there, the Jelly Sisters take care of things for me. There’s an exchange I can’t hear between them and Bad Gina and Weeze, and then Nell Jelly gets pushed out into the yard, so hard she slips in the mud. Wanda is going after Weeze when the officers intervene and we’re all on lockdown for the rest of the day, and that night, too; phone privileges canceled for everybody. I’m sure my mom will worry, but it’s the most relaxed I’ve been since I got here.

  I get a letter from Dad the next day — a soiled white envelope with spidery handwriting that I recognize right away. I tear it open, but there’s no letter inside, just a yellowing piece of wide-ruled elementary-school paper with a crayon drawing of a girl, her arms tight to her sides, flying with birds and clouds and an airplane high over a city. I remember drawing it when I was in second grade. There’s even a red check-plus on it from my teacher, Mrs. Delany. The caption reads, “I dreamd I was flying over Lost Vegas. It was for the big meeting.”

  Dad has probably saved every paper, every test, every picture, every project I’ve ever brought home from school since kindergarten. Carla’s, too. Why he chose this one to send me in juvie, with no letter or even a note — no anything — I have no idea. I can’t remember why I drew a picture of me flying over Vegas, either. I’ve never even been to Vegas — Las or Lost.

  I don’t get the chance to study the picture for very long and try to figure out whatever hidden message Dad might have meant for me to find. Mail call only lasts fifteen minutes, and before I know it, the guards come around to collect all the letters and stuff them into folders. They say we’ll get everything back when we’re released. As if that will make any difference.

  That evening at phone hour, I blow it. I mean to call Mom, or Carla and Lulu, or maybe even Julie Juggins. But instead I dial Kevin’s number. I tell myself to stop, and twice I hang up before it starts ringing. I remind myself that I am as done with him as he and his parents clearly are with me. But then I dial his number a third time because I just can’t help myself.

  “Sadie?” he asks before I even get to say hello.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hey, Kevin. It’s me.”

  “Whoa. I saw this ‘Rapp Area Juve’ on my phone. So I wondered if it was you.”

  “Sounds like a song or something,” I say. “‘Rapp Area Juve.’ Maybe we could name a band that.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

  The conversation stops for a second as I try to figure out why I’ve called and as he probably wonders about that, too.

  “So are you doing anything?” I ask. “I mean, am I interrupting anything?”

  “No, no, nothing,” he says, a little too quickly. “I was just doing some homework, listening to some tunes, checking e-mail, stuff like that.”

  Suddenly, now that I have him on the phone, I don’t know what to say, and I worry that he’s already just biding his time, waiting for me to hang up so he can go back to his homework, or his e-mail, or another girl. Probably another girl.

  “So, Sadie,” he starts, “what’s it like in there and all? I mean, are you doing OK?”

  “Well, I’ve never been to Club Med or on one of those Caribbean cruises or whatever,” I say, recovering, sort of. “But I’m pretty sure they’re like juvie. You’ve got your gourmet chefs, and your massages, and your Jacuzzis. I’m taking ballroom dancing. Can you believe that? Me? Ballroom dancing? One girl in here, she got on Dancing with the Stars. You might have seen her. She wore her red juvie jumpsuit, and she did a dance to ‘Jailhouse Rock.’ So funny —”

  “Yeah,” Kevin interrupts. “So, Sadie …”

  He’s only said it twice but I’m already sick of “So, Sadie.” He’s never started a sentence like that the whole time I’ve known him.

  He wants to get off the phone. And so do I.

  “Look, Kevin, it was great of you to call,” I say. “Great catching up and everything. You’re doing all right, right? Everything’s good with you? Great.”

  I should have hung up on him immediately because when I pause, he says the last thing I want to hear, ever again, from him or anybody.

  “Sadie, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to tell you that, and —”

  I hang up before he can say anything else. For a long minute, I just stare at the wall,
wishing I could take back the last few minutes of my life.

  Then I notice Bad Gina at the next phone, not talking to anybody, just standing there looking at me.

  “Broke down and called the ex, right?” she says. “Nothing a guy likes as much as a desperate, pathetic girl calling him up from juvie. Tough girl like you, I’d have thought you’d hold out for at least another week. But hey — now you know, right?”

  I can’t speak. I can’t move. I can’t even look away. I seethe.

  I am really, really starting to hate this Bad Gina.

  Dear Kevin,

  I must have just dialed the wrong number when I accidentally called, so don’t worry, it won’t happen again. Anyway, I’ve got a lot going on, obviously, and so I’m afraid I don’t have time for a relationship, or even a friendship, really. But there is one thing I did want to ask you. A favor, I guess. I told you a lot of private stuff about me and my family when you and I were dating and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t repeat it to anybody. That’s really the only thing I wanted to say. Oh, and that place I took you to — Government Island — I would also appreciate it if you wouldn’t go there or tell anybody about it, either. And, OK, I miss you sometimes, I admit, but I’m sure I’ll get over it. It’s just that being in here makes everything so much harder. Like if I was at school or basketball practice and wanted some Mentos, I might not have them right away but I would know I could always go to the 7-Eleven and buy some later. In here if I wanted some Mentos, it’s the same as if I wanted a slice of moon cheese; I’m not going to get it. I guess tonight I was just trying to have a slice of moon cheese. Sorry.

  Dear Dad,

  Thanks for the picture. I guess it was probably hard for you to let it go. I wish I could remember what I was thinking about when I drew it. Anyway, I’ve been wondering about you a lot, how you’re doing and everything. And thinking that my life is sort of like yours now, which is kind of funny. I spend about ten hours every night in my cell, and longer if we’re on lockdown, with just my own thoughts to keep me company. I guess the difference between you and me is I’d leave here in a heartbeat if I could.

  I remember one time Mom told me and Carla that your brain worked in a different way than most people’s and that’s why you had such a hard time throwing stuff away and why you eventually had to move into Granny’s house. She didn’t want us to resent you for being the way you are. But really Carla and I had kind of figured that out already on our own. We saw you getting more and more that way as we got older. You hid in your bedroom if our friends came over, and you started working from home, and you wouldn’t throw away any of your newspapers. You had that one room in the house where you kept stacks and stacks of paper, different stacks for whether it had writing on it or was blank, colored or plain. Remember? We had fourteen bikes for a while that you found at yard sales or in people’s recycling and you kept them in the shed even though none of them worked. You collected flat tires, too. Remember that? You said you never knew when you might need all that rubber for something, and Carla and I thought we could start a slingshot business and sell them to all the kids in the neighborhood. Only you didn’t want to give up any of your tires or inner tubes for us to make the slingshots with. So I guess in that way I’m the opposite of you now. You have all your stuff that you collect, all your newspapers and bikes and flat tires, that makes you who you are. But in here, in juvie, they won’t let me have anything. Not anything at all. Which I guess makes me nothing, too.

  The second week after the arrest was worse than the first. Carla was in the clear but hadn’t gotten around to quitting her job at Friendly’s or going to any AA meetings or spending more time with Lulu that I could see.

  When I confronted her about it, the next time she came over to the house, she had a hundred excuses. “I’m trying, Sadie. I swear. But I can’t quit until I have another job lined up, and that takes time. I’ve got a bunch of applications. I just need to fill them out. And I can’t just go to an AA meeting. It’s like they’re all scheduled for when Mom’s at work and you’re at work, too, or at basketball practice, or when I have to work. I can show you the schedule. I even printed it out. Probably this Sunday I can go. And ask Lulu about all the stories I’ve been reading to her at bedtime. I even got her early one day from day care so we could run errands together. I couldn’t help it if she fell asleep in the car.”

  I knew it was 90 percent crap. I wanted to scream at her.

  “Just do what you said you’d do, Carla,” I snapped, cutting her off. “I’m going to court this Thursday, in case you forgot.”

  Carla got quiet, even quieter when I reminded her that I was going to have to confess all over again to shit I didn’t do. My lawyer had worked out an arrangement with the prosecutor for me to do community service, but I still had to stand up in court and admit that I knew about the drugs — and that Carla didn’t know a thing.

  She said she had to go, and I said, “Great. Call me when you get your shit together.”

  I hated all of it. I hated Carla not keeping up her end of the deal, at least not so far. I hated the waiting. And the worrying that somebody was going to find out. And having to keep this dark secret from Kevin, who knew something was the matter though I wouldn’t say what.

  Then they canceled court again. Mom and I were standing in the foyer, wearing dresses, worried that the lawyer hadn’t shown up yet. My case was first on the docket since it had gotten bumped back from the week before, but when the bailiff opened the doors, instead of calling my case, he said the judge had gotten sick. Sorry.

  Mom made me go to school late and didn’t even let me change, and all day at school people kept asking me what was up with the dress. I got an actual headache from all the lying I had to do.

  It was the next night, a Friday, when I yanked that girl down by her ponytail during the AAU game and got a technical and got ejected. I’d never done anything like that before, and I was as shocked as everybody else when I did it. The girl had swung an elbow grabbing a rebound early in the game and had given Julie Juggins a bloody lip. Then she’d stomped on Julie’s foot so hard Coach had to pull Julie out for five minutes so she could ice it. That girl had Julie so cowed during the whole first half that we couldn’t get anything going on offense, and our defense kept breaking down. We were getting our asses kicked, literally. Julie should have stood up to the girl herself — she was six two, while the girl was maybe five ten — not left it to me, her five-four point guard, to do something about it. But she didn’t, and so I was the one that got tossed, and got yelled at by Coach, and had to spend the rest of the game sulking at the end of the bench.

  When I met up with Kevin after the game, he gave me grief, too. As if I didn’t already feel bad enough. I’d never gotten so much as a technical before that night.

  “I don’t know, Sadie,” he said. We were in his little Ford Fiesta, and I’d just finished ranting about how unfair my ejection had been. “That was kind of uncalled-for.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I said, though deep down I knew there wasn’t any excuse for what I’d done. “Did you not see the way she was beating on Julie all night?”

  He opened a can of beer between his legs and handed me one from the six-pack. “Not really. She kept getting position on Julie under the basket. She was pretty much schooling Julie until you did what you did.”

  “Yeah, but at least Julie turned it around after that,” I said.

  “Sure,” Kevin said. “But the girl was hurt. And probably scared that somebody else on your team was going to do something to her.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and sat back stiffly. I hated it when Kevin, who’d been red-carded more than anybody I knew, turned into Mr. Reasonable. And I hated it that he was right.

  But I wasn’t about to say any of that to him. “Take me back to the gym,” I said. I’d left my motorcycle there. We’d been planning for him to drive me back to pick it up later, after we went out. I was supposed to spend the night at Julie’s house, b
ut that probably wasn’t going to happen, either.

  “Come on, Sadie,” he whined. “I take it all back, OK? You should have kneecapped the girl. She deserved what she got. Is that what you want to hear?”

  I also hated it when Kevin whined. And I hated it that he was so good-looking, and that he knew it, and I hated it that he could be such a jerk but then turn ridiculously sweet just when I decided I’d had enough, and I hated it that when he kissed me, I went all weak and helpless and ended up doing stuff that I told myself I wouldn’t do again, only it felt so good that once we got started, I didn’t have it in me to say no.

  “Just take me back to the gym,” I said again, in a voice that didn’t give him any room to negotiate, or whine, or try to kiss me, or do any of the things that usually worked for him.

  I should have gone home, hung out with Mom, watched some TV, gone to bed early. I had to work at the car wash at eight the next morning. But once I got on my motorcycle, I just wanted to ride, feel that great rush of wind and speed, and leave everything behind — my temper getting the better of me in a way that had never happened before, and hurting that girl, and the stupid technical, and getting benched, and pissing off Coach. And Kevin lecturing me and then whining when he realized we wouldn’t be fooling around any that night. And court. And my confession. And Carla.

  I rode up Route 1 to Coal Landing Road, and then down Coal Landing Road, faster than I should, leaning into every hairpin curve, until it dead-ended at Aquia Creek. I stashed my bike there and hiked through the marsh, grateful the moon hung full over the trees, a perfect Government Island night-light, helping me pick out the way and keep to where it was driest.

  I had to wade through a ten-yard expanse of creek, just a couple of feet deep, so I pulled off my shoes and rolled up my pants as high as they would go. Once I reached the bank, I scrambled up to an old cart path that ran around the edge of the island and then another that bisected it through the middle, over to the channel side of Aquia Creek. They’d used those paths back in colonial days to haul out freestone from the quarry sites, and they used the freestone to build the foundations for the White House and the Capitol. The first time Dad took me and Carla to Government Island, he carried us up Aquia Creek on his johnboat and told us it was Virginia slaves who did most of the quarry work. He said they did the hauling and the loading onto barges for the trip down the deep, wide part of the creek and onto ships to go up the Potomac River to Washington, DC, forty miles north.