“I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend,” I say, remembering her story about how she ended up in juvie.
She waggles my rook. “I never said that.”
I castle with my bishop to protect my queen. “You said you were with some guy who robbed the liquor store.”
She clenches her fist around the piece. “I didn’t say he was my boyfriend. I didn’t even know that guy. I just met him that one time.”
I shrug.
Cell Seven scoots her chair close to the table, and close to Bad Gina. “Take me with you?” she whispers.
Bad Gina and I both stare. I’ve never heard Cell Seven speak before. She’s so pale, so washed out, that it’s a miracle she doesn’t just turn translucent, or vanish altogether, out here in the bright artificial light of the common room.
“I have four hundred dollars,” she says. “I can get my mom’s bank card, too. I think there’s some kind of limit or something, you know, to what you can withdraw or whatever. But still, it’s something. I know her code. No kidding.”
Bad Gina sighs. “Yeah, yeah. You told me that already.”
“I did?” Cell Seven asks. She seems genuinely confused. I’m guessing it’s the lithium.
“Yeah,” says Bad Gina. “You did. Anyway, can’t do it. Sorry.”
Cell Seven’s eyes rim with tears. “Can’t take me with you?”
“No.” Bad Gina doesn’t look at her anymore.
Cell Seven eases back from the table. “OK, well. I kind of need a nap, anyway.”
And just like that she crosses the common room and disappears back into her cell.
“That chick is so messed up,” Bad Gina says.
“What’s she in for?” I ask. “You never told me.”
Bad Gina takes my queen, though there’s no way she could have been in position. “Said she killed her friend. Vehicular homicide. Drunk driving. Something like that. But you never know. She could have just made it all up to get sympathy or whatever. People in juvie are all such liars.”
A couple of days later, there’s a power outage. The electronic doors jam and we’re stuck in the gym. Officer Killduff paces nervously, probably going through nicotine withdrawal. He barks at us to grab some floor, which of course we do.
After half an hour, I raise my hand. Officer C. Miller comes over and squats next to me.
“Hey, Sadie.”
“Hey,” I say. “Any chance I can get up and shoot some baskets?”
C. Miller laughs. “In the dark?”
“There’s enough light to see,” I say. “Sort of.”
She drums her fingers on the hardwood floor and laughs again. “Well, why not? Let me check to see if it’s OK.”
Seconds later, I hear Officer Killduff: “She wants to what?”
I can’t hear what C. Miller says back, but I guess it’s convincing enough, because she comes back over and says, “Sure.”
I’m the only one who gets up at first, the only one who fishes through the bin for a basketball that has the right amount of air, the only one who steps up to the foul line once I find it with just the red emergency exit signs to see by. I launch a couple of clunkers before finding my range, and then hear the most satisfying sound in the world on my next couple of shots: nothing but net. Fefu scoots over closer on the floor so she can watch. She claps every time I make a basket.
Bad Gina comes over then, too, and snatches the ball. Her first shot doesn’t even hit the backboard. Neither do the next two. “Too dark in here,” she whines.
“Not when I shoot,” I say, banking in a twelve-foot jumper.
I toss her the ball. “Let’s play one-on-one. Shoot for it from the top of the key.”
She misses, and barely touches the ball after that, unless she just happens to graze it with her fingertips while hacking my arm as I keep dribbling past her. When she defends the lane, I go baseline and shoot reverse layups. She tries fouling me, but she’s no Jelly Sister and I just shove her off and shoot pull-up jumpers. I can tell she’s getting madder and madder, but I don’t care, even when she finally gets her hands on the ball — after my last basket — and flings it into the rafters.
Final score: 21–zip. The ball looks stuck for a minute, but then falls. I catch it on one bounce. Fefu cheers.
“God,” Bad Gina swears as she stomps off the court. “You’re such a basketball dyke.”
I keep shooting. Loosened up now and feeling it. Layups, free throws, pull-up jumpers, three-pointers.
C. Miller comes over after another half hour, grabs a rebound, and rims out a shot from the corner. She’s so bored I guess she doesn’t care what Officer Killduff might say, though I can tell by the way he abruptly stops pacing and crosses his arms that he doesn’t like it one bit. I can’t actually see his face in the gloomy gym, but know he’s glaring at us. I worry that C. Miller will get in trouble later — for fraternizing with inmates or whatever — but don’t say anything. I’m happy to have somebody to shoot with who knows what she’s doing.
“You still play?” she asks.
“You see it,” I say.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Outside. For your school.”
I tell her yes, that and AAU ball. “Until I got kicked off the team.”
“When did that happen?”
We’ve been taking turns shooting while we talk, but now I just stand there with the ball. “Guess.”
“Right,” she says. “Of course.” Then she tells me she read my file.
I don’t look at her. It’s not a conversation I’m interested in having.
“So what happened?” she asks. It’s the first time we’ve really talked in the almost four weeks since the Jelly Sisters broke my nose. “How’d you get mixed up in all that stuff?”
I shoot again — and miss. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” I say. “I didn’t do anything. It was just this messed-up situation with these guys.”
C. Miller has the ball now and dribbles it next to her. “You didn’t do anything?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s right. I didn’t do anything.”
She shakes her head. “The guards have a name for girls like you.”
“What?” I ask.
“Wrong-Wrong. It’s kind of racist. They say it with a fake Chinese accent and make one of those Chinese faces.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Wrong Place–Wrong Time.”
I swipe the ball from her. Not that she’s guarding it. “Funny.”
“Yeah, well, they call a lot of girls that. I didn’t think you’d be one of them, though.”
I don’t know why I’m letting the conversation even continue.
“Look,” she says. “I don’t mean to get all preachy. But you went to the party, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. So?”
“And they were doing drugs there. Drinking beer and stuff. And you let those boys in your car, didn’t you?” She doesn’t wait for answers. “So it sounds to me like you didn’t listen to that voice in your head that tells you when something’s a bad idea, and that you should bail.”
I’m getting irritated. “So what’s your point?”
She swipes the ball back. “I’m just saying.”
“Right,” I say, past irritation and all the way into annoyed. “You want to know what’s a bad idea?”
She shoots from the top of the key and makes it. “What’s that?” she asks.
“This conversation.”
I’m about ready to throw the ball across the court and walk away, but C. Miller asks if I want to play Horse, as if we’ve been talking about something else all this time. The weather. The WNBA. Shoes.
We play three games in quick succession, and I beat her every time, neither of us talking except to call out letters when one of us misses. I think about letting her win one, but I’m still too annoyed. Anyway, it isn’t like playing checkers with Fefu. If C. Miller wants to beat me, she’s going to have to do what I’d tell anybody who isn’t good enough: ge
t better.
Minutes like that — when I feel full of myself — don’t last long. Sooner or later, usually sooner, this deadening quality creeps back into juvie and falls over everything, infects everything, smothers everything. Especially when you have somebody like C. Miller reminding you about how bad you screwed up and how you should have known better. But even without that, just when you start to feel good about your life because of some little thing that might go well, there are fifty other reminders about where you are and where you’re going to be for a long time, and how you got here and what everybody back home thinks about you now, and will probably think about you for the rest of your life.
There goes that girl Sadie. You know about her, right?
I read in the Washington Post this story about the dangers of the Internet. It focused on this girl who was just starting college. Ten years earlier, the Post had done an article about her having ADHD and how most of the kids who were diagnosed with it were boys but more and more of the time it was girls, and she was one of them, etc. Now, suddenly, as she was just about to leave for her freshman year, it occurred to her that anytime anybody googled her — like some boy in college who might want to ask her out — the first thing they would find out was about her having ADHD.
At least my juvie record won’t go online. It’s all supposed to be confidential. But that isn’t much consolation. Not really. In a small town like ours, people don’t need the Internet or Google. They just know.
Reverend Chilton doesn’t come back on Sunday. I’d been looking forward to seeing him again and feel sadder than I should from missing somebody I’ve only met once. The guards turn the TV to something called the Hour of Power, which is an evangelical megachurch with a smarmy preacher. Carla is supposed to come during visiting hours, since Mom came the Sunday before, but she never shows up. I call that night when we get phone privileges, but she doesn’t answer. I hope she’s at AA or somewhere with Lulu with her phone off. I pray that she is.
I must still look bummed out the next day, because C. Miller asks me what’s up when she comes on duty. I’m sitting alone in the common room, and for some reason I just start talking — about all the druggies Carla works with, about how she’s supposed to be cleaning up her act, about Lulu, and how I’m worried Carla’s not taking care of her right. It all comes out in a rush, and I feel out of breath when I stop.
C. Miller is quiet for a minute, nods as I guess she thinks about what I just said, then asks if I’d like her to check on Carla.
“You’d do that?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. I was kind of a jerk to you last week about you getting busted and everything.”
“Nah,” I say. “You were probably right. Partly right, anyway.”
C. Miller nods again. “So your sister. She’s at that Friendly’s near the hospital?”
“Yeah.”
She gets up from the table. Guards aren’t supposed to sit next to inmates for more than a couple of minutes. They’re supposed to keep moving, like sharks. I don’t know what to make of C. Miller’s offer, besides just being grateful. And wondering, as nice as she is — way too nice for juvie — how she ever got to be a guard in the first place.
I wore a blue sundress and let Mom fix my hair. She did my makeup, too, though when she left the room, I wiped most of it off. Carla was late getting to the house — she had to drop Lulu off at day care, but that wasn’t really an excuse and Mom let her know about it.
“Mom, quit yelling at her,” I said, handing Carla a tissue. I knew Carla wanted me to console her, but I’d gotten immune to her tears these past few weeks.
“Can we just go already?” I said, grabbing the car keys. “I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be late for court.”
None of us talked on the way. Kevin was supposed to meet us there, but I’d tried calling him a couple of times that morning and he hadn’t answered. I kept telling myself not to worry; he’d been so sweet and supportive the day he found me on Government Island — of course he’d be there.
I didn’t see his car when we arrived.
“Maybe he parked down the street,” Carla said. I’d finally told her and Mom the night before that Kevin was coming.
“Yeah,” I said. “This parking lot is really small.”
Mom shook her head.
“Come on,” Carla said, touching my arm. “He’s just running a little late.”
A bald, heavyset deputy sat on a stool next to a body scanner just inside the Juvenile and Domestic Relations building. “Anything metal, put in the tray,” he said, sliding a small bin across the counter at us. “No cell phones allowed. If you’re carrying your cell phone, take it back out and leave it in your car.”
Mom and Carla waited while I ran back outside to get rid of our phones. I tried Kevin one more time. His voice mail was full; I couldn’t even leave a message.
Mr. Ferrell, my lawyer, had a couple of other clients inside and kept scurrying from one to the other, popping in and out of a small room off to the side of the courtroom doors. We were still waiting in the foyer two hours after my case was scheduled to be heard. Mom read a book, or pretended to. She seemed to be stuck on one page. Carla closed her eyes and sat like that until I thought she’d fallen asleep. I elbowed her. “What?” she said. “I was practicing meditation.”
“Since when do you meditate?” I asked.
She closed her eyes again. “I don’t know. I read about it somewhere. You should try it.”
I actually did for a while — tried deepening my breath, clearing my mind, all that meditation stuff. It didn’t work. I looked up nervously every time someone came through the scanner and into the foyer, still hoping it was Kevin.
Mr. Ferrell finally ushered me and Mom and Carla into the consultation room. He seemed flustered. He loosened his badly tied tie and unbuttoned the top button on his dress shirt. I saw sweat stains when he took off his coat.
“OK,” he said. “There’s been a complication. No big deal. Just a complication. Judge Scott is still out sick, so there’s a substitute judge. His name is Judge Cannon, and he’s from King George County. He’s reviewing the agreement we worked out for community service. That’s all. But everything else is the same. We’ll go in; we’ll sit at the table up front.” He indicated himself and me. “Mrs. Windas,” he said to Mom, “you and your other daughter here, y’all will sit with the other observers. There won’t be any witnesses called. This is all pro forma. Everything’s already worked out. Sadie pleads guilty; Judge Cannon says a few words — kind of a lecture is what it is, about being sure Sadie takes advantage of this opportunity, this second chance, et cetera. Then he’ll pronounce the sentence. Then we go out to see the clerk of the court and sign some papers. We’ll have to wait some more for that. And then Sadie can go on to school and finish up her day. You all can. Any questions?”
Yeah, I wanted to say. I have a question. Where’s Kevin? He said he’d be here. He promised me. And why are you so nervous if you’re sure everything’s still going to be OK?
I shook my head instead. “No. I’m good.”
He smiled and squeezed my arm. Then he shook hands with Mom. The way he checked out Carla, I thought he might try to get her number. Except for her red eyes, she actually looked nice. She’d taken out her nose ring and most of her earrings, fixed her hair, and put on a short black skirt and a nice blouse.
The kid whose case was before mine had on a Big Johnson T-shirt. Mom and I couldn’t get over it. He must have just shaved his head that morning because there was a streak of dried blood just behind his left ear. His parents — I assumed they were his parents — were dressed up, though: gray pantsuit on her; brown coat and tie for him. When the bailiff called them into the courtroom, they zombied across the waiting area and disappeared through the double doors, looking more bored than worried.
I figured the more kids who went in before the judge looking like him, the better it would be for someone like me, who dressed up. Carla started bunching up her skirt,
nervously pinching at the fabric until I stopped her. I didn’t want anything wrinkled. I wanted us to be perfect. I even asked Mom in a whisper to straighten Mr. Ferrell’s tie for him, but she wouldn’t do it.
The Big Johnson kid’s parents came back out of the courtroom half an hour later — without him. Their faces were drained and blank. I wanted to grab them and ask what happened. What is it like in there? The bailiff called my name just then —“Windas?”— and we followed him inside.
The courtroom was tiny. There were four rows of benches that looked like church pews. Mom and Carla slid into one of those. Mr. Ferrell and I continued past them to the defendant’s table in front, below a raised platform with a massive desk and an elevated witness stand. On TV shows, they’re always saying, “You may approach the bench.” I’d always had this little-kid idea that there would be an actual bench up there somewhere, but there wasn’t. A court stenographer sat at a smaller desk next to the judge’s. Another lawyer — I assumed he was the prosecutor — had stacks of law books and folders and yellow legal pads spread out on a table next to ours. Mr. Ferrell pointed me to a chair, then stepped over to speak to the other lawyer. They talked about football.
The judge was in his chambers, so we all waited. It was noon; he was probably eating lunch while he reviewed the plea agreement. My stomach growled, which surprised me, since I wasn’t the least bit hungry. I glanced back to check on Mom, and she managed to smile, though it looked more like she was grimacing. Carla gave me the thumbs-up, but she was crying again and I was already wishing she hadn’t come. A few people who had nothing to do with my case sat in pews in the back. None of them were Kevin. The door cracked open and my heart leaped, but it was just the bailiff.
I stared at my hands. They were dried and cracked, and I could have really used some lotion. I knew Mom would have some, but she was too far away for me to ask.
The judge finally came in, and the bailiff said, “All rise.” He called court into session, also just like on TV, and then read my name and case number off a clipboard. The judge adjusted his robe, and then we all sat. He banged his gavel. The courtroom was as quiet as death.
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