A few of the boys have vowed that once they're free, they'll never be back. Others consider it their only way of life--they don't know anything different. Those are the ones who don't have a snowball's chance in hell of making it on the outside. They might not reenter West Tennessee Juvenile Detention Center, only because they'll age out of the system, but they'll wind up in some hellhole a million times worse than this place.
Not gonna bullshit you, I'd die before they'll ever put me inside these cold, cinderblock walls again. I've been here since I was twelve years old. My only view has been the guard towers, and a fifteen foot high razor wire fence surrounding the yard. I've got less than a year to go and then I'm out of here for good.
The buzzer sounded, letting us know Social Studies was over. I had one more afternoon class, woodshop, before the school day ended for another week. I stood to leave and I heard Alex call my name.
"Braden, wait up." I stopped walking and waited for him. "You're going to put your name on the pen pal list, right?"
"I hadn't planned on it," I told him truthfully.
"I think you should. Reentering society can be difficult for someone who's been inside for as long as you have, Braden."
"Are you telling me I have to?" I quirked an eyebrow and waited for him to explain why he thought I should participate in something so lame.
A weary smile crept across his life-lined face. "No, not at all. It's up to you. I just think it might be a good idea. My two cents worth of advice. You can take it or leave it."
What the hell, why not? Just because I agreed to do it didn't mean anyone would write to me and it sure as shit didn't mean I had to write them back. "Yeah, okay. Sign me up." I sighed and turned to go.
His face lit up like a kid getting a pony for Christmas. "I think you're making the right decision."
"We'll see. If I don't like it, I don't have to keep doing it, right? I don't know what I'd have to say to anyone that wouldn't put them to sleep. Not like I lead an exciting life." I bet after a couple letters about a day in the life of Braden Sayer, I'd disappear off their Christmas card list.
"You're free to stop the program anytime, of course. Just give it a chance and don't quit before you get started." He leaned against the doorframe, eyeing me. "It'll give you some outside contact other than your uncle. Someone closer to your own age. It'll help make your transition back into society a little more seamless and not such a culture shock."
"I'm moving back to Hensteeth, Tennessee. I somehow doubt Hensteeth has changed that much since I was twelve years old," I said, shifting my textbook in my arms restlessly.
"Maybe, maybe not." He shrugged. "I still think it's a good idea."
I ran my hand over the thick stubble on top of my head and nodded. "So, what? I just wait for someone to write to me, is that how this works?"
"That's all there is to it," he said. He stepped into the hallway and locked his classroom door before walking beside me on the way to the woodworking shop. "Have a good weekend, Braden. I'll see you Monday."
Every free minute I had was spent in the shop and every penny Uncle Jeb sent was used to buy wood. About a year or so ago, I began making these little music boxes. They were small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, so it didn't take a lot of wood. If I was lucky, I got by using scraps of beech wood or pine that was leftover from other projects. The shop teacher, Mr. Collins, tricked me into selling them.
I gave him one to look at, one I was particularly proud of, and he put it in the inmate's gift shop. I had no idea he'd done that until he handed me a receipt for a deposit into the commissary in my name. At first, I was kind of pissed at him for going behind my back and doing that, but I guess it all worked out for the best. It meant I didn't have to depend on my uncle for money anymore.
Uncle Jeb visited me at WTJDC on the first Sunday of every month. One Sunday, he didn't show up. I was pissed. I figured, like every other adult in my life, he'd given up on me. I felt like a real asshole when I learned that my Aunt Carolyn had suffered a massive coronary that morning right before church while hanging laundry on the clothesline to dry.
Uncle Jeb was the only relative I had left. After the fire that killed our stepdad, Mama disowned Brogan and me. She swallowed a handful of sleeping pills one night and died in her sleep shortly after my brother and I were locked up.
Maybe I sound cold toward her, but I'm not. She loved us, but after our real dad had left, she changed. She was sad most of the time, and took meds for depression for as long as I could remember. Every week, back before my life turned to complete shit, Mama dressed Brogan and me in our Sunday's finest and dragged us off to church. Sitting through one of Reverend Copeland's sermons was tolerable only because I got a chance to watch his lovely dark haired daughters.
The girls were close to the same age as Brogan and me, and they sat quietly in the front pew, week in, week out. I remembered thinking they were twins until the bold one made it clear to me that she was younger by eleven months. Sometimes, after church, they'd join us for Sunday dinner at my Aunt and Uncle's.
The older girl, Olivia, was quiet and I could tell she was the apple of her daddy's eye. The younger one, Claire, was the polar opposite of her sister. She was mean, and mouthy, and often got warning glances from the reverend. I didn't know it then, but I liked Claire the best. I used to wonder how my life would have turned out if I had grown up in Hensteeth instead of growing up behind bars. It didn't matter, I couldn't turn back time, and a girl pretty as Claire Copeland wouldn't ever want anything to do with someone like me.
CHAPTER THREE
Claire Copeland
"Here," Olivia said, handing me a sheet of paper.
"What's this?" I asked. I scanned the page and remembered our conversation from yesterday about the pen pal program. It was a list of do's and don'ts for writing to inmates. I narrowed my eyes at her. "I told you, I'm not writing to a prisoner."
"Claire, come on. Do it for me?"
"No."
"Please? You owe me, you know." She had her hands on her hips. I hated when she did that because it meant she was about to resort to blackmail if I didn't agree to whatever she wanted.
I sighed noisily. "How do you figure I owe you?" I knew she had something over on me, I just wasn't sure which wrongdoing she was calling me out for.
"You borrowed my car without asking, and you put it in a ditch." She grinned, obviously having way too much fun at my expense.
"You forget, sister dear. Dad already knows about that. Jeb told him he pulled me out of the ditch." She'd been standing right there when Dad announced I was grounded--again--for being out without permission, and for ditching her precious SHO.
"I know," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "But, he doesn't know where you were, what you were doing, and who you were doing it with."
The hell? "Yeah, and neither do you." I hoped.
Her smile grew as she opened the top right drawer of my desk, withdrew my diary, and pushed it under my nose. "You really should find a better hiding place for your admission of sins."
My mouth gaped, and I gave her a death stare. "Bitch," I snarled.
"So, now that we've got that settled, read the list of rules, and I expect you to have your first letter to Braden Sayer in the next day or two." With that, she strode out of my room.
Heat flushed through my body and I whipped that damn journal across the room. "Damn it to hell."
After I calmed down, I sat on the corner of my bed and began to skim the paper.
1) State your intentions in the first letter. Be clear about why you're writing to the inmate. Inmates may ask you for a romantic relationship. Be honest in the beginning if this is or isn't something you're interested in pursuing. You can say you just want to be friends and will not be giving them money, etc. Do not do anything you have any doubts about. Remember, you're always in control.
2) It's important not to write to more than one person in each prison unless you have asked. They don't have much to call their
own and become very protective and jealous of their few friends.
I wadded the list into a ball and tossed it into the trash. There was absolutely no frigging way I'd make it past one letter. Romantic relationship? Yeah, that was so not happening. I'd write Braden Sayer the obligatory letter just to get my sister out of my hair, but that was all.
I picked up my discarded diary and scanned the room for a better secret hiding place. Knowing that Olivia had read about my sexcapades left a sour taste in my mouth. We shared a lot of things, but the less she knew about my personal life, the better. Maybe she took notes. She could use a few lessons in loosening up. If I had to guess, I'd bet money on my sister being a nineteen-year-old virgin.
How was I supposed to begin my letter? Dear Mr. Sayer? Hi, Braden? Yo, dude? I chewed on my lip and began. After several tries, I settled on this:
Dear Braden,
My name is Claire Copeland. I live in Hensteeth, Tennessee. You might remember me as Reverend Copeland's daughter. I'm a senior this year and graduate in May--hopefully. School keeps me pretty busy, so I won't be able to write to you too often, but feel free to write me back.
Tell me about yourself.
Also, they said I should be honest from the beginning about this. I'm not looking for a love connection or anything like that.
Hope to hear from you.
Sincerely,
Claire
When I finished, I knocked on Olivia's bedroom door and handed her the sealed envelope containing my first, and last, letter to Braden Sayer. "Here, I'm done." She arched an eyebrow at me. "What? Don't give me that look. I did like you asked and wrote to him."
"You need to put your return address on here."
"My real address? I don't like the idea of him knowing where I live. What if when he gets out he comes looking for me?" I folded my arms in front of me and set my jaw defiantly.
"Claire. Braden Sayer used to go to our church. I'm pretty sure he already knows where we live. Besides, the boys we've been given to correspond with are model prisoners, not hardcore criminals on death row. They're just lonely, and this is meant to help them fit into society when they're done serving their time." She held the envelope up to the light. "Is there really something in here?"
"Yes," I snapped and shot her a nasty look. "I suppose you wanted to read this, too, like you did my diary. Which, incidentally, I've hidden now."
She rolled her eyes. "I hope you found a better hiding place than under your mattress. That's the first place everyone looks."
"I didn't hide it there. How about you just stay out of my room and not worry about what I'm doing for a change?"
I stalked down the hall to my room and promptly removed the journal from between the mattress and box springs and rethought my strategy.
CHAPTER FOUR
Braden Sayer
Even though Brogan is here too, we don't see each other very often. We get along best when we don't talk. He has it in for me, says I sold him out. I don't bother reminding him that it's because of him we're here. The two of us are like oil and water, and the less time I'm around him, the better things are for everyone.
They said there's a good chance I might be able to go home a few months early on account of good behavior. Uncle Jeb says I can come live with him. He's got an old trailer on his property I can stay in. He tells me I'm going to have a lot of catching up to do with my life--specifically with the opposite sex--and figures I'll want my own place. Wonder what he'd say if I told him the idea of being alone with a woman scares the bejesus out of me.
What woman in her right mind would want anything to do with a guy my age that's not only a virgin, but an ex-con? Somehow, I doubt they're going to be waiting in line for a piece of me.
I've been working hard to get my GED before I leave, and besides woodworking, I've also been tinkering around with small engines so I can help earn my keep when I get to the lake.
The scent of pine hung thick in the air as I concentrated on sanding the music box I was putting together. Mr. Collins stood over my shoulder watching me work.
"I've never seen anybody as particular as you are," he said, shaking his head.
"I want it to look nice. If it goes out the door with my name on it, I don't want people to think I do shit work." I continued to inspect the wood for any rough patches.
"You're a perfectionist, that's for sure." The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile and he patted me on the shoulder. "My wife's birthday is coming up, and I think she'd like one of these."
I shrugged. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well, she collects owls. If you can make me a pretty red one with a pair of owl cutouts, she'll be tickled to death."
I paused to blow the dust off the piece I was working on and pushed the safety glasses up on top my head. "Okay. Is there a particular song you want it to play?"
"That's easy," he said with an indignant snort. "She's a Tennessee gal through and through, so 'Rocky Top' is what she'll be expecting it to play."
"Sure thing, Mr. Collins." I held up the piece of pine I was sanding and told him, "I've already got a good start for you right here."
I worked for a while longer until it was time to eat. I didn't feel like staying in the cafeteria, so I grabbed some chips and a sandwich before heading back to my room. There was a letter waiting for me, and I assumed it was from Uncle Jeb--he was the only one I ever got anything from, but the handwriting wasn't his usual chicken scratch.
My forehead creased when I took note of the return address: Claire Copeland, 42 Devil's Fork Road, Hensteeth, TN. I stared at the envelope, baffled as to why the preacher's daughter would write to me. Then I remembered that stupid pen pal thing Alex had roped me into signing up for.
I shook my head and smiled. The mouthy one--the one I liked best--had decided to write me. Alex had asked that I make an effort, write at least one letter, and if it wasn't something I wanted to keep doing, he wouldn't push. I couldn't imagine having anything in common with a girl like Claire, but I'd write her one, obligatory response, she'd see what a loser I am, and that would be the end of that.
I was immediately struck by the smell of cherries when I opened the envelope, and it smelled pretty damn good. It wasn't overpowering or anything, not like she purposely had sprayed perfume on it before she mailed it. No, the scent was more subtle, with just a hint of sweetness. For a split second, I wondered if that's what she smelled like after her morning shower.
Her words were short and to the point, and just a little on the presumptuous side. She wasn't looking for a love connection or anything like that. I blew out a noisy breath and took a bite of the ham sandwich before replying.
Dear Claire,
Thank you for writing.
I do remember seeing you and your sister in church when I lived in Hensteeth. I bet you'll be happy to have high school behind you so you can focus on going to college in the fall. I'll just be glad to get my GED before I get out of here.
There's not much I can tell you about myself that you'd find interesting. I'm seventeen, and I'll be eighteen next January. In my spare time, I like working with wood and making music boxes. I sell them in the gift shop. I also tinker with small engines so I'll be able to help my Uncle Jeb at the marina when I come home.
I'm relieved to find out you're not looking for a love connection. I'm sure a girl like you wouldn't have a thing in common with me, anyway.
Hope all is well with your family. I imagine Olivia's in college by now? Uncle Jeb speaks highly of your father all the time.
If I haven't bored you to tears, feel free to write back when you get a chance.
Sincerely,
Braden
That was pretty lame, but there was no reason for me to make myself out to be something I wasn't. Being from the same small dot on the map, I'm sure there wasn't anything about me she didn't already know.
I folded the note, stuffed it into an envelope and hoped when she opened it that she didn't get a whiff of me and my surroundin
gs. Not that I smelled bad, but I sure didn't smell edible. Before I went to lift weights in the gym, I dropped the letter in the outgoing mailbox, and squelched the feeling of hopefulness that she'd bother to reply. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what she looked like all these years later.
CHAPTER FIVE
Claire Copeland
Alistair was waiting in his truck for me to sneak out, and I stalled as long as I could. I had hoped dad would turn off the TV and go up to his room for the night so I could go out through the front door. When I couldn't wait any longer, I ended up crawling out my bedroom window, tiptoeing across the porch roof as quietly as I could. Alistair wouldn't wait forever and lately I'd barely been able to wipe my ass without asking for permission first.
I was still grounded over the ditch incident, and I wasn't supposed to be anywhere but my bedroom. It was Friday night, and there was no way I was staying home like a damn prisoner while everyone else was out having fun.
In the process of climbing down the trellis at the corner of the house, it snapped and pulled away from the railing, spilling me to the ground. "Fuck that hurt," I muttered. Luckily the living room was on the opposite side of the house. I paused a few beats, holding my breath. When the kitchen light didn't come on, I shot to my feet and scrambled down the lane.
It was dark and I ran blindly toward the uneven rumble of Alistair's pickup up the road where it sat idling with the headlights off. The passenger door squeaked open and I climbed inside.
"'Bout time, Clair," he said as he put the truck in gear and pulled away slowly.
I glared at him and lit a cigarette. "Fuck off. It couldn't be helped."
He cracked a beer and took a long swig before passing it to me. "It's all good. Things will just be getting started about now anyhow."
The party was on the other side of the lake, and if I squinted above the tree line, I could see the orange glow from the bonfire. I chugged the rest of his beer and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I giggled and handed him the empty can. "Damn that hit the spot."
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