by Peter Wright
The blond girl’s touch still on Kayla’s cheek. Next time will be different. The girl’s hand squeezed, her fingers pulled back until her knees buckle. Kayla’s fork scrapes the plate. Fuel. She needs fuel.
Panda Bear cups his hands alongside his mouth. “Let’s move out, ladies.”
Kayla’s table at the line’s end. The girls with trays in hand, their pace slowed by Heavy Metal’s inspection. The dishwasher’s steam thins beneath the high ceiling. Linda and Chris whispering. Heather silent, a calm Kayla envies. Betty stops, and the others bunch behind her.
“What’s that?” Betty nods to the circular tray at the serving line’s end. The tray covered with a white baking sheet and scattered with crumbs and flecks of icing. “Did they have sweet rolls again?”
The cafeteria lady slides on her rubber gloves. “We did. Earlier.”
The dishwasher drop-off waits just beyond the serving line. “And they were good,” Heavy Metal says.
“Thanks, hon.” The cafeteria lady rests her fist against her hip. “We do our best with what we’ve got.”
Betty not moving. The gap between her and the girl in front of her widens. “What do you mean ‘were good’? Like there’s none left? Again? Like again like it’s been three times in the past two weeks?”
Heavy Metal motions her to move along. “Don’t get snitty. I should take you back to the street. Lots of folks are getting by with less than you these days.”
Heather steps around Kayla. A rising onto tiptoes, a whisper in Betty’s ear. “Forget it. We have other things to take care of.”
Betty slams her tray to the floor. Her glass and plate jump. The silverware scatters. Kayla freezes. The sisters draw back. Heather shakes her head, then speaks to Kayla: “Just get out of her way.”
“Fuck your fucking sweet rolls!” Betty grabs the baking sheet, and with a grunt and two-handed release, sends it flying. The tray’s paper cover flutters off, a pinwheeling of crumbs. A flash of silver, a whirling flight and an echoing crash. A moment of tranquility, of perfect balance. The cafeteria ladies still as statues, their trays and utensils in hand. The other girls silent. Even the guards frozen, a spell broken when Betty snatches Heather’s tray and hurls it above the deserted tables.
Heavy Metal and Panda Bear step forward. Their mouths grim and set. Betty takes Chris’s tray, a grunt and a heave toward the serving line. The cafeteria ladies duck and a plate shatters behind them. Kayla’s tray next, a single, swift motion, snatch and release.
Heavy Metal pushes forward, his boot stomping Kayla’s foot. Betty darts off, avoiding their snares, a passing of the serving line where she topples the tray’s rolling cart. Next the silverware, handfuls flung, a dozen pings, odd, metal notes. Panda Bear slips on a clump of eggs, cursing as he scrambles to his feet then slipping again. The floor littered with broken plates and spilled juice. Heather slides a fork into her scrub pocket. Linda stoops, the cuff of her sweat pant lifted and a knife slid into her sock. The chase escalates, Betty cursing and weaving between tables until she stops in an open space near the entrance doors. She stands, panting, hands raised. “OK, OK. I’m done.”
Panda Bear the first to reach her. He snatches her wrist and wrenches her arm behind her back. Betty’s body arches, a grimace but no cry for mercy. Heavy Metal latches onto her other arm, his free hand grabbing her neck, her head pushed until she’s bent double. “Fuck you,” she snorts. Her wriggling only bringing a rougher handling.
“She’s not fighting, you fucking goons!” A cry from Heather, a tone Kayla finds more jolting than the guards’ violence.
Panda Bear turns. “You’re next if you don’t shut up!”
“She’s not fighting!” Heather’s cries picked up by Linda and Chris then the rest of the girls. The cafeteria echoes with their voices.
The guards on either side of Betty, her arms pinned behind her, a duck walk across the scattered trays and silverware. Betty turns as they push her through the cafeteria doors. “You take care of things, Heather. You hear me?”
Nurse Amy leads the reds down the center hallway and through a set of double doors. Kayla’s map morphs, the absorption of details, an acquiring of depth. This new space a combination gym and auditorium. The white pods, she believes, overhead, just as theirs are over the cafeteria. At the gym’s far end, a backboard, a painted basketball key on a pinewood floor. The walls lined with mats. Cages over the windows and lights. At the near end, four steps lead to a wooden stage, its recesses cloaked by tall green curtains. A podium in front of the stage. The taped centerline runs between neat rows of folding chairs, the right section already claimed by the whites. Donna in an aisle seat. Her voice rises as Kayla and Heather pass, “Sweet rolls were good this morning. Too bad some people missed out.”
Kayla follows Heather to the last row. They sit, the sisters beside them. Beneath their sneakers, more lines, ones painted years before the floor’s center divide, boundaries for hopscotch and four-square and volleyball. The smallest reds claim the front seats, Nurse Amy rubbing their heads as they pass. A tall man strides to the podium. The hinging of his knees and elbows slightly off-kilter, an ungainly stride offset by his focus, his air of command. A black suit, a reverend’s white collar. An armband of red and white. A face that reminds Kayla of her uncles’, one that knew the sun and hard work. His hair short and curled, black fading to gray. Kayla guesses he’s nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, a frame more comfortable beneath the other end’s backboard. He sets down a Bible bristling with bookmarks, grips the podium’s sides, and looks over his audience.
Chris taps Kayla’s shoulder. “That’s Reverend Blake.”
“We just call him the Deacon,” whispers Linda. “He kind of runs things.”
“Nurse Amy really runs things,” Chris says.
“Yeah,” Linda says, “but the Deacon’s the big-wig type.”
“We do this every day after breakfast.” Chris rolls her eyes. “Sometimes it’s a drag.”
Heather crosses her arms. “Sometimes?”
Chris nods. “Well I guess sometimes suck more than others. All depends on how long the Deacon wants to talk.”
“Or what’s up his ass,” Linda says.
The Deacon slides a pair of glasses from his pocket. Nurse Amy approaches him, a huddled conversation. He nods as he flips the Bible’s thin pages. Kayla leans toward Heather. The auditorium thick with chatter yet she still whispers, “What’s going to happen to Betty?”
“I’m guessing isolation for a few days.”
“This isn’t her first time,” Linda says.
“I’m worried,” Chris says. “What if they—”
Heather cuts her off. “They won’t. She’ll be back in a few days.”
Panda Bear and Heavy Metal enter and join the podium’s gathering. Heavy Metal’s hair disheveled, Panda Bear busy adjusting his belt and tucking in his shirt. The Deacon slides his glasses up his nose. The guards retreat, Heavy Metal by the door, Panda Bear behind the folding chairs. Nurse Amy leaves but not before a final wave to the youngest girls in the front rows.
The Deacon raises his hands, his palms up and shoulder-high. A pose that reminds Kayla of the cranes she’s seen skimming over the calm river. The girls stand, Kayla a moment behind.
“Lord, thank you for this day and its blessings.” His eyes closed now, a wide smile. An expression as though he’s imagining himself as Kayla’s crane, soaring flight and the kiss of wind. His voice a baritone of ice and stone. The girls with their hands clasped before them. All with their heads bowed save Kayla and Heavy Metal and Donna. “Please, Lord, help us to use Your bounty to serve. Let us follow Your light along the righteous path. Amen.”
A brief scuffing of chairs. The Deacon waits until all are still, then another pause that adds to the room’s heaviness. He adjusts his glasses then latches onto his coat’s lapels. Another beaming smile. “It’s a good day for the Lord, isn’t it, ladies?”
Calls of yes and amen from the whites. A silver sheen eases into
the Deacon’s words. “I understand there was some unpleasantness during second breakfast.” Smiles among the whites. “Which is unfortunate because we live in a time of great need. The scriptures are full of passages about the power of humility and grace. So many have so little these days that we must remind ourselves that despite our sufferings, we are never truly lost, not as long as we have faith, which is just as vital as food and shelter and the clothes on our backs. So with this in mind, let us pray for ourselves and for the young lady who couldn’t be with us this morning.” He lowers his head and draws a deep breath. “Dear Lord, hear our prayer. We ask for Your guidance in these difficult times. We thank You for Your abundant gifts, and we ask for the wisdom to use these gifts for Your greater glory.”
Kayla bows her head. She thinks about praying but stops short. Not here. Not with strangers. Maybe later, her bed, beneath the protection of the dark and the silence of a sleeping room. A glance to her side. Heather’s clasped hands, the cuff of her long-sleeved T-shirt pulled up just enough to reveal her wrist’s crude tattoo. Her thin lips moving, her eyes squeezed shut.
History quieter without Betty. Kayla believes even Mr. James misses her, his lesson on the Revolution limping along, no one in the mood to raise their hands. Then math, Kayla’s worksheet finished in three minutes. Mr. James busy with the youngest girls and his stack of homemade flash cards.
Kayla sets her sheet aside. A delicate tug, a page torn from her thin notebook. She balks, a blank moment, a reckoning of the white space and all that brims within. She steadies herself and her pencil scratches over the paper.
* * *
Dear Mom,
When this finds you, please know that I am well. I’m living in the city in a school for girls. One of the girls says we’re on Forster Street, but I’m not sure. There is food and I have a bed. I miss you, and when I think of your hands holding this letter, I feel less alone. I’m dreaming about the day we can be together again—and the belief that this will happen soon and the knowing that you are waiting for me is enough to see me through whatever awaits.
* * *
She looks over what she’s written. She hears voices—hers and her mother’s—words that evaporate into the morning light. She brings her pencil back to the paper.
“Kayla,” Linda whispers.
The voices fade. Mr. James stands behind her. She slides her math worksheet over her letter and sits up straight.
A moment’s pause. “Very good,” he says and moves on.
Kayla folds the letter, in half then in half again. The creases crisp and straight. The paper slid into her scrub top’s pocket.
Heather in the cafeteria supply closet. Their spray bottles and rags returned. Kayla outside, not wanting to look until she’s invited. She gazes through the dirty glass of the loading dock door. An alarm on the door, and beyond, a small patch of raised concrete, a few steps to the playground’s macadam. Trash on the blacktop, papers on the breeze, a rolling cup. On the other side of the locked gate, a girl on a bicycle, her knees pumping. A flash between parked cars.
Heather hands Kayla a pair of dust mops. “When we’re done, we’ve got to take back what Zach’s dropped off. You good with that?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She turns off the closet light and shuts the door. Kayla leans a mop’s long handle toward Heather. “No,” Heather says, “the other one.”
The glide of Kayla’s mop reminds her of sawdust-littered floors. Her uncles. Her father. She closes her eyes and sees his face, the sun’s glint on his glasses. She can still be his daughter, the girl he took to see the riverside’s wonders. They can take away everything in the moment but not her past.
“You OK?”
Scents from the kitchen—soup, grilled cheese. Kayla yearns to lie down. Here, now. Yearns to fold her body into the earth and never rise again. Yearns to both never think of her father and forever be with him. She opens her eyes. “Yeah.”
“You look kind of pale.”
“I’m good. Thanks.”
Heather slides her hand from the top of her broom’s handle. “Mine’s the one with the nicks.” She releases her grip to show three small grooves carved into the wood, scars of natural grain beneath the varnish. She closes her hand and returns to sweeping. The cafeteria ladies bring their trays. The clamor of metal, the open space’s watery acoustics. The kitchen’s radio and voices. “One’s for my mom. One’s for my dad. One’s for my sister.”
Kayla’s dust pile grows. “Maybe you can tell me about them sometime.”
“Maybe.”
And if Kayla stays long enough, maybe she’ll tell Heather about the botanist strung up on the mob’s vine. The poet who melted into the night. The girls kneel and sweep their piles into a dustpan.
They return to the supply closet. Heather hands Kayla her mop and nods to the door. “Keep an eye out, OK?”
Kayla at the closet’s threshold. Her attention split. The cafeteria ladies’ final preparations, the tying of aprons, the grabbing of spatulas and ladles. The whites line up outside the entry doors. Kayla steps back. The closet cramped. Walls lined with shelves, shadows beneath a naked bulb and the memory of Helen’s secret room. Heather crouches and slides out a box marked with a red dot. “It’s light. Betty’s going to be pissed.”
Heather pulls out wads of brown wrapping. Inside, a tube of hand lotion. A disposable lighter. A cigarette pack and a pint of whiskey. She returns the paper and slides the box back onto the shelf. She stands. “How do we look?”
Kayla checks the cafeteria. The whites approach the serving line. Panda Bear with his back to Kayla. Donna and the redheads staring. “We’re OK.”
“Here.” Heather hands Kayla the cigarettes. Kayla slides them into her scrub pocket. “No, like this.”
Heather lifts her top, the hem of her T-shirt clenched between her teeth. Her belly exposed and her sweatpants lowered. She slides the pint and lotion beneath her underwear’s elastic. She knots her sweatpants’ tie and lowers her T-shirt and scrub. She smiles. “The baggy style isn’t all bad. Just hold your hands in front of you and walk slow.”
The cigarettes in Kayla’s underwear. The tug of elastic, the box’s corners hard against her belly. Heather shuts the closet, and they step back into the alcove. Donna and the redheads glance over their shoulders. Kayla imitates Heather’s posture. Her hands grasped in front of her, an anchoring of the pack against her belly. In Kayla, the charge of contrasting currents, one fearful, the chance of being caught, of the guards’ hands upon her—and beneath, another current, the freedom of giving over, of sisterhood and placing herself outside the machine. Her lot balanced upon this tightrope walk past Panda Bear and the whites.
Donna doesn’t look up as they pass her table. Her sandwich held near her lips. “Our box better not be light, cunts.”
Days pass. Kayla the only one tall enough to take Betty’s place in stashing their take above the ceiling tiles, the others voting to wait for Betty’s return to sample the goods. In Kayla, a growing appreciation of the surrounding tides. The exchange of magazines, the bartering of favors and chores. The running feuds between the whites and reds. The guard who spikes his thermos coffee. The crackers and rolls the cafeteria ladies sneak out in their purses. The flow of rumors from beyond the fence. Whispers of unrest. Predictions for a harsh winter. Looming food shortages. Kayla listens—in the cafeteria and bathroom and common area. She imagines the children’s game of telephone, the butchered messages passed down the line, yet beneath—perhaps—a glint of truth. Today’s rumor—morning’s tirade between Betty and the Deacon. Betty given an extra day in isolation for complaining about the third floor’s mice, the Deacon’s prayers drowned by her curses.
History class—the surrender at Yorktown and the Louisiana Purchase. In math, Kayla takes the end-of-the-year exam. A perfect score followed by a hallway conversation. Kayla’s partial confession of the courses she’s taken, Mr. James’s promise to track down a more challenging text. Until then, they strik
e a deal. Kayla the tutor for her pod-mates while he works with the younger girls. Kayla unsure at first, but her hesitance is no match for the sisters’ enthusiasm. Their desks pushed together, Kayla illustrates the rules for multiplying and dividing exponents, for finding equations of lines and parabolas. Linda leans close and whispers, “You explain it better than Mr. James.”
“A lot better,” Chris says. “Nothing against Mr. James.”
Linda’s quick echo: “No, nothing against Mr. James.”
Heather nods. “But true nonetheless.”
After lunch, forty-five minutes of outdoor rec. The red section of macadam in the building’s rear, their pod’s windows above. Monkey bars and the swingless swing set. A kickball diamond’s painted bases. The delivery gate and its thick padlock. The cafeteria’s loading platform, and in its nook of brick and concrete, swirls of wind-swept trash. Kayla stands at the cusp of the building’s shadow. A small row of windows runs above their pod, the glass reflecting the clouds and weak sun. Kayla waves just in case Betty is looking down.
A backboard and hoop on the white side. A ball’s dribbling twang, the clank of iron. Another rumor—the Deacon’s plans for a three-on-three tournament. His playing days in high school and Bible College. His belief in the morality of sport and the purity of toil, metaphors he extolls in his morning talks. His office door open as Kayla and the others pass—shelved trophies, framed photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings. Whites against reds, the rumors claim, three age groups. Heather and Kayla lean against the fence just beyond the younger girls’ kickball game. Linda and Chris playing too, the little ones begging until the sisters joined them. “You ever play basketball?” Heather asks.
“Some. A CYO league for a couple years.” She picks up the underinflated kickball that’s bounced their way, an underhand toss that Linda juggles and drops.