At least the staff fed us well at mealtimes. The food in the place exceeded the quality at public schools. It was as if the state of Colorado was attempting to compensate for taking away our freedom.
After dinner, we got the choice of staying inside or going outside. Despite the indoor gym which most inmates preferred, I usually played basketball outside in the cold because I relished the sense of freedom. Pretending I was still in charge of my life brought a measure of sanity. With the thick workman’s style coats they gave us to wear, it wasn’t so bad.
During the weekends, we had the option of either being outside, in the gym or watching movies in the common room. Since the movies were usually rated PG, with an occasional tame PG-13 thrown in to spice things up, I usually declined and hung out elsewhere.
Beating Ian at one-on-one hoops had become my new favorite pastime. Ian worked out to keep in shape, but he had zero talent on the court. I whooped as I made another basket. “In your face!”
Ian cursed, scowling in frustration. “I’m tired of playing this game.”
Bouncing the ball, I circled around him. “More like you’re tired of getting your ass handed to you.”
“Give me a soccer ball and I’ll have you crying on the grass,” he boasted.
I scoffed, bouncing the basketball between my legs before palming the dimpled leather. I threw the ball at the hoop across the court, making it bounce off the backboard without going in. “Soccer sucks.”
I found the chilly November night refreshing. Running across the court after the basketball had my blood pumping. Our time almost up, I was eager to see if I got any mail today. The staff opened and examined the mail before handing it out to the residents in the evenings.
When it was time to return to the cell block, we filed inside. There were several bathrooms with showers down the hall where we cleaned up one at a time. It was messed up, but there was a risk of molestation if the inmates weren’t kept separate at shower time. In the handbook they gave us, sexual abuse by another inmate or staff was termed bad touch. At my turn for the bathroom, I hurried through my shower, knowing I was being timed and wanting to make the most of it.
Before we were locked into our cells for the night, the staff checked for weapons. As we lined up against a wall with several guards surveying us, one guard yelled, “Pants!” In compliance, we each grabbed our pant legs and pulled them above our ankles. After a minute, the same guard yelled, “Shoes!” and we kicked them off, held them upside down, then whacked them together. The slapping noises continued for a few seconds until the guards were satisfied. I put my shoes back on and smoothed back my damp hair.
A guard holding the stack of mail called the names of several inmates, including Ian and myself. When he said, “Caleb Morrison!” I moved forward to take the letter he extended. Flipping it over, I saw it was from my girl.
Finally!
A guard locked us into our cell and Ian climbed onto his bunk, breathing a dramatic sigh. “Now you can stop whining like a little bitch.”
Ignoring him, I laid down on the bottom bunk. A rustling of papers could be heard from where Ian relaxed up above. He hadn’t mentioned who his letter was from and despite not wanting to be, I was slightly curious. “Who wrote you?” I hoped his dad had sent him the letter.
“The shrink signed me up for some pen pal program with a church youth group. Some bible thumper chick sent her first letter. I wonder if she’ll try to save my eternal soul through the mail.”
I remembered the program he referred to. I’d declined participating and was surprised Ian hadn’t done the same. Flipping Gianna’s letter through my fingers, I listened to him talk. I was both anxious and afraid at the same time to open her letter. “Not even Jesus could save your soul, Ian.”
“Get this,” Ian started then in a girly voice continued, “Reading your profile, I realize you need a spiritual friend.” He stopped to snicker. “Caleb, do you need a spiritual friend?”
I didn’t remind him I’d started attending the Sunday morning church services given by a non-denominational preacher they brought in. I laughed along with him, but I wasn’t feeling it. I was preoccupied with Gianna’s sloppy handwriting on the white envelope. For a girl, her penmanship sucked.
Ian continued to read his letter aloud. “Blah, blah, blah. I’m fifteen years old. Blah, blah, blah. My favorite band is Paramore. I live downtown Denver with my grandmother and older sister.” He went quiet for a moment. “Listen to this. I’m not allowed to tell you my last name because you’re a criminal.” Sounding offended, Ian complained, “And this is supposed to lift my spirits?”
“What’s her first name?” I asked, only half caring.
“Alexandra,” Ian answered. He went quiet again, possibly more interested in the letter than he’d admit. Knowing him, his new life’s mission was to get her last name out of her. Give Ian a rule and he was bound to break it eventually.
Finally mustering the courage, I tore open the envelope and slid out Gianna’s letter. Written on binder paper in blue pen, I questioned the uncharacteristically sloppy handwriting. My eyes flicked to the pictures taped above me before I started reading.
Dear Caleb,
I’m sorry if this is hard to read, but I still have the cast on my right wrist. So I’m writing this using my left hand and I suck at it. My jaw is completely healed now and I invited Cece over yesterday to see my dad’s new house in Englewood. We just moved in a couple days ago. It’s weird living south of Denver now, but I like the change.
Chance is still with my mom, but my dad plans to pick him up most weekends. I’ll miss living with Chance, but I’m glad for the break from my mom. I agreed to come to her house at least one night a week for dinner. Even if we don’t agree on how I live my life, she’s still my mom and I love her.
I miss you so much, Caleb. I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner, but I’ve been so busy with everything. Getting registered at my new school and moving into the new house was stressful. Until my left cast came off, it was impossible to write.
By the way, I wrote my new cell number on the bottom of this page. You can call me whenever they let you and if I’m able to, I’ll answer.
Like I said, Cece came over yesterday and gave me the letters you sent through Dante. With this letter, you’ll have my new address and can write me directly here. Don’t worry, my dad won’t have a problem with you sending letters to his house. He isn’t totally approving of you being locked up, but he realizes what drove you to violence.
I don’t know if I can say it enough, but I am so, so sorry about everything that’s happened. I feel like I’ve ruined your life. I can’t believe you’d even want anything to do with me anymore. I cried when I read your letters because it sounds horrible there and it’s all my fault you’re in that place. Ian too. Tell him I’m sorry. If I hadn’t been so stupid, you two wouldn’t be stuck there.
I’ve decided to give up cheer for good. I couldn’t imagine ever enjoying it again. But when my right wrist heals, I’m going back to the crew. I told Cece I was injured in a cheerleading accident. Thank you for not telling Dante what happened to me. I don’t want people to know.
I’ll understand if you want to break up with me. I don’t think I’d make a very good girlfriend anymore and you deserve someone who’s not so messed up. Whatever you decide, I’ll accept it.
I’m glad they have an art class for you to take. You’re so talented and I love that for you. Your psychiatrist sounds intrusive, but maybe it’ll be nice for you to open up. I may be a little prejudiced when it comes to psychiatrists now because mine won’t shut up about what happened. I told my dad I didn’t want to go anymore, but my mom insists and he’s backing her up.
I think dancing with the crew again will be good for me. I just want my life to be the way it used to be. I don’t want to be the center of attention anymore and I’m tired of my parents worrying so much about me.
I do love you, Caleb, but I’m not sure us being together is what’s best
. Maybe ending things is smartest. Things are so messed up and both of our lives have been turned upside down. So much has happened already and you’ll be in there for another nine months still. That’s a long time. How will things be between us then? But like I said, whatever you decide.
I hope you can forgive me for ruining your life. Ian too.
I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t like the way I feel, but I don’t know how to stop it. I just want everything back to normal.
Gianna
CHAPTER TWO
“Don’t brood. Get on with living and loving. You don’t have forever.”
-Leo Buscaglia
CHRISTMAS DAY
two months down, eight to go…
CALEB
We had about two seconds before the guards broke up our rumble. Everything went in slow-motion as a fist met my nose. At the same time I threw a hand back to catch my fall, my other hand whipped up to cover my nose. Too late of course, since the random fist had already done its damage. The punch effectively put me out of the fight until I saw Ian take a knee to the gut and forced myself back to a standing position.
Limping from a mean kick to the leg I received earlier, I stumbled over to where Ian just got punched in his ribs. Once I reached them, I got behind one of the guys beating Ian and wrapped my arm around his neck, putting him into a headlock. My younger days of watching wrestling on TV came in handy as I body slammed the dumbfuck into the pavement.
The guards finally showed to break up the group disturbance taking place behind an outbuilding on the far side of the basketball court. I didn’t know for sure who started the fight, but it went a long way to relieve some of my pent up aggression. I was up for fighting anyone, except maybe Ian and our friend, Ricky. Maybe.
The guards yelled for us to lie on the ground, protocol in these situations. I immediately dropped onto my stomach, moaning and pretending to be in more pain than I actually was. My hands cradled my head, comforting an imaginary injury. I had a feeling Ian instigated the fight, so in no way was I offering to take the blame. I’d play the victim, or even hero card. Ricky and I had saved Ian from being jumped by four other guys.
We were all hauled into the main building and thrown into solitary cells designated for Time Out. I could’ve actually used a little alone time. Constantly being in the company of other people became annoying. Before slamming the steel door shut on me, the guard gave me a stern look and informed me we’d be taken in twos to the infirmary to see the medical staff. I imagined Band-Aids and lollipops being handed out and laughed to myself.
I hoped to be taken at the same time as Ian because I owed him a slap upside the head. What was he thinking getting us into trouble like this? I was trying to bide my time until I got the hell out of this place and he’d dragged me into his bullshit. Fighting was an outlet for the jumble of negative shit in my head. But if I wanted a chance at getting out of this place any sooner than eight months from now, I needed to wear a freaking halo, not a busted up nose.
The solitary cell was more barren than the one I shared with Ian. There was a drain in the middle of the floor that I didn’t want to know the purpose of and someone had scratched up one wall. Using the sink and toilet paper in the cell, I cleaned up my face the best I could, washing off most of the blood. A mirror would’ve been helpful. I was definitely claiming self-defense to the warden later. Once I was as fixed up as I was getting without the help of real first-aid supplies, I plopped down onto the three-inch-thick mattress covering the metal bed frame and closed my eyes.
Merry fucking Christmas.
The day had started out pleasant enough. My parents showed up this morning for Christmas visitation, a special version of regular visitation. Mom and Dad were here when they’d opened the door to families at eight o’clock this morning and didn’t leave until they marched us prisoners off to lunch at noon. We were limited as to what we were allowed in juvie, but the presents I’d unwrapped included books, magazines and a quilt from my grandma in Florida. It had palm trees, coconuts and flamingos on it. Ian had called it my fruity blankie when I brought it into our cell after lunch. Of course, he was quick to snatch out of my hands the Mickey Mouse quilt my grandma and her quilting bee had made especially for him.
I was glad my family had thought of him. He’d acted uncaring at breakfast when most of us were excited to see our families, but I’d noticed he paid close attention when a guard announced who had family members waiting in the visiting room. When his name wasn’t called, he’d gotten real quiet. As we were led away, I’d turned back to see him dumping the contents of his tray in the trash and slamming it down on a stack of other used ones. Even from across the cafeteria, I’d cringed at the harshness of the sound.
A few months ago I never would’ve thought I’d be concerned for Ian’s feelings. Life was strange. Perhaps Ian’s hurt caused him to take on four guys at once. Pity for him had me jumping in with Ricky to defend him.
Waiting patiently in solitary, my cell door clicked open and, trained to respond, I immediately stood up to be escorted by a guard to the infirmary. Ricky was taken at the same time as me and I gave him a nod as I scanned him for injuries. Or lack thereof, as the case was. Slick punk didn’t have a mark or streak of blood anywhere on him. H was the cleanest fighter I’d ever seen, with not even a tear in his clothing. If I hadn’t seen him in action, I would’ve thought he’d stayed on the sidelines.
Ricky grinned smugly at my perusal. “Your nose isn’t looking too good, white boy.” At six-foot-three, muscular and only fifteen years old, Ricky was a big guy. His opponent had been brave not to run in the opposite direction.
I probed at my tender nose and shrugged. “At least it isn’t broken. Could be worse, did you see Ian? He had two guys beating on him.”
Ricky grimaced, running a hand over short black hair. “I hope they took him to get checked first.”
Ian’s dad was a bastard. The more I thought about it, I was positive Ian started the fight because of his anger over his dad not visiting. Even if it was expected, it couldn’t get any easier to accept that your parent didn’t give a damn about you.
The nurse practitioner on duty made quick work of getting us in and out of there. Like I’d told Ricky, my nose wasn’t broken. After asking Ricky a couple questions, Nathan Brothers N.P. sent him back with a guard to his solitary cell.
I was returned to my cell five minutes after Ricky and the guard informed me I’d be there till tomorrow when the warden arrived in the morning. Whatever, at least I’d get privacy for one night from Ian and everyone else. Maybe I’d get in fights more often if alone time was the reward.
Alone in my solitude, I thought of Gianna.
Always her.
Our dinner was brought to us an hour later and I devoured it. Fighting always made me hungry. When I got out of this place, the freedom to eat when I wanted would feel like Christmas every day. My mom had given me one of those big plastic candy canes filled with chocolate candy and I thought about how I would’ve laughed at her and rolled my eyes last Christmas. This year, it was my favorite gift.
I’d been slightly embarrassed, but I’d given my mom and dad each one of my paintings as a present. One was of Ian in profile, lying on his top bunk, throwing a ball up at the ceiling. The ball was mid-motion and he had both his hands above him, waiting to catch it on its way back down. The other was of a prison guard yelling down in the face of a scrawny twelve-year-old inmate. The boy wore a defiant expression but fear was obvious in his eyes. I probably should have painted something nicer for them. Like a bowl of fruit or a sunflower. Nice wasn’t my style, but I couldn’t imagine my parents hanging my artwork over the fireplace.
My mom hadn’t seen anything I’d created in a while and her eyes had gone wide with evident pride in my work. She’d mentioned wanting to show them to the director of an art gallery she sometimes submitted to, but she probably had a case of mom goggles. Everything I painted was wonderful because she gave birth to me. Perhaps I’d f
orce myself to paint a puppy for her birthday. My dad had never been into the art thing, or puppies for that matter, so I knew he could have cared less what I painted him. With him, it was the thought which counted.
My dad had apologized for not being able to get the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition past reception for me, but I’d told him jokingly to give it to Chance. My mom gave me a stern Caleb that said everything in just two syllables and we changed the subject. At least he’d gotten some car magazines and graphic novels past security.
When I’d asked, my dad confirmed his divorce from Julie was still in the works. All I needed was for Gianna to also cut all ties with her mom and the life I’d be returning to would be perfect. Unfortunately, that’ d never happen. Gianna loved her mom despite any mental illnesses the woman had.
Solitude became boring. I’d somehow gotten used to Ian running his mouth. Without Ian’s sarcastic, cynical yapping at night, I was left to my own thoughts. Never a good thing when you were missing someone.
That first letter from Gianna last month had tore me up. I’d even let Ian read it for a second opinion. Had Gianna been trying to get me to break up with her because she didn’t want to be together anymore and felt too guilty to end our relationship herself? Was it a good sign she’d given me her new cell number? Unfortunately, the overall caution and melancholy in her letter hadn’t indicated anything good. Her love you had saved me from complete panic.
Ian had told me to man-up and not read too much into it because Gianna was likely still in a bad place after the attack. He may have also called me a wuss at some point in his uplifting speech.
I’d mailed a letter the very next day to her new address. I’d explained how I understood why she’d taken so long to write, although I secretly felt she could’ve gotten someone else to write it for her. I’d conveyed how happy I was her dad had moved to Denver for her and Chance, even if I worried her dad would disapprove of our relationship after my release. Making sure to avoid the subject of her mom, I’d gone on to assure her that my life was not ruined, although sometimes it did seem as though it were.
Toxic Bad Boy Page 2
