I square up and protect my face with my fists, keeping my feet flat on the floor and my shoulders tense.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I say, giving them another chance to leave me alone.
The one with the dark hair charges toward me, coming in low and taking out my legs. He and I fall back into the wall and knock metal ladles, tongs, and other cooking utensils from their places. They crash to the floor at our feet, clattering loudly and skidding across the cement.
I beat him in the back of the head and shoulder while he kidney-punches me over and over. My knuckles swell right away, and old scars split wide open and bleed, smearing over this man’s white T-shirt and dripping down my forearm.
A stabbing pain shoots through my side and lower back, and although my opponent is weakening, so am I.
I fall to one knee, unable to stand the pounding he’s wreaking on my side any longer. Circling my arm around his head, I gather him in a chokehold as the other two jump in and pound on my back with their closed fists and kick me while I’m down.
The one I have in my grasp scratches and pulls at my face, arms, and clothes as I tighten my hold on his neck. Unable to defend myself, I’m kicked in the face, punched, and pushed completely down, but I don’t let go as my eyes swell and my mouth fills with blood.
I’ll take him down with me before I come off like some pussy.
As adrenaline pours from me, along with the blood from my nose and busted mouth, I swear I can feel bruises form and spread all over my wounded body. Oxygen is forced from my lungs when I’m kicked in the side, and my vision is spotty. Gritting my teeth, my body and consciousness fade with each blow, but my will hangs strong.
“Hey.” I faintly hear a fourth voice call over the sound of fists hammering into my head and shoes beating into my back.
“Everyone down on the fucking floor—now,” a fifth voice orders loudly.
The assault ends, and I let go of the guy I kept a hold on the entire time I was beaten. I’m broken, bruised, and bloody, but my pride is intact. Which is more than I can say about the bitch I released, gasping for breath and crying for help.
Rolling onto my stomach, I stretch my hands above my head and rest my injured face against the cool concrete floor.
“What’s going on in here?” one of the guards asks. Through swollen eyes, I watch him pat the largest of my attackers down.
Suddenly, the entire kitchen is full with correction officers and Special Response Team members dressed in bulletproof vests and aiming bean bag guns at our heads. Everyone’s barking out orders in unison, making it impossible to follow commands. I can’t move anyway.
Even crooks break.
“Slowly stand to your feet, inmate!” an SRT member yells over me.
“I can’t.” I cough and spit out blood. My heart beats slowly in my chest, and every part of me pangs and throbs. Breathing through my bleeding nose is impossible, and every time I swallow, I ingest thick blood. My ribs feel cracked, and the pounding in my head is worse with the chaos around me. “I can’t get up,” I say again, spitting out more blood.
A CO kneels beside my body and places a hand on my back. He takes one good look at me before yelling, “This one needs help!”
I SUFFER FROM three fractured ribs, two broken fingers, and a broken nose. The guy I had in a chokehold almost died, but it’s determined that I was the victim and won’t face any additional charges as a result of the altercation.
I spend a few nights in the infirmary before I’m led back to my cell. Shortly after my arrival, The Man, The Myth, The Legend crashes my homecoming by simply clearing his throat, robbing me of the sleep I desperately need to heal.
“Mr. Seely,” Warden Stephenson greets me from the other side of my caged residence. There’s a shine on his cleanly shaven head, and he’s perspiring so profusely, sweat stains soak through his pea green button-up shirt. The king around these parts sinks his large hands into the pockets of his gray slacks. “I heard you were involved in quite a scuffle.”
I sit up in my bed, attempting to see through eyes that are beaten purple and swollen nearly shut.
“Not my intention, sir,” I say.
He nods his head, creasing his double chin. “I searched through your file. Your conduct during your stay here has been impressive.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you have somewhere to go home to?” he asks. The scent of perspiration is foul under the heavy musky smell of his cologne.
Hazel eyes quicken my heartbeat. “Yes, sir.”
He nods again, searching my face between bars. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Lowen.”
FIVE WEEKS LATER, I’m given an early release date.
“Two weeks? Are you kidding me?” Poesy laughs through the phone during our visiting time.
Fourteen more days before I touch her again. Fourteen more days before I can reach beyond this glass partition that separates us. In thirteen nights, I’ll be able to hear her actual voice … feel it against my skin … taste it in my mouth.
Most of the bruises on my body have faded, and my black eyes have healed, but my nose has a small bump at its bridge that it didn’t have before, and my ribs are tender when I laugh or sneeze or talk or breathe.
The pain doesn’t keep me from enjoying the wide smile on Poe’s face.
“Do you still want to live with me, girl?” I ask, pressing my palm to the glass.
She does the same, answering, “Of course.”
“What will your parents say?” I ask.
Poesy rolls her eyes. “They’re too preoccupied with their own shit to notice I’m gone most of the time now. It won’t be any different when you’re home.”
My girl’s parents found out she was dating the hired help—me—not long after Poe and I started dating. They were gone for the weekend but arrived home early to find their landscaper in the shower with their daughter.
Mr. and Mrs. Ashby had been upset, but Poesy was eighteen, and there was nothing they could do. They’re well aware of my current jailbird status, and I hold no hope of them hosting a coming home party when I’m released. Which means I’ll have to stay with my mom and her boyfriend until Poe and I can find a place together.
“It won’t be easy,” I warn her. “I’m a felon, Poesy. I’ll be out of prison, but I’ll be on parole. That means random home checks and—”
“Hey,” she stops me with an easy tone. “This will work.”
I nod, trusting her.
The right side of Poesy’s pretty lips curves into a smile. “The first thing we’re doing when you’re free is shaving your head. I can’t believe you’ve let your hair get so long.”
I run my fingers though my shoulder-length hair while she laughs and calls me Goldie Locks. This place has been my home for a little over two years, and in those two years, I’ve refused to let the prison barbers near my head. It looks like crap, but I’ve been cutting it myself with a pair of dull scissors the librarian lets me use.
One side is longer than the other.
“Fine.”
TWO WEEKS FEEL like two months, but I serve the remainder of my time cautiously. I pass the math portion of my GED test and continue to serve inmates during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The guys I got in the fight with were transferred to another section of the prison, but their boys come through the line and make it no secret that they know who I am.
“Hacks won’t always be around, homeboy.”
“I see you, motherfucker.”
“Buster.”
It’s another story when I’m on the same side of the counter as them. I walk with my head high, and they mouth off, but they don’t make moves, despite knowing my number is up.
Poe doesn’t show for what should be our last visit before I get out, but I get a letter from her that promises she’ll be right outside the door when my time comes.
I don’t write her back.
I’ll see her before the letter is delivered.
As my last day in pri
son arrives, after my final shift in the kitchen for breakfast, I pack my few belongings—a stack of letters from Poe and my family, a pair of shoes, and my toiletries—and I keep to myself until I’m retrieved for discharge.
While twiddling my thumbs with my heart in my throat, high anxiety aches in my bones and weighs heavily in my arms.
“This is happening,” I have to remind myself. “You’re going home.”
All day long, I listen to the commotion going on around me. Cells open and clink closed. Inmates argue back and forth. Addicts cry for their next fix. Correction officers insist on silence while handcuffs rattle on their hips. Bangers call out their hood, and their rivals call out theirs.
It’s all noise I can’t wait to have silenced.
As the big hand spins around the clock, I continue to tell myself today is the day, but I start to not believe it. A thousand reasons why they’ve decided to keep me here the full four years play on my paranoia.
My paperwork is lost.
They forgot about me completely.
Warden Stephenson came to the conclusion that the fight was my fault, and my conduct isn’t so impressive.
The improper use of scissors.
Unable to sit on my tough mattress a moment longer, I stand and pace the short span of my cell. The hem of my orange pants rustles against the cement floor as I pace, getting stuck under my shoes. Some cells have a TV; I never wanted one, afraid to see the outside while I was stuck in hell. But now I wish I had some kind of entertainment to distract me, besides my crocheting bunky.
When pacing doesn’t help, and the walls start to feel like they’re inching closer and closer to closing me in, I approach my bar doors and press my face between the cold steel.
“Hey,” I call out. “How much longer?”
No one answers.
I lie on the floor with my arms extended at my sides and stare at the concrete ceiling while the harshness from the cold floor under me seeps through my thin shirt and freezes my skin.
There’s no telling how much time has passed when my name is called.
“Time to go, Seely.” A CO bangs on my bars before using a key to unlock my cell.
Slightly disoriented, I rise to my feet, grab my small bag, and head out of what was my home for twenty-seven months.
The correction officer places his hand against my chest, stopping me. He lifts my shackles.
“Protocol,” he says.
I’m not free yet.
We start what will be my last walk down this hall of broken dreams, passing other cells with other inmates who stare with blank expressions as I leave. The cuffs are heavy on my wrists—a heaviness I won’t miss. And these chains sing a desperate song with each step, shortening my stride.
I’m led away from the prisoner area into another holding area, where I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Until a female officer approaches me and reads off my inmate number. “Is this you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer.
She hands me a brand new pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, a pair of socks, and a pair of underwear still in the pack.
“Go change,” she says. “And we’ll get you out of here.”
In a pair of underwear that actually fit me and a crisp shirt, I bend my toes in soft cotton socks before pulling up my pants and slipping on my shoes.
I leave the orange uniform in a pile on the floor.
“Sign here,” orders the same officer who gave me the clothes, passing discharge papers I don’t read before signing. She separates the top sheet from the bottom and hands it to me. “You’ll need to check in with your parole officer within twenty-four hours.”
I nod my head as if I’m paying attention, but her words fall on deaf ears. The palms of my hands sweat, and my knees shake, and right now, I couldn’t care less about the rules of my release or checking in with anyone.
Freedom is so close I can taste its bitterness on the tip of my tongue.
The discharge officer smiles. “We look forward to seeing you again.”
I grab my shit and laugh with her, when all I want to do is call her a smart-ass bitch. But when the door buzzes and I’m able to push it open, the smell of fresh air dissipates any annoyance I have with the woman I’ll make sure to never see again.
Past midnight, the spring night’s air is crisp, and stars in the sky I haven’t seen in too long are dim against the city lights, but they are perfect, and they are real.
“Lowen!”
Holding my breath at the sound of her voice, I let my eager eyes search for Poesy. Shifting quickly back and forth, overwhelmed by the sudden size of the world, my heart pounds against my protesting diaphragm. My lungs demand oxygen, and the tips of my fingers start to tingle.
“Low,” she calls again.
I take a few hesitant steps forward, searching left to right, left to right. Surrounded by a tall gate topped with barbed wire, all I see are cop cruisers and vans. Streetlights illuminate the road in front of the prison, and in the distance I hear the sound of moving vehicles.
Then, I spot her.
Poesy stands at the mouth of the gate, waving her arms above her head like a mad woman. My mom and sister are behind her.
I run.
My legs extend farther than they ever could in shackles, and my feet beat the pavement. Poesy jumps up and down, and from thirty feet away, I can see the moisture in her eyes glisten under the orange light.
Fresh oxygen passes between my lips, expanding my greedy lungs. My own eyes start to water and burn the closer I get to my girl and my family, and when I reach her, tears freely spill down my cheeks.
Poesy leaps and wraps her arms and legs around my body, knocking me back a step. The bag with my pathetic possessions falls to the ground, and I step over it as her lips crash with mine. Softer and sweeter than I remember, her tongue presses against my teeth before touching my own. Poe’s hands grip into my pullable hair, and she squeezes her thighs at my side, keeping me forever.
“You’re out,” she says softly.
I press my mouth against the place where her shoulder and neck meet, reacquainting myself with her pulse against my lips. Poe’s long, dark blonde hair brushes across the side of my face, sun-scented and cloud soft.
Setting her down on her feet, I drape my arm over Poesy’s shoulder and face my mother and Gillian. Mom’s crying, seeming small with her curly blonde hair and eye shadow that’s always been too heavy and blue. I hold my free arm open for her, unable to let Poesy go. The woman who has always been here for me embraces me tightly.
“My boy. My boy,” she cries. Mom smells like cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
“Hey, Mom.” I kiss the top of her head, glancing toward my younger sister who’s grown a lot in two years.
Gillian waves, shy under a large white zip-up sweater. The hood is up, and her chin-length black hair sticks out from beneath it. My sister didn’t wear makeup before I was locked up, but now her eyelids are thick with black eyeliner, and her nose is pierced.
“How old are you now?” I ask, pushing her hood back to see her clearly.
She blushes and tries to hide her face behind her hands. “Fifteen.”
“Are you in school? You’re not running the streets, are you?”
Gillian lifts her hood, secure in the cover. “Yes, I’m in school. No, I don’t run the streets. I learned from your mistakes.” She laughs.
I push the hood back one more time and pull her in for a hug. “Good.”
With my girl under my arm and my mom and sister at my side, I pick up my bag and take one last look over my shoulder at the concrete pen I was let loose from.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say.
MY FAMILY AND I walk down the street to the car. Poe doesn’t have a vehicle, so I assume she’s hitched a ride with my mom. But we reach the parking lot, and Poesy digs into her pocket and delivers a single key.
“Surprise,” she says.
Poe points to the
rusted red Toyota Tercel with a mismatching white door parked beside my mom’s Buick. The front windshield is cracked, and the headlights are dull, but it’s more than either one of us had before I went in. Going by the size of Poesy’s wide smile, she’s proud of her small but mighty accomplishment.
“Do you like it? It’s not much, but we needed a car,” my girl rambles. “Maybe after you get a job, we can—”
“I like it,” I say, kissing the top of her head. But I pass her the key. I’m a parolee without a valid driver’s license, and I’ve only been uncaged for fifteen minutes. I won’t jeopardize freedom with the drive home.
We stop by a 24-hour hamburger joint and order everything we can with the sixty bucks I was issued upon release. It’s a gluttony of deep-fried appetizers and greasy burgers that drip down my chin with each over-hurried bite.
The money could have been better spent, but the water in my eyes from the soda’s carbonation and the burn on my lips from too-hot French fries are worth it.
On the brink of a true food coma, we pack the leftovers and get back into our cars. When my mom turns left and we turn right, Poesy practically bounces in her seat.
“Trust me, okay?” Poe says, keeping her eye on the gloomy road ahead.
Twenty short minutes later, the Tercel pulls on to an oil-stained and cracked concrete driveway in front of a duplex I’ve never seen before. White with brown trim and metal security bars over the one window out front, the duplex’s dim orange porch light is on, and Poesy beams.
“Welcome home, inmate,” she says, turning the car off. The engine dies with a rattle.
South Los Angeles is far from silent in the night, but this easy hush with Poe is something I took advantage of until I didn’t have it anymore. While deep beats from a house party down the street thump and the fan on the car still spins, I live for Poesy’s soft exhales and her impatient fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“Don’t you want to go inside?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I nod.
She delivers another key. “You open the door.”
Low (Low #1) Page 3
