by A.R. Rivera
12
-Angel
My bladder feels stretched beyond capacity. I'm squirming, trying to find relief. "I have to go to the bathroom."
It's the third time I've mentioned it. They always say they'll take you the first time around, but they just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping point.
I suppose that's kind of my fault, though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I've been going off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks, trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails to understand is that I can't tell just one part of the story. I have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their questions, or skip over anything, I might miss something.
The quiet man that gives me the Diet Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time, just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the wall.
She presses a button. A moment later, a crackly voice answers.
"Miss Patel needs a restroom break."
Finally.
Within seconds, the wide wooden door swings open. In its' frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a woman named Jo. She's very plain and has short brown hair with a prominent jaw-too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don't recognize. He might be new. He doesn't have a name tag or badge.
New Guy steps in first and opens one cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor. The walk to the restroom is quiet.
When I first got arrested, I used to think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.
New Guy has to wait outside the bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It's normal now. And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an audience. But today, it's only number one.
I am mid-stream when the echo of Avery's voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side panels meet. It's only an inch or two wide, but it's enough to see the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her frown.
"Angel. For the millionth time, I'm sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you."
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way her voice cracks as she whimpers, "you're my only friend."
I usually take my time washing my hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in here.
My hands are still damp when I'm back inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly arms of my chair. Jo and New Guy take leave after making sure my restraints are nice and tight.
I adjust myself in my seat, trying to cross my legs beneath the table, but the chains at my ankles are too short. Both my feet go back to the floor as I'm reminded of where we left off.
And then, I continue . . . "When I walked into Sunny Vista Trailer Park, where I was staying with Deanna my Foster, I saw that Avery was already there, waiting for me."
And even though my hatred for her is more sure than tomorrow's sunrise, I keep my voice flat and even, recalling the blissful ignorance.
"She waved from a neighbors' porch."
+++
I was always a little jealous of Avery's tall, thin frame and the way she could rock smudged eyeliner. She was parked on a white plastic chair with her waif-like legs elegantly folded into it. The way she stylishly slouched reminded me of a casual Kate Moss-if she had black hair and green eyes. Avery's legs flew straight out as she jumped up to greet me with a hug.
Mrs. Smith, whose eyesight was so bad she probably hadn't noticed us at all, was bent down, feeling for weeds in her cactus garden.
"She's baking." Avery's mossy gaze sparkled. "I read her the recipe and made sure the sugar was actually sugar."
We both laughed, remembering the last time we suffered Mrs. Smith confusing the tins of sugar and salt.
"I'm helping her listen for the timer."
"What kind?"
"Oatmeal Raisin." She wiggled her eyebrows, singing the name of her favorite cookie.
"Yummy," I sang back. "Share a plate?"
"Bakers' dozen." She patted my arm and walked back to her chair on the porch.
When I passed the grand ole' neighbor lady, I smiled and waved. Mrs. Smith responded by straightening her hunched posture and giving me a questioning look. "Don't you want cookies?"
"Yeah, but I gotta check-in." I pointed at the dented door of the single wide mobile home next door and made for it. She was a nice old lady and for some reason The Foster didn't like her. She said it wasn't right that the woman talked to pictures of her dead husband. I thought it was sweet.
The aluminum door opened without a sound, but the screen rattled. The sound reminded me that Jake would be coming over later, and that made me think of the tour, which always got me worked up. My lips locked together, trying to hold in my mixed emotions-excitement with a smidge of dread. I had to be quiet because the Foster was always asleep in the day time. She worked the graveyard shift at a confection factory. And every time I thought about watching Analog Controller play in front of a crowd I wanted to jump up and down. It felt rare and special.
In a mere month, heaven would swoop down and touch earth. Me and everyone I loved would be on our way to Analog Controller's biggest gig so far, kicking off in Tempe.
I made my way to the hall, gently padding past the door to Foster's room. I wasn't counting on her support when it came to attending. Local stuff, she usually considered okay, but out of town over-nighters were a whole different bag. Foster parents were not allowed to let their court appointed burdens have fun. They were required to say no and make up excuses about rules and unsupervised trips. And even though, Deanna pretty much let me do what I wanted most of the time-as long as I checked in often and kept my grades up-Deanna letting me take any kind of road trip was a stretch. Knowing that it would involve Jake sort of guaranteed a flat-out refusal.
My stomach knotted up every time I thought about asking permission, because that meant giving her the power to refuse me.
Deanna the Foster was always trying to protect me from whatever she deemed corruption and she didn't like rock-n-roll. Well, it was more Jake, himself. She said she liked him as a person and had heard good things about his family, but two years was the age limit in teenage dating as far as she was concerned and Jake exceeded that almost twice over. She said I was lucky she was a reasonable foster parent. I thought I was lucky Jake got knocked upside the head-or whatever it was that happened to him-to make him want to give someone like me the time of day. I was definitely dating up.
No matter the cost, I had to see Analog Controller play. Gigs were so much better than practice. For every band, there's a power that only comes with playing in front of a crowd. Jake, who was always so full of energy, really came to life when he got in front of an audience. He was almost always nervous, but it was like something woke up of inside him the moment he hit a stage. I loved seeing that spark, the way he kindled and fed that fire. He became a pyre, burning for the crowd.
The poster hanging outside my bedroom door showed Jake, Andrew, and Max greeting me. I had it printed at the same shop where I got the t-shirt made. Jake said it was weird to see a giant picture of himself on my bedroom door, but he liked that I had it.
I stared at the picture, concentrating on Jake's face. His thick, brown lashes and hazel eyes set below the beautiful mess that he called hair. He looked a little pale in that picture because it was taken before he got his
job at the hardware store. He worked in the 'Outdoor Living' department. Basically, he sold cactus and patio furniture when he wasn't stacking cinderblocks or boards. The work kept him tan and fit, but I felt sorry for him, because Arizona could get hot as hell.
I snatched my walkman from my dresser and put on the headphones. A diatribe of notes swirled into my ears, coercing my feet into their rhythm. My bleach stained red and white Converse scraped over the carpet as I danced my backpack to the bed, singing . . . Chasing street lights, chasing sonnets, chasing everyone away . . .
I was like most kids stuck in the system. I got moved around every couple of months or whenever my existence became an inconvenience to my host. It was tough not laying down roots, but I got used to it and eventually stopped unpacking. When you know you're going to have to leave, it just makes life less messy if no one and nothing is worth liking; I didn't have to let go if I never took hold.
But Deanna treated me the same way she treated Austen. She talked to me, asked me questions about my life. I'd gotten comfortable with her. She was kind without reservation and I wanted to please her.
I prayed she'd let me go-because I was going, no matter what. And if I just cut out, she'd call it in, and I'd go straight to Juvenile Hall when they caught up with me. Deanna knew enough about my life to know that they could find me wherever Jake was.
On the other side of my room was a small desk Deanna and me picked out from a junk pile near the dumpsters at the Junior High. They must have been remodeling classrooms or something because there was a huge pile of desks with attached chairs for righties. The Foster found a real sturdy one with hardly any scratches. It has one mark, actually. Well, three words carved into the top: Princess Bitch Face
Beside that little desk was a white, wooden dresser with a three paneled mirror on top. One of my three reflections in the paneled mirror looked a little pale, so I took off the headphones, spread some cherry lip balm over my pouted lips, and then headed back to Mrs. Smiths.
Avery was still posting on that plastic chair. Her knees were folded at her chest with both hands set across the tops of her feet, lacing her fingers through her toes. The nails of each were painted bright red.
She grinned wide and wicked.
"The countdown has begun. Three weeks and six days."
We both squealed. Of course Avery loved Analog Controller as much me.
"On a denser note, I must ask, have you finished your English essay?"
"Yes. Well, almost." I corrected. Avery had a sixth sense for BS.
I sang a few lines from Separate Pieces and Avery joined in. We started shifting, dancing together in synchronized moves, to one of our favorite songs from Dividing Daylight-which was really saying something because every song on that first EP was top shelf.
Just then, a buzzer sounded from inside Mrs. Smith's kitchen. Avery grabbed my hand and pulled me with her, heading for the front door. "Well, I want to look over it when you're done."
I rolled my eyes. "So you can plagiarize it?"
Avery giggled. "Not all of us are as prolific as yourself."
The cookie sheet was hot. The oatmeal mounds were plump and round. They smelled a cinnamon-nutmeg type of wonderful.
I called out from the steaming kitchen door for our hostess to come and inspect her cookies. They looked done to me, but she usually performed a touch-test-the tops must spring back-to each and every one. Ave and I each held a tray to ensure they wouldn't over-bake.
Mrs. Smith shuffled through the hot kitchen with her big rubber gloves and round sunglasses. She set her gardening belt on a chair near the door before heading to the sink to wash up.
Avery rolled her eyes, impatiently. If the cookies cooled too much, they'd get all crusty if we had to shove them back in the oven.
I asked, and Mrs. Smith decided, "just this once, since I'm trying to teach you something," that it would be alright to let Avery and me check the cookies ourselves.
They were all good.
We spent the next twenty minutes stuffing our faces with warm cookies and milk, listening to Mrs. Smith's Beatles records. "Real music," she insisted.
