says gently to Good Gina. “She’s just a ho and he’s just a pimp. A pimp is a magnet for hos. It’s like a natural law. Nothing you can do about it. Ain’t even about you, really.”
Good Gina shakes her head. “It’s not like that. He made a mistake. I made a mistake. People make mistakes. You know.”
She looks at me. “I talk to him all the time,” she says. “When they let us use the phones. I call him. He likes it when I call him.”
Chantrelle shakes her head. Good Gina doesn’t see her, though.
I don’t know what to say. The whole conversation seems fictional. I’ve never met anyone who shot anyone. I’m not sure I even know anyone who owns a handgun. “How long are you in for?” I ask.
“Don’t know yet,” Good Gina says. “Still have to go back to court.”
“Me too,” says Chantrelle. “Grand-theft auto, just like the video game. Wasn’t me, though. It was a different Chantrelle. I be home with my mom and my sisters in no time, eating real pie off a real plate with a real knife and fork. Maybe y’all will get you your sporks back by then.”
“God, I hope so,” says Good Gina. “This sucks.”
I wonder how much of what they told me I can believe — about why they’re in juvie, about the Jelly Sisters, about me needing to watch my back.
C. Miller approaches the tables and opens a garbage bag. “Here you go, ladies. Trash.”
All the girls stand up immediately, though the Jelly Sisters are a heartbeat slower than everyone else, like they’re making a point, though I can’t guess about what. Everyone stands in line to dump their Styrofoam boxes, then stays in line, waiting. Officer Killduff, who had been sitting at the guard desk drinking a cup of coffee, rouses himself. He unlocks a cabinet, then brings out a plastic container full of toothbrushes, each one labeled with a cell number. I take mine and wait for C. Miller to squeeze toothpaste on it — a job that seems to be beneath Officer Killduff — then we all go to our cells to brush our teeth. We drop our toothbrushes back off, and Officer Killduff orders us to line up again at the door to go to morning classes, though we end up just standing there for a good five minutes while he sits at the guard station writing in a logbook. C. Miller walks around the unit, looking into all the cells.
She stops when she gets to mine. “Windas!” she whispers. I stiffen and hold my breath. I have no idea what’s coming next.
She’s waves me over.
“You didn’t make your bunk, girl,” she says. “Hurry and do it.”
But it’s too late. Officer Killduff sees what’s going on and comes over.
“That’s not how it’s done in here, Officer Miller.”
“Sir?” she says.
He ignores her and turns to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
I start toward my cell, but he stops me. “I didn’t hear you ask could you go.”
I fight the urge to look at his face — to make eye contact. I study the tops of my feet instead. I clench my jaw. “Can I go?”
He grunts.
When I return to my place in line, which is now last, Officer Killduff gets close to my face. I struggle once again to keep my gaze on my feet.
“That just cost you three days of phone privileges,” he says.
Mom hit me with chores all morning on Sunday, the day after the arrest, and only let me leave the house to go to work that afternoon at the car wash. She kept asking me what really happened, but I just kept saying the same thing: that we didn’t know there were drugs in the car, that we’d just given the guys a ride and that was all. Mom said if it turned out Carla had anything to do with the drugs, she would go to jail for sure.
Kevin came by during my break, but I couldn’t even tell him I’d been arrested. I couldn’t tell anybody. He left thinking I was mad at him for something, and then I really did get mad at him — for taking off so quickly, for not sticking around to try to find out what was wrong. Mom took away my cell
Good Gina shakes her head. “It’s not like that. He made a mistake. I made a mistake. People make mistakes. You know.”
She looks at me. “I talk to him all the time,” she says. “When they let us use the phones. I call him. He likes it when I call him.”
Chantrelle shakes her head. Good Gina doesn’t see her, though.
I don’t know what to say. The whole conversation seems fictional. I’ve never met anyone who shot anyone. I’m not sure I even know anyone who owns a handgun. “How long are you in for?” I ask.
“Don’t know yet,” Good Gina says. “Still have to go back to court.”
“Me too,” says Chantrelle. “Grand-theft auto, just like the video game. Wasn’t me, though. It was a different Chantrelle. I be home with my mom and my sisters in no time, eating real pie off a real plate with a real knife and fork. Maybe y’all will get you your sporks back by then.”
“God, I hope so,” says Good Gina. “This sucks.”
I wonder how much of what they told me I can believe — about why they’re in juvie, about the Jelly Sisters, about me needing to watch my back.
C. Miller approaches the tables and opens a garbage bag. “Here you go, ladies. Trash.”
All the girls stand up immediately, though the Jelly Sisters are a heartbeat slower than everyone else, like they’re making a point, though I can’t guess about what. Everyone stands in line to dump their Styrofoam boxes, then stays in line, waiting. Officer Killduff, who had been sitting at the guard desk drinking a cup of coffee, rouses himself. He unlocks a cabinet, then brings out a plastic container full of toothbrushes, each one labeled with a cell number. I take mine and wait for C. Miller to squeeze toothpaste on it — a job that seems to be beneath Officer Killduff — then we all go to our cells to brush our teeth. We drop our toothbrushes back off, and Officer Killduff orders us to line up again at the door to go to morning classes, though we end up just standing there for a good five minutes while he sits at the guard station writing in a logbook. C. Miller walks around the unit, looking into all the cells.
She stops when she gets to mine. “Windas!” she whispers. I stiffen and hold my breath. I have no idea what’s coming next.
She’s waves me over.
“You didn’t make your bunk, girl,” she says. “Hurry and do it.”
But it’s too late. Officer Killduff sees what’s going on and comes over.
“That’s not how it’s done in here, Officer Miller.”
“Sir?” she says.
He ignores her and turns to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
I start toward my cell, but he stops me. “I didn’t hear you ask could you go.”
I fight the urge to look at his face — to make eye contact. I study the tops of my feet instead. I clench my jaw. “Can I go?”
He grunts.
When I return to my place in line, which is now last, Officer Killduff gets close to my face. I struggle once again to keep my gaze on my feet.
“That just cost you three days of phone privileges,” he says.
Mom hit me with chores all morning on Sunday, the day after the arrest, and only let me leave the house to go to work that afternoon at the car wash. She kept asking me what really happened, but I just kept saying the same thing: that we didn’t know there were drugs in the car, that we’d just given the guys a ride and that was all. Mom said if it turned out Carla had anything to do with the drugs, she would go to jail for sure.
Kevin came by during my break, but I couldn’t even tell him I’d been arrested. I couldn’t tell anybody. He left thinking I was mad at him for something, and then I really did get mad at him — for taking off so quickly, for not sticking around to try to find out what was wrong. Mom took away my cell
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