Juvie (20 page)

At least Bad Gina leaves me alone. So does everybody else. They’re too busy sitting around the new girl, who looks hungover but answers their questions anyway. It’s the opposite of how they all were with Summer. I try to shut out the chatter but can’t help overhearing. There seems to be no getting away from anything in juvie.

Her name is Nikki. She says she goes to River Bend. “Go, Bears.”

She says she got into a fight the night before with a girl whose full name seems to be “That Bitch Rhoda.”

That Bitch Rhoda showed up at a party where she wasn’t invited.

That Bitch Rhoda had her hands all over New Nikki’s boyfriend.

That Bitch Rhoda might have got cut, but New Nikki didn’t have a knife, so it must have been somebody else who did it, even though New Nikki got charged.

That Bitch Rhoda got what she deserved, whoever might have did it.

That Bitch Rhoda better pray they never let New Nikki out of juvie, swear to God.

For some reason we’re given a choice that morning: church or nothing. So we go to church, or rather church comes to us. His name is Reverend Chilton, and he shuffles onto the unit so slowly that I wonder if he came straight from the hospital and will be returning there as soon as we’re done. He has a gaunt, angular face, tufts of hair around his ears but none on top of his head, kind eyes, and a rumpled suit that practically swallows him, or what there is of him. He also has a dry cough and keeps apologizing for it.

“Might we make a circle with the chairs?” he asks the Sunday guards. So we sit in a small circle with Reverend Chilton and his worn leather Bible and his fumbling hands, one guard parked at the desk by the door, the other hovering nearby, behind us.

“I should start by offering an apology,” Reverend Chilton says, nodding as he speaks. “This is my first time coming out here —”

“Mine too!” chirps New Nikki.

Reverend Chilton nods softly, sympathetically even. The Jelly Sisters glare at New Nikki. New Nikki looks at the floor. Bad Gina rolls her eyes.

Reverend Chilton coughs and smiles. “Anyway, thank you for allowing me to sit and talk with you all this morning. Driving over here — actually while my wife, Glory, was driving me over — I was thinking about a passage from the Gospel of Matthew, which I expect you’ve all heard, but I’d like to read it if I may.”

He fumbles through his Bible until he finds a ribbon marking his page, pauses a little longer to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose, then begins.

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne.”

Reverend Chilton’s voice, already soft, drops even lower as he reads, so we have to lean forward to hear.

“All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.”

Reverend Chilton glances up to see if we are able to follow along OK. He keeps nodding. I find myself nodding back. He looks for his place, tracing lines with his index finger, and smiles when he finds it.

“Then the Lord will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’”

He pauses again to cough into his handkerchief and apologize.

Then he continues: “The righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The Lord will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of my brothers and sisters, you did for me.’”

Reverend Chilton stops there, though I know there’s more to the passage — the part where Jesus condemns the people on his left, the ones that are supposed to be the goats. But Reverend Chilton doesn’t seem all that interested in hell, or in eternal damnation, or in scaring anybody.

“I expect I know what you all are thinking,” he says. “That this old preacher is coming in here because of that verse, or that one line, really: ‘I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ You’re likely thinking I am suggesting that you all are the least of these, the ones Jesus was talking about, who the righteous felt called to help, because of where you are and why you’re here. And certainly many people will view you in that way, and certainly that’s understandable. But it’s important to also understand that there are others who are, well
leaster
. . . .”

He stops and smiles. “I guess that’s not really a word, but maybe it says what I mean.

“I believe that the challenge to care for others, to care for those who have less than we do, to care for those who suffer, is a challenge to all of us. And that includes you all, even in here. Maybe especially in here. Jesus doesn’t distinguish. Jesus says it’s your responsibility, each and every one of you sitting with me today. And my responsibility. And your guards’. And everyone’s in this”— he looks around, maybe to remind himself where he is —“in this
facility
.”

“Praise Jesus,” New Nikki says, pretty obviously mocking what he’s just said.

“Yeah,” adds Bad Gina drily. “Praise Jesus.”

The Jelly Sisters glare at them both.

Fefu crosses herself, her lip quivering. Reverend Chilton looks slowly around the circle at all of us, not responding to anyone’s sarcasm, not even seeming to recognize it in their voices, then ends with his gaze on me. It strikes me in that moment that he might have Parkinson’s disease, because his nodding hasn’t stopped the whole time he’s been on Unit Three. That’s probably why his wife — Glory, I remember — has to drive him over. I wonder what else is wrong with him, what’s behind his cough and his frailty.

“Could we bow our heads?” Reverend Chilton asks, and I do. Then he says the Prayer of Saint Francis, which my mom taught Carla and me when we were little and used to go to church.

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace
.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy
.

Grant that I may not so much seek

to be consoled as to console
,

to be understood as to understand
,

to be loved as to love
.

For it is in giving that we receive
,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned . . .”

I open my eyes before he finishes. Fefu is crying, quietly at first, then harder. I don’t know how much she understands of what Reverend Chilton has said, and maybe she isn’t crying about that at all. Maybe it’s just having him here, this sweet old man, speaking to us in a warm voice. Reverend Chilton gets up slowly from his chair and shuffles over next to her. Good Gina rouses herself and gives him her seat. He thanks her and puts his arm around Fefu, patting her gently and whispering some things while she buries her face against his coat.

One of the Sunday guards, the one who’s been hovering, taps him on the shoulder. “You’re not allowed to touch the inmates,” she says.

Reverend Chilton tells her it’s OK, he’ll just be a moment, and lowers his head to whisper some more things to little Fefu.

The Sunday guard taps him again. “It’s not OK, sir. You’re not allowed. And you won’t be allowed back.”

“Very well,” Reverend Chilton says, straightening himself and patting Fefu one last time. She wipes her eyes but can’t stop the tears. Reverend Chilton brushes her wet hair out of her face and tucks it behind her ears and smiles the kindest smile I’ve ever seen.

I wish it had been me crying.

At lunch that day, New Nikki asks Bad Gina why she’s in juvie. “What did you do to end up in here?”

Bad Gina doesn’t seem to mind talking about it. “I’d just met this guy, it was the stupidest thing. He said he was going to run in and buy some booze at this liquor store, and would I drive him there in my car, but I guess he had a gun and tried to rob the place. But the manager had a gun, too, so the guy ran off and left me in the car. So I was just sitting there like an idiot when the police came. Plus it turned out it wasn’t even his car. They said I had to tell them who the guy was or else I was the one going to jail. I gave them his name but they couldn’t find him. They said I’d made it all up and I was protecting him. So here I am. My parents are so pissed off. As if I care. Anyway, I’m out of here soon.”

She turns to me with that reptile smile of hers. The story sounds too close to mine to be a coincidence, and I wonder who blabbed to her.

Mom comes again during visiting hour. We’ve been talking on the phone pretty regularly, so there’s not much news for her to share, and not much I want her to know about how things really are in juvie. I can tell something’s bothering her, though, and I ask what it is, thinking it’s going to be about Carla or Lulu or Dad.

But it’s not. “You remember my cousin Becky?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

Mom frowns. “You have to remember her. We visited her that one time, up in Delaware.”

I shrug. “If you say so.”

Mom gives me a look. “Well, she has breast cancer. They just diagnosed it. She called me yesterday. I might go up there.”

Now I feel bad. “Sorry, Mom.” I press my hand on the glass. She does, too. We’re both silent for a minute.

“And something else,” she says, not looking at me now.

“What? Is somebody else sick? Is Dad OK?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Everybody’s fine. It’s just — I got a call from Dave the other day — that’s all.”

I blink. Several times. “Dave the magistrate?”

Mom nods. I can see she’s worried about my reaction, but I don’t really know how I feel about it.

“So are you going out with him?”

Mom’s hand slides down the glass divider and ends up lying flat on top of her other hand. “Probably not.”

I don’t know why she’s telling me this. She never discussed it with me before when she used to go out with guys. I want to tell her she deserves to be happy — everybody deserves to be happy — and she should just go out with this Dave already. She shouldn’t sit around the house all lonely.

But the truth is I don’t want Mom dating anybody. I don’t want anything to change on the outside — except for Carla to get her shit together.

“Don’t do it,” I blurt.

This catches Mom by surprise.

“Don’t,” I say again. “Guys suck, anyway.”

Mom frowns. “Watch your language.” She straightens in her visitor’s chair. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. We don’t really need to discuss it any further. I’m not sure why I even brought it up.”

I still have Reverend Chilton on my mind, and I’m feeling guilty about what I said to Mom, so that night I decide to do something for the least of these, who I figure has to be little Fefu. I find an old Chutes and Ladders game on the bookshelf and ask if she wants to play, even though it says “Recommended for ages 3–7.” How a little-kid game like that ended up in juvie I have no idea.

Fefu grins as I pull out the board and the little game pieces and the number wheel. I spin first to show her how to do it and walk my guy a couple of spaces. Fefu goes next and lands on the first ladder. I show her how it allows her to move up and ahead, and she gets so excited she actually claps her hands. A couple of turns later, I land on a chute and have to slide down to a lower square. She nods appreciatively and says some things in Spanish, I guess dissecting the finer points of Chutes and Ladders play. She bounces in her chair after each turn as she pulls farther ahead of me, climbing ladders and counting her little guy forward as I keep landing on every chute on the board.

Pretty soon she’s a couple of spins away from winning. She keeps bouncing in her chair, as excited as if the guards have just informed her that they’re letting her go home.

And then she lands on the longest chute of all, the one that drops from the top of the board all the way back down to the bottom.

She freezes. She stares at the board, looking as if she might cry or worse. She can’t bring herself to move her guy.

“Come on, Fefu,” I say cheerfully. “It’s just a game.”

She shakes her head.

“You have to move your guy,” I say, pointing, as if she can’t see it for herself.

She refuses.

I reach for it. “Come on,” I say. “Don’t be a sore loser.”

She pouts as I slide her man down the long chute and I think we’re done. But we aren’t. She curses in Spanish and knocks both our game pieces to the floor. Then she picks up the board, breaks it over her knee, and flings it across the room.

The Sunday guards grab her and drag her to her cell, and that’s the end of the game.

The divisions in Unit Three are getting more and more entrenched as the days drag into November. Bad Gina mostly hangs out with New Nikki her first week in juvie, with Weeze sort of hovering at the edge. The Jelly Sisters stick with each other, except when they’re raiding other girls’ meal boxes. Every day there’s some sort of incident between the Jelly Sisters and those other girls, especially Bad Gina. The rest of us try to stay out of the way.

I try checkers with Fefu, and things go well as long as I let her win. I get tired of throwing the games after a while, though, and when I take her last checker, she starts cursing in Spanish and dumps the board, which gets her sent to her cell again. Good Gina and Chantrelle take over the game and play for a while, until one of the Jelly Sisters walks by and “accidentally” bumps their table, knocking over all the pieces. There’s some sudden shouting back and forth until the guards intervene, and the next thing I know, the rest of us are being ordered to our cells as well.