Page 18

OVERCOME with anger, I made a fist and plowed it into Mark’s face—no one called me a psycho. The severe word was reserved for my dad, and I was nothing like him. The new kid fell to the ground and covered his face.

I could have easily kicked him in the ribs and listened to them crack. I’d done it before. As much as I wanted to watch him bleed for what he called me, I wanted my freedom more.

Two guards rushed into the hallway just as Mark wiped blood from his nose. “What’s going on here?”

I lifted my chin and waited for Mark to say it was my fault. He hadn’t yet learned how to play by our rules. Until now. Like a good boy, he kept his mouth shut.

I was kind of a big deal in my small town. Even though my dad was a psychopathic drug lord ringleader, somehow, I had turned out to be the bad guy. Society labeled me a murderer, even though he killed my mom, among others who had betrayed him.

Over the past two years, I had made a name for myself among the nineteen other boys who lived in my unit at McLaughlin.

When I first arrived, the older guys made me cower, then, when I realized I had nothing to lose, I fought back.

The first time I knocked out the leader of the bullies, his crew backed down.

After knocking him out two more times, everyone in the block looked at me as the one to fear.

My intent was to protect myself, not to gain the respect of all the guys, but I’m not sorry that happened. Not a fighter at heart, I never sought out trouble. For some reason, though, it always seemed to find me.

From what I understood, no one else had killed anyone, but I couldn’t be sure. It was a rule that we weren’t to explain how we got here; some of us followed that rule, others, not so much. I couldn’t be sure if anyone knew my story; if they did, it didn’t come from me.

Most of the other kids who had been sentenced to live here only stayed until they turned eighteen.

I was different from them. Sure, they all had anger issues and a bad home life, but not one of these kids showed any form of empathy.

They didn’t seem to be sorry for what they had done, which made it that much more difficult to see them as equals.

All they cared about was getting into a less secure area of McLaughlin so they could make their escape.

I actually wanted to finish my education, maybe even graduate so I could live a normal life after I was released.

During lock down, I studied while others talked shit or practiced rapping.

I learned how to create earplugs from a piece of my bed sheet.

Gray had fast become my most disliked color. Everything in here was gray. The floors, walls, ceilings, bars, tables, beds, toilets. Even the fucking plates were gray. I think they did it to drive us nuts. It kind of worked. I longed to see any other color, ease my brain a little.

During our daily one-hour in the yard, I allowed nature to fill my soul.

Within a week’s time, I had already memorized the mountains and trees.

I found it reset my sanity; I skipped over anything gray.

Clouds formed specific shapes in the electric blue sky; I gave them all names.

One day, I would be free, and I promised myself I’d never do anything to get put back behind bars again.

Others played basketball to pass the time. Most of the inmates became too competitive to continue for long periods and ended up fighting. Now that I had made a name for myself, my goal was to stay away from trouble. I had fought enough in this place; it had lost its allure.

While other kids made connections, which I guess could be called friends, I remained alone—by choice. Time in my room was sacred. Being in seclusion allowed me to remember the better days with my mom in the Pass. Silence had been my companion for so long now that I had learned to love it.

One memory never went away, though, as much as I tried to forget. My counselor made me keep a journal and the most significant day in my life ended every entry. I had a feeling that my life would revolve around that single moment forever.

I pushed my glasses up my nose and studied the words I had just written:

I miss my mom. I miss petting my kittens and riding Soloman. I hope whoever took him away is treating him well. I regret not being able to help my mom escape; I was just too young.

I hate my dad.

With my eyes closed, I remembered my dad’s parties.

Over drunken conversations, he and his friends reminisced about their high school days.

They had grown up together and began harassing women early on.

My face grew hot each time they would tease Mom about her frizzy hair and small frame; they said she looked like a boy.

As much as they teased her, they sure enjoyed it when Dad encouraged her to give them tours of our little farm. When she spent time with them, they all smiled and laughed at her jokes.

They took turns following her into the night. Only after the cops told me she was their informant did I catch on to what the other men had done to her. Why did she stay?

ONE OF THE BOYS who was just a year older than me tried really hard to break through my walls.

Pete—he wouldn’t tell me his last name—was always including me in conversations and giving me little treats.

Whenever he had an extra cookie or chips, he delivered it to my room.

He was the only one I talked to, but I still wouldn’t call him a friend.

I didn’t want to stay in touch with any of the guys there. Nothing good would come of it.

However, he did have a secret cell phone. So, there was that. The first time he asked if I wanted to call anybody on the outside, I denied him. The next time he walked by my door, he paused, held his hand to his ear and raised his eyebrows. I shook my head and he walked away.

I didn’t have anyone to call—or did I? The only person I would even consider contacting would be Scott, but would he even want to talk to me?

I hadn’t seen him since before my parents died and if he knew what had happened, I’m sure he would steer clear.

My life was a train wreck and no one else would want to be involved.

For a few days, I thought about how I would tell Scott what had happened and where I was.

If I made contact with the outside, maybe I could remain sane.

Maybe I would have a reason to look forward to getting out of juvy.

It wouldn’t be easy to transition from this place to real life and I would need a friend.

“Pete.” I caught a glimpse of him as he passed my door. When he backed up and caught my eye, I put my hand to my ear and nodded. His smile lit up his face; he had broken through my barrier.

Hidden behind a brick in the third bathroom stall on the left, someone had wrapped the cell phone in a washcloth and stuffed it into a baggie.

Pete had given strict instructions. Cell phones were one of the only ways to extend your time after juvy; that and fighting.

No names. Period. Only talk for two minutes at a time.

It had taken me two days of hard concentration to remember Scott’s phone number and to come up with a code name. As I typed his number into the phone, I held my breath and prayed he would answer. He didn’t, so I left a voicemail.

“Hey buddy. I can’t say my name and I can’t say yours. It’s me. Your best friend since fifth grade when you moved here. I can’t tell you where I am, but I need to talk to you. Call me back at this number. Please. Leave a message and say you’d like to talk with Moose.”

Anxious for a return call—what would I say if he actually figured out what was going on?—I sat on the toilet for thirty minutes. Did I have the right number? Did he know it was me? Would he even want to talk to me if he knew what I had done?

I gave up waiting after about forty-five minutes, disappointment brought my mood from high and excited about the what-ifs to low and discouraged about the you’re-stupid-to-think-it-would-work. I shuffled back to my room and moped for the remainder of the night.

My notepad had been my only friend, the only one who really listened, anyway, so I took advantage of it. If I had a conversation with Scott—if he ever called back—I would first apologize, then explain my past to lead into what I had done.

The idea of talking with Scott inspired me to write. The words flowed freely and without pause. Before I knew it, four pages were full of explanations and stories from my younger years.

The next week, I asked my counselor for another notepad. In these fake conversations, I found myself admitting things to my friend that I never told anyone before.

In my mind, I heard how my dad deserved to die. Was that true? Did he? I couldn’t help but think the things he had done to my mom were so bad that karma worked its magic through me. I also couldn’t find a reason why I would be special enough to be my mom’s angel.

As much as I thought about talking with Scott, my mind also trailed to thinking about Sally Mae.

I often dreamt about her and about what it would be like to touch her.

She used to smile at me and stare too long.

My heart would jump, and I had a hard time putting two words together, but when I did, she laughed.

Her deep voice raised three octaves and my blood pressure rose enough that I could feel my cheeks redden.

Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders; it looked soft enough to touch.

I never did, but I fantasized about it all the time.

In my imagination, it was softer than a kitten.

When I wrapped it around my hand, my pants grew tight.

What I wouldn’t give to kiss her and experience the sort of ecstasy Scott bragged about.

Our rooms were void of doors, so each time the thoughts of Sally Mae entered my mind, I found myself rushing to the bathroom to complete the fantasy with my hand.

brEAKFAST was the same each morning; it consisted of cereal—boring Corn Flakes—and a muffin.

Everyone gathered for morning check-in at seven am and ate their food in silence.

We weren’t permitted to talk until seven thirty, then it was a free for all.

Volumes of twenty voices trying to outtalk each other gave me a headache. Another reason for earplugs.

Pete sat beside me and smiled. “I just got word; I’m out next week. I’m so fucking happy I can’t see straight.”

“That’s great, man. Congratulations.” For the life of me I couldn’t figure out why he thought I would care. But, whatever.

“Listen, you’re the only real friend I have in here.”

Saddened that poor Pete didn’t have anyone else, I tried to be empathetic. He wasn’t a bad guy, just a little annoying. Who wouldn’t be in such a small space with all these guys?

“My family has a chunk of land in Talkeetna. I want to give you my number so you can call me when you get out. You can live there in one of the cabins and I can get you a job on the oil fields; my brother is a manager and helps guys like us.”

As long as I had lived in Alaska, I’d never been to Talkeetna; always wanted to go, never really had the chance. Or a reason. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.” I chose to keep to myself; I didn’t think I needed friends. Maybe I had been wrong.