My transition coach is Damon Manning, a guy who went through the juvenile justice system just as I did. He's assigned to check up on me and supervise my community service. Lucky me. I have a parole officer with a fancy title.
It's bullshit, but Damon's report will go directly to a judge assigned to my case and the review committee, so I have to play nice. It won't be easy. I've been on edge since I've been home.
I met Damon right before I left the DOC. The guy is a big black man who doesn't take shit from anyone.
My dad sticks his head into the basement as I accidentally sink the eight ball. "Caleb," he calls out. "Mr. Manning is ready for you."
I enter the living room and watch my mom.
"Can I get you anything?" she asks Damon nervously. She's not used to big, black ex-cons in her house, but she's still playing the consummate hostess.
"No, thanks. I'll just be having a little chat with your son, then be on my way."
I sit down in one of the silk-cushioned chairs, but Damon immediately stands.
"Let's go for a walk," Damon says. It's not a suggestion.
I shrug. "Sure. Whatever."
Damon holds onto a manila folder while we walk down Masey Avenue toward the park and end up sitting on a picnic bench.
"How's it goin'?" Damon asks. The guy opens his folder and clicks his pen. Click. Click.
"Fine," I lie.
"Be more specific." Damon makes it sound like an order. Everything the guy says sounds like an order. It just winds my nerves that much tighter.
"About what?"
Click. Click. "Tell me about your family. Seems like you've got a pretty nice home life."
Seems being the operative word. "Listen, my mom is a robot, my dad's a wimp, and my sister is a f**kin' zombie. I'd say that pretty much sums it up."
I watch Damon close his folder then look straight at me. "Nobody said it would be easy."
"Yeah, well nobody said it was gonna be this f**kin' hard, either."
"Does it make you feel like a big guy to cuss in every sentence that comes out of your mouth?" "Lay off, man."
"It's my job to stay on you, Caleb. But I can't help if you won't share with me."
I look up at the sky and shake my head. "I don't need your help. My parents and sister ... they need help more than me. Why don't you treat them like the guinea pig?"
"You've been away for almost a year. Give 'em a break. You act as though they should be apologizing to you instead of the other way around. What did they do wrong, huh? Maybe you should blame yourself once in a while, Caleb. The experience might be eye opening."
"The truth would be eye opening," I say back.
Click. Click. "What?"
I shake my head. "Nothing. Just forget it."
Damon opens his folder again. That folder probably tells Damon everything about my life before, during, and after my arrest. I wonder if the time I tee-peed Joe Sanders' house is in there. Or the time I beat up a guy from Fremont High for teasing my sister about her perm gone wrong. I used to be looked up to, the cool rebel. Now I'm a convict. Not cool.
He hands me a few sheets of paper. "You live in a small town, Caleb. Not much in choices for community service jobs, but on your questionnaire you said you had experience in construction and small home improvements."
"I worked construction during summers for my uncle," I tell him.
"Okay, then. You'll be required to check in at The Trusty Nail hardware store on Monday after school at three forty-five sharp. Don't be late. They'll assign you a job site and drop off all supply materials needed. When you're done with a job, get a completion sheet signed. Easy enough?" Sure.
"I just have a few more questions. Then you don't have to see my ugly mug for another week." When Damon looks up at me he asks, "Any physical contact?"
"As in sex?"
Damon shrugs. "I don't know, you tell me. Was the old girlfriend waiting on your front stoop when you got home yesterday?"
The urge to laugh gets caught in my throat. "Hardly. My sister hugged me, my dad shook my hand, and I got a few pats on the back from my mom's random friends last night."
"Did you initiate it?"
"No. You're creeping me out, man."
"Caleb, some guys have attachment problems when they get home. They have a hard time understanding what physical contact is appropriate and what--"
"I touched a girl," I say, interrupting.
Click. "Tell me about it."
I think back to last night, when Maggie tried to stand. The fierce pain she felt was emphasized by her clenched teeth, balled fists, and furrowed eyebrows. Since I've been home, Maggie has been the only person I've actually reached out to touch. It hadn't gone well.
"A girl needed help getting up, so I tried to steady her. End of story." Well, sort of.
"Did she thank you?"
I hesitate, then pick up a rock and chuck it all the way to the baseball field on the other side of the park. "She yanked herself out of my grasp. Isn't that what you want to hear?"
"If it's the truth."
I turn and give him a look. He knows I'm not f**kin' with him.
"Maybe you were too rough."
"I was not too rough," I say harshly.
"Who was she?"
I reach around and massage the persistent knot on the back of my neck. If I don't answer, Damon'll probably show up tomorrow and every day until I spill the beans. What's the big deal anyway? I glance at the old oak, half expecting to spot Maggie sitting there, her expression wary and angry.