Does that mean what I think it means? "Release? As in I can leave here?" I ask the Big Guy.
"You'll be meeting with your transition coach tomorrow morning. He'll arrange your community service duties and report your progress to us."
Another member of the committee points a manicured finger at me. "If you screw up, your transition counselor can petition the judge to bring you back here to serve out the rest of your sentence. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"We don't give breaks to repeaters. Go back home, be a model citizen, finish your community service requirements, and have a good, clean life."
I get it. "I will," I say.
When I get back to my cell, the only one here is the new kid. He's twelve and still cries all the time. Maybe he should've thought twice before he buried a knife into the back of the girl who refused to go to the school dance with him.
"You ever gonna stop crying?" I ask the kid.
He's got his face in his pillow; I don't think he hears me. But then I hear a muffled, "I hate this place. I want to go home."
I change into my work boots because I get the pleasure of having to clean the dumpsters today. "Yeah, me too," I say. "But you're stuck here so you might as well suck it up and get with the program."
The kid sits up, sniffles, and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. "How long have you been here?"
"Almost a year."
That sets the kid plunging back into his pillow for more wailing. "I don't want to be locked up for a year," he cries.
Julio, another cell mate, walks into the room. "Seriously, Caleb, if that kid doesn't shut up, I'm gonna kill him. I haven't slept for three nights because of that crybaby."
The wails stop, but then the sniffles start. Which are actually worse than the wailing.
"Julio, give the kid a break," I say.
"You're too soft, Caleb. Gotta toughen these kids up."
"So they can be like you? No offense, man, but you'd scare a serial killer," I say.
One look at Julio and you know he's a tough guy. Tattoos all over his neck, back, and arms. Shaved head. When my mom comes for visits, she acts like his tattoos are contagious.
"So?" Julio says. "They gonna let you outta here?" I sit on my bed. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
"Lucky sonofabitch. You goin' back to that small town with a funny name? Wha's it called again?"
"Paradise."
"So I'll be stuck here alone with crybaby while you're in Paradise? Ain't that a bitch." He gives the kid a wide-eyed stare. If I didn't know Julio better, I'd be afraid, too.
This sets the kid off again.
Julio chuckles, then says "Well, I'll give you the number to my cousin Rio in Chicago. If you need to hightail it out of Paradise, Rio will hook you up."
"Thanks, man," I say.
Julio shakes his head at the crying kid, says "Later, amigo" and leaves the open cell.
I tap the kid on his shoulder. He jerks away, scared.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," I tell him.
He turns to me. "That's what they all say. I heard about what goes on in jails." He scoots his butt towards the wall.
"Don't flatter yourself, kid. You're not my type. I like chicks."
"What about the guy with the tattoos?" I fight the urge to laugh. "He's hetero, too. Dude, you're in a juvenile facility."
"He said he'll kill me."
"He says that because he likes you," I assure him. Julio has a sick sense of humor. "Now get off the bed, stop the crying, and go to group."
Group is group therapy. Where all the inmates sit around and discuss personal shit about their lives.
Tomorrow I'm getting the hell out of this place. No more group. No more cellmates. No more crappy food. No more cleaning dumpsters.
Tomorrow I'm going home.
TWO
Maggie
I think physical therapists like their job a little too much. I mean, why do they always look so happy and smiley as they make you sweat and wince from pain?
Sure enough, Robert, my physical therapist, is waiting for me with a big white-toothed smile in the lobby of the outpatient area of the hospital.
"Hi, Maggie. You ready to work that leg of yours?" Not really. "I guess so," I say, looking down at the floor. I know it's Robert's job to try and make me walk better. But there's no use in helping me walk normal because my leg is all messed up inside. The last surgery I had to fix my tibial plateau fracture lasted over seven hours. My orthopedic surgeon jokes with me and calls it a bionic leg.
All I know is that I have more nails and plastic inside me than the average tool box.
When I go to Spain next semester the screeners at the airport are going to have a field day with me. They'll probably ask me to climb inside the x-ray machine to make sure I'm not concealing a weapon inside my knee.
Robert escorts me into the physical therapy room. I have to come here twice a week. Twice a week for almost a year and still people stare at me when I walk.
"Maggie, lie down and put your foot on my shoulder," Robert instructs, getting down to business-as-usual.
Sighing, I lay down on the mat and put my foot on Robert's shoulder. He holds my foot in place and leans forward. "Put pressure on it."
After the accident, all I can do is a little baby push.
"Come on, Maggie. You can do better than that. I hardly feel it."