“You’re starting to sound like me.” She taps her coffee mug against mine. “It’s an imperfect system, which is why I’m working so hard to do my part. Believe me, if I didn’t truly believe that Pandora was innocent, I wouldn’t be working on her case.” She checks her phone for the time once again. An entire minute has passed.
I eat my frustration with a bite of tofu sausage. It has the consistency of gummy bears, but not in a good way.
“So, what’s on your agenda for today?” She’s glaring at me now.
I peer out the window. The door to the barn is closed. She wouldn’t have had reason to go out there this morning. Plus, she’s not one for subtlety; she’d be far more direct if she knew or suspected something. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. Just curious.” Her eyebrows knit together and she gives me a puzzled grin.
I take a sip of coffee, trying to formulate my answer. But her phone rings before I can.
“It’s Genevieve,” she says, already off her stool. She holds up her finger, indicating that she’ll only be a minute.
But I’ve heard that drill before.
While she heads to her office, I peek back out the window, wondering about Julian’s truth. What is his version of what happened on the day his father was killed? The day he lost both his parents.
Sunday, October 18
Afternoon
I woke up on the morning of October 6th knowing it was a good day to escape. I could feel it deep inside me—like an electrical current that charged through my veins, making me feel on fire.
I could barely sleep the night before, couldn’t concentrate in classes on the day of, couldn’t stomach a single morsel. Like the Christmas Eves you see on TV—kids tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep a wink.
“Are you going to eat that pancake?” Jones asked. “If not, can I have it?”
Jones was fourteen years old, in juvie for stealing cars. I gave him my whole tray, too excited for food—giddy even, like I’d ever felt giddy about anything; never had any use for the word. Sort of ironic. It took me going to juvie to feel the excitement of Christmas.
It was drizzling, but we were still allowed to go outside for some fresh air. Stickney, the new guard, had been assigned to watch us—that was mistake number two. Mistake number one was that he’d been hired at all.
Stickney had his head so far up his ass that he couldn’t see straight. I knew it. He knew it. He knew I knew it.
During the weeks that led up to the escape, I watched Stickney closely. Saw him flip out, royally, over Jordan’s messy cell, ultimately pinning him to the ground (infraction: overreacting, resulting in a warning). I then saw him give a mere slap on the wrist when Williams jumped Douglas in the cafeteria, nearly knocking Douglas unconscious (infraction: underreacting, resulting in a meeting).
When Stickney started getting a little too social with the other inmates—detainees, we’re called—by oversharing about his supposed hot ex-girlfriend and all his sexy conquests (most likely the product of his warped imagination), I knew his fate was sealed.
I had my way of letting him know that Big Brother was watching. Whenever he so much as sneezed in the wrong direction, I’d be there, eyes wide, silently judging. It got so that whenever he laughed too hard or did something shady—slipping a candy bar to Williams when he thought no one was looking, letting Jones skip morning classes for no reason other than he didn’t feel like going, telling anybody who’d listen about some girl he’d been working at the bar he frequents—he’d look for me, checking to see if I’d noticed.
I always noticed.
Dad always noticed too—whenever Mom looked a little too happy or treated Steven’s half of the room as anything other than a sacred shrine (collecting a pile of clothes on his bed or using his dresser to store extra bedsheets), Dad noticed and called her on it: Howdareyoudisrespectmyson.Wipethatstupidsmileoffyoursmuglittleface.Whatistheretobehappyabout?Iwon’thaveyoudisrespectingthisfamily.Iworksohardwhileyousitaround.
The night before my escape from the detention center, I zeroed in on Byron Hensley, one of the newbies. I’d handpicked Hensley for being thirteen years old, scared shitless, and way too pretty to stay safe around here. Other detainees had noticed him, and I knew that freaked him out. Sexually abused since he was five, Hensley sought revenge by murdering his mom and stepdad—or allegedly murdering them, like me.
Committing a crime like that at thirteen, I knew he was capable of acting out of desperation. I also suspected that he was just a wee bit crazy. I mean, who wouldn’t be after growing up like that? Or committing a crime like that?
“You don’t belong in here, man,” I told him. “You should totally plead insanity. They’ll transfer you to a hospital. You won’t even have to stand trial.”
“The lawyer said something about that too,” Hensley said, “but I got sent here instead. I think my hearing will decide if I’m sane enough for trial.”
“So, show you’re not sane.”
“How do I do that?”
The wheels in my head started to turn. This would be easier than I thought. After a little coaching from me, the plan was set. Hensley’s tears had dried up. He now had something to look forward to. Merry Christmas once again—I’d probably just given him his best gift. A temporary stint in a mental institution—until he received the proper meds and therapy that would magically turn him “sane” again—beat prison any day. At least that’s what I told myself.
And so, there we were, a pack of nineteen of us, outside in the yard, getting some fresh air. Like most days, some of us were doing laps. Others were shooting baskets on the court or talking on the sidelines. A few more were playing a game of capture the flag, using an old sock as the flag.
Stickney was in the center of it all. One man, expected to have eyes in the back of his head: mistake number three.
I stood off to the side, by the fence that surrounded the yard. There was an area that curled around behind the building, out of eyeshot: mistake number four.
Was it a coincidence that a section of that fencing had been turned upward, just enough, where there’d been some construction going on? Or was that mistake number five?
Hensley gave me a nod and then kicked off his shoes, dropped his pants and boxers. He whipped off his T-shirt and started running around stark raving naked, singing “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”
Stickney lost his shit. He blew his whistle, shouted at the top of his lungs, and started chasing Hensley around. But Hensley was too quick, skipping in circles, shaking his bare ass.
Other detainees started cheering, laughing, whistling, storming. Meanwhile, the bell rang, alerting us to line up and go in.
I bolted instead, slipping around to the side of the building. I’d planned on trying to scale the fence until I saw the damaged panel. I scooted beneath it. A jagged piece of the metal scratched my face, ripped my pants, and dug into my back. Blood ran down my cheek. But still I kept on running, never stopping to look back.
Roger Mason has this weird habit where he tears tiny scraps of paper from the pages of his notebook, chews them up into tight, round wads, and then collects them into a heap. When I first saw him doing it, I assumed he was making spitballs, but I soon stood corrected. Roger uses the saliva balls to erect various sculptures. I know this because he sits beside me in the library for every single B-Block. I even have a picture of his Eiffel Tower of balls.
It’s B-Block now, and I’m trying to ignore the sound of him swishing paper around in his mouth, but it’s so completely distracting, especially because he keeps sniffing up phlegm, like he has a bad cold, and so I can’t help picturing snotty saliva balls. Normally it wouldn’t bother me as much, but my nerves are shot. I’m so overtired.
Still, I’m using this study block to do research on Julian’s case. According to another article I find, it seems that Julian was fairly well liked by his peers, even helping out the drama club by building sets. One classmate was quoted as saying that Julian “was a
quiet guy, always writing in a journal. He never made any problems.”
Another student said, “If I ever have a problem and need to talk stuff out, he’s my first go-to.”
Similarly, there are teachers and neighbors who claim to have been shocked by his arrest. “Something isn’t right,” said Madeline Romano, a recently retired English teacher at Julian’s high school. “Julian is a gifted writer with a gentle soul. He was respectful in my class, and always worked well with his peers. I really think there’s a major piece of this story that’s missing.”
“Hey, is that the Bates Motel?” a voice asks, from behind, instantly making me jump.
I swivel in my seat to find Tori.
“Whoa, looks like someone’s a little on edge. Too much Red Bull in your Apple Jacks this morning?” She tsk-tsks before looking back at Roger’s sculpture. “Psycho’s one of my all-time faves. Vince Vaughn as Norman Bates…totally hot, right? Though Anthony Perkins wasn’t too shabby either. Bonus points if you can re-create the infamous vacancy sign that stands in front of the motel.”
Tori’s got her hair in pigtails today, the tips of which match the bright gold stars on her knitted scarf. “Hey, there.” She smiles at me. “Got a minute? I’m in major cri-cri mode.”
“What’s the crisis?” I ask. “Did Mr. Garblecki pass the history tests back?”
“Jarrod Koutsalakis is totally taking someone else to Hannah Hennelworth’s ‘It’s-Saturday-let’s-party’ party.”
“Oh, right. That.”
“Seriously?” She lets out an audible sigh. “Word’s even spread to you?”
“Rest assured I actually have no idea what you’re talking about. And, P.S., who is Hannah Hennelworth?”
Tori makes a confused face, her lips bunched up and her eyebrows knitted together. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”
“Well, you’re going to her party, aren’t you?”
“Jarrod’s going.” She rolls her eyes, frustrated that I can’t keep up. “Apparently Hannah’s some freshman girl who lives on the curve.” (Note: the houses on the curve overlook the water and generally have their own servant quarters, which means that Hannah Hennelworth is rich—or at least that’s the perception.) “Anyway, Hannah is having this party to put herself on the map.”
“In other words, to buy people’s friendship?”
Another eye roll. “You’re totally missing the point here, Day.”
“I’m not. Really. You want to go to the party, but Jarrod is taking someone else.”
“Not just someone, the one. Becky Freaking Burkus. I mean, seriously, have you not noticed her skanky attire lately? Low-cut blouses, ho-length skirts, fishnet stockings, and visible string.”
“As in shoelaces?”
“As in G,” she barks, snagging the attention of Mr. Czarnecki, the librarian. “Becky’s like a walking peep show,” she whispers.
“And Jarrod’s rumored to be dating that peep show. I must say, I’m kind of surprised to hear a boy has got you sinking to such shallow depths. I mean, honestly, using some girl for her curvy house party?”
Tori holds up her fist. “This is point.” She waves her opposite hand in the air. “This is you.” She passes her waving hand over the fisted point. “And this is you missing the point. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
Tori drags a chair in between Roger and me to sit. “Bottom line: we need to go to that party. Word is that Max is going to ask you.”
“Okay, but I refuse to go to a party thrown by someone I don’t even know, whose intention it is to buy a bunch of shallow leeches—present company excluded, of course.”
“Oh, come on, Ms. Scruples. Won’t you even go for me? Please? I’ll picket at your next save-the-kids/protect-the-rain-forests/help-the-flying-squirrels rally.” She bats her puppy dog eyes. “Remember that flying squirrels campaign last spring?” She giggles. “You had us planting trees everywhere.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.
“Well, think hard. I want to show up looking smokin’ hot.” She runs her palms over her red-and-white striped sweater.
I wonder if she knows how much her outfit looks like something out of Where’s Waldo’s closet.
“I’m so excited now.” She claps silently and then glances at my computer screen. “Is that for the psych paper?”
“PB&J stuff, actually,” I lie, feeling an instant ping of guilt.
“I already told you, PB&J belongs between two slices of bread rather than as a club. Get it?”
“You don’t think social justice is important?”
“Well, um, duh.” She makes the missing-the-point gesture with her hand and fist again. “But I think your own happiness is even more important.”
“And you don’t think I’m happy?”
“I think you have most of the right ingredients in your pantry for happiness, but it’s like you’re using the wrong recipe.”
“Okay, I’m thoroughly confused.”
“I just think you’re much more of a curried-lentil-soup kind of girl rather than a ho-hum sandwich. You know…bold, strong, hearty, motivating. The kind of soup that flies under the radar but is spicier than all the rest; the soup that all others are measured against.”
“Huh?” I make a face.
“What’s so ‘huh?’ about it? You’re the main course, but you’re so busy trying to be a side dish, you can’t see the entrées through the appetizers.”
I’m not so sure my “sandwich” is ho-hum, nor am I even sure what Tori’s talking about. Sometimes it seems like she’s speaking a language of her own. Other times, like now, though I may not totally understand her, I think the things she says sound profoundly genius.
She gets up from the chair, giving a thumbs-up to Roger’s Bates Motel sign. “See you in J-Block,” she tells me.
I nod, watching her clomp away in her humongous astronaut boots—like one of Waldo’s clan walking across the moon.
It’s after school, and Max is waiting by my locker as I come out of physics. He waves when he spots me.
“Hey,” I say, dodging the mob of students en route to the exit doors.
“So, I’ve been thinking about the next meeting.”
“Next meeting?” My head fuzzes.
“PB&J.”
“Oh, right,” I say, fumbling with my padlock.
“Yeah, I was thinking that we could join forces with one of the other similar-interest clubs on campus to boost our visibility—like the Eco Warriors for an environmental project or Amnesty International for a human rights effort.”
“That actually sounds pretty genius, but I’ve sort of gotten involved in another project and it’s taking all of my time.”
“So, wait, you’re abandoning ship?”
“Not abandoning ship, just chartering a boat elsewhere.”
“Can’t you just stay onboard with me?” He smiles. “For the next thirty minutes or so? Because I’d really love to strategize, and ultimately change your mind. I have some great ideas.”
“That’s really sweet of you,” I say, finally getting my locker open. “But I can’t today.”
“So, how about Saturday, around eight?”
“You want to strategize on a Saturday night?” I swap my books for my camera and jacket.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I mean, Saturday night, around eight. There’s a party.”
“Hannah Hennelworth’s,” I say, connecting the dots.
“You know her?”
“I know of her.”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe we could go to her party together.” He points back and forth between himself and me, like we’re playing a game of charades. “It’d be good exposure for us—for PB&J, that is.”
“Max Terbador!” someone shouts—a boy on the hockey team—complete with a jerking fist.
“At what age can one legally apply for a name change?” Max asks.
“I believe that would be eighteen.” I grin.
&nb
sp; “It can’t come soon enough.”
“Hey, guys,” Jeannie says, sneaking up behind us. She’s all smiles, as if someone wedged a boomerang in her mouth. “What’s going on?”
“Max was just telling me about a party this Saturday.”
“Really? Details, please,” she chirps.
Her enthusiasm is mind-boggling, because super-serious/disses-parties-in-lieu-of-extra-credit-projects/in-bed-by-ten-unless-there’s-a-Nova-marathon Jeannie is not exactly the chirping type.
“Are you interested?” I ask, unable to help gawking at the pinking of her cheeks.
“Why not?” She pushes her glasses up farther on her face—a nervous tic she developed in middle school, whilst dealing with the Bs (a group of girls whose names all began with B who took pleasure in making her life miserable, i.e., taping coupons for acne cream to her locker, barking in her direction, and leaving dog biscuits on her desk). The joke’s on the Bs now, however, because Jeannie is absolutely stunning—only she doesn’t even know it.
“We could all go to the party,” Max offers, ever the gentleman.
“Superific,” she bursts.
“Great,” Max says, focused on me. “I’ll give you a call.” He starts to walk away, accidentally colliding with Ms. Matherson, the gym teacher, as she transports an armful of Hula-Hoops to the gym.
Hoops go flying. Max scrambles to help her pick them up. Meanwhile, Jeannie and I turn away, pretending not to notice. Only once he walks away again do we burst into a fit of giggles.
“Okay, what’s the deal?” I ask her. “You’re totally crushing on Max, aren’t you?”
“No way.”
“Yes way. I mean, seriously? Superific?”
“What?” She shrugs. “I’m just trying to expand my social circle a bit.”
“By going to some freshman wannabe’s party?”
“Exactly. It’s a party, Day, so don’t overanalyze it. Just have some fun. Is that really so hard?”
I can feel the smirk on my face. I can also smell BS from a mile away. “Let’s table this discussion for now, shall we?”