Something Like Hope (13 page)

“Yes.”

“And how is it that you’re still here? Why didn’t you go through with it?”

“I tried, a bunch of times, but I always screwed it up.”

“Yes, but you’re very smart and very determined. I’ll bet that if you really wanted to, no one could stop you. You’d find a way.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that. I know lots of ways.”

“So answer the question, Shavonne. Why do you choose to stick around? Do you have some plans for yourself?”

       
M
r. Slater, the director, comes to see me today during dinner. I know he doesn’t like me, but today he’s all smiles and shakes my hand.

“We’re very proud of you, Shavonne. You did a good thing, and we’re in your debt.”

“Thanks.” The silence between us is uncomfortable.

“I’ll get right to the point, Shavonne. Your record here is terrible. Before that incident with Cinda, you were working on a one-way pass to adult corrections on your eighteenth birthday. Did you know that? It doesn’t matter, though, because things are different now.”

Then he tells me the deal. I have to keep my nose clean for one month. That means no fights, no restraints, no stealing sandwiches, etc. And—this is the important part—if outsiders come in to ask questions about “the incident,” I have to “emphasize the safety precautions that were already in place, as well as the positive manner in
which the guards responded.” In other words, I have to downplay some of the fuck-ups that occurred. Slater is very careful with his words.

“Mr. Slater, I want to say something, if it’s okay.”

“Sure, go ahead.” Shifting on his feet, looking at his watch, wanting to leave.

“I know how my record looks to other people. I can’t convince you that I’ve changed, but I want you to know I’m tired of fighting everything and everybody, and I want to leave. I want to get my life back. I want to see my daughter again.”

Mr. Slater gets up and straightens his suit, offers his hand once again. “We’ll see what we can do, young lady. I expect some people will be coming by to talk to you about the incident later this week. You comfortable with that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gooood.” He flashes that incredible smile as he drags the word “good” out a second too long. He’s basically saying, “I’ll be watching you, kid. Don’t fuck this up or it’ll be bad for you.” And I believe him.

       
B
ack with Delpopolo, I tell him about my plan. I want to get out of here and go to a mother-daughter group home. I’ll get Jasmine back, and work on a job and an apartment. With luck, Slater will keep his deal and send word to set me loose.

What I don’t tell Mr. D is that Slater will never keep his word and I’ll have to force the whole damn thing in court: refuse to sign the petition for an extension of placement, tell the judge all about Cinda’s “accident,” Kowalski screwing one of the girls, other stuff. The judge will call Slater to investigate and he’ll say, “Cut her loose. Too much trouble.”

Delpopolo says, “I admire your plan, Shavonne. But if it’s going to work, it’s got to seem real to you. Right now it’s too far away, and I’m afraid you’re caught up in schemes and plots and drama. I’m afraid that you’re trying to control things that are really outside of your control.”

It’s like he can read my mind.

“How do you know I’m scheming?”

“Because it’s your job. You’re supposed to try to avoid doing the hard work. It’s what I’d do if I were in your shoes.”

“But then what’s wrong with it?”

“It won’t work. You can’t control it. Haven’t you noticed that this place is part of a system? And you can’t go up against a system. It won’t budge for you.”

       
T
oday after dinner Ms. Stokes, the cottage leader, calls me into her office. I think maybe I’m in trouble. Ms. Stokes is a small black woman with short hair. She wears African robes and jewelry: jade, turquoise, bone, silver. She is really beautiful and carries herself with what I can only think of as grace.

I haven’t mentioned her till now because she’s scarce. She’s hardly ever at the cottage. I think she spends her time at meetings. And she supervises the guards. I hear them mumbling about her sometimes. But it is never anything real bad, because Ms. Stokes is what you’d call professional. She is fair and strict and has the respect of almost everybody, kids and guards alike.

“Have a seat, Shavonne.”

My gut instinct is to stay standing and say something smart like “No thanks.” But I sit and fold my hands in my
lap. Ms. Stokes has on bifocals and is reading some official-looking piece of paper.

Still staring at the paper, she says, “You were a real hero the other day. Whether or not it means anything to you, I’m proud, Shavonne. Not many people can react that way under pressure. It says a lot about your heart.”

“Thanks, Ms. Stokes.”

“Cinda probably won’t be coming back. You know that?”

“I figured.” I continue to look down at my hands.

Ms. Stokes looks up from her paper, staring me in the eye, forcing me to look up at her.

“Shavonne, you know you’ll have to get a new roommate.”

I don’t say anything. I know where this is going. A ton of shit is about to fall right on my head in the form of Mary, the retarded pregnant girl. Mary’s single room is getting turned into a new staff office. She’s going to have to move in with someone. Guess who that’s going to be!

“You’ll be sharing a room with Mary. You know her? Of course you do. Listen, Shavonne, this girl needs someone to help her out a little bit.” Ms. Stokes leans toward me and places a hand on my knee. “I know you want to be left alone to take care of yourself, but you’re the only one on the whole unit right now who I can trust with this.”

“Trust?” I nearly scream. “You trust me? I’m locked up. I have no rights. I could get transferred to adult prison on my birthday. I can’t be trusted, Ms. Stokes. You
know
that.”
I don’t even know if this is sarcastic or true—I just don’t want to be responsible for that girl.

She raises her voice a notch. “Shavonne, you don’t decide who I do and do not trust.”

I feel bone tired. I don’t want to talk or think or feel. I don’t want anyone to raise their voice and look me in the eye. I want to say, “Ms. Stokes, I admire you in a certain way because you’re a strong and competent woman, but you don’t know me! If you did, you wouldn’t be having this conversation with me right now. You’d leave me the fuck alone and stick that kid with someone else.”

Ms. Stokes continues quietly and slowly. “I trust you with this responsibility. You just saved a girl’s life! I’ve never saved anybody’s life. You want to trivialize that, go ahead. But I will not. I
am
proud of you, Shavonne. And I’m sure you’ll be a good roommate for Mary.”

I remain silent but scream inside.
You bitch! Do you have any idea what that simpleminded girl and her baby can do to me? My heart can’t break again. It will kill me. I’d rather room with Ms. Choi!

       
M
ary spends a lot of time trying to fold her clothes like they do at the Gap, where everything is neat and organized. She’s not very good at it, but I know just what she’s trying to do. Because I’m the same way. The dirtier the life, the more effort you put into keeping things clean and organized. Just walk into some shitty apartment in the projects with plastic covers on the furniture. It will reek of Carpet Fresh and Lysol. Roach traps everywhere and that blue stuff that goes in the toilet bowl to make it look like a bathroom in a cheap hotel. And all the family members will be frozen forever on the walls in black lacquer picture frames. Their beautiful smiles and fancy clothes almost convince you that they have happy and complete lives. In actuality, though, some are dead, while the rest are in jail for armed robbery, attempted murder, or drugs.

When Mary finishes organizing, she sits on the edge of
her bed with her legs dangling over. She puts her hands on her belly. She smiles. It’s a stupid smile, but happy. How can she be happy? She’s fourteen years old and about to have a baby. I could tell her a few things, but what’s the point? If she’s really happy, then who am I to ruin it? She looks my way and starts talking.

“I’m Mary.” Again with the smile. I just stare at her. Is she for real?

“I know.”

“I guess we’re gonna be roommates.”

“Right.”

“Do you—”

I interrupt. “Listen, Mary. I don’t know if I’d be such a good friend for you right now. I’ve got my own problems and I need to keep to myself. Understand?”

She stops talking instantly, nods. Then she puts her hands back on her tummy and kicks her legs back and forth. When I forget about her she talks again.

“Sorry, Shavonne. I won’t bother you no more.” She is crying. Against my better judgment, I go over and sit on the bed next to her. Mary smiles and dries her tears.

“Do you want to feel the baby kick?” she asks. I do.

“His name is Ramón, after my papa.”

       
M
ary moves around a lot in her sleep. She thrashes and kicks the bedding onto the floor. Sometimes, half awake from a bad dream, she clamps her legs shut and covers her privates with her hands shouting out, “No. No. I don’t want to. Please!” It doesn’t take a psychologist to figure out what’s going on here.