Leaving Paradise (8 page)

fifteen

Caleb

“Yo, Caleb, come sit with us,” Brian yells from the middle of the cafeteria.

I had planned on grabbing a sandwich and sitting next to my sister. Today she’s wearing jet-black lipstick to match her black, faded jeans. Mom didn’t even flinch when Leah walked down the stairs this morning. I shuddered at the sight. Whoever made up that black lip stuff has got some serious issues.

I’m standing next to her, contemplating what to do. She doesn’t look up from reading a book and says, “Go sit with Brian. I don’t care.”

“Leah, come with me.”

She looks up, black lipstick and all. “Do I look like I want to sit with them?”

That’s it, I can’t stand it anymore. I lean my hands on the cafeteria lunch table and say, “You might want to freak me out with all this black crap, but I’m not buying it. Now why don’t you wipe that shit off your lips and cut the death act already. It’s wearing thin on my nerves.”

Instead of being grateful I’m being brutally honest, she abruptly picks up her books and runs out of the cafeteria.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Brian is still waving me over, but I hesitate.

It’s not that I don’t want to sit with my old friends; I just don’t feel like being bombarded with questions about jail. Because these guys wouldn’t last one day in the DOC and they’d probably think I was lying if I told them what really goes down in there.

Don’t think for one minute that anyone is immune to being convicted. Man, there’s so many guys of all different races and religions and colors and sizes. Jews and Christians, Muslims and Catholics. Rich kids who thought they were above the law and dirt-poor kids who didn’t know any better.

It’s a whole different ball game when you’re on the inside, with an unspoken inmate hierarchy and rules. Some stuff you can figure out right off the bat and some things you have to learn the hard way.

Accidents happen at the DOC, and some of them are intentional. Gangs are rampant, even in the juvenile jail. When there’s an altercation between two rivals, you better get the hell out of the way.

Warden Miller has this thing about greeting a new inmate on their first day at the DOC. He thinks it eases the new kid’s mind knowing his expectations, but all it does is scare the crap out of them. Unless, of course, they’re repeaters. Miller is on a first-name basis with a lot of repeaters. They get a very different version of the welcome speech.

His first-timer speech goes something like this:
“My name is Scott Miller. Welcome to my house. You’ll get up at five forty-five every morning and go to the showers. You get five minutes, no more, to wash up. You’ll get three squares a day and you’ll attend classes for eight hours. We’ll get along just fine as long as you respect the rules in my house. If you don’t . . . well, then you and I will have ourselves a problem. Ask anyone around, they’ll tell you that you don’t want a problem with me. My problems get twenty-three hours straight cell time. Any questions?”

Warden Miller doesn’t explain the absence of toilet paper in the cells; that’s one of those things you have to find out the hard way. It’s when you’re sitting on the can and need to wipe. The call button to borrow a roll is on the other side of the cell, nowhere near the seat you’re crapping in.

I head over to Brian and the guys, ready to distract them from talk about jail. “Wha’s up, guys? Where are all the girls?” I ask.

Drew is sitting across from me and rolls his eyes. “Practicing for cheerleader tryouts. Don’t get me wrong, I love when the chicks jump up and down for me. I just don’t know how it could be all that difficult that they’d need to practice for three weeks straight.”

“Brianne and Danielle are going out for cheerleading instead of tennis?” I ask. Brianne and Danielle were die-hard tennis fanatics.

“It’s because of Sabrina,” Tristan says. “She doesn’t have enough hand-eye coordination to be a tennis player, so she’s convinced Brianne and Danielle to try out for the Pantherettes.”

Maybe I’ve been gone too long. Or maybe I didn’t hear correctly. “What’s a Pantherette?”

“Caleb, you got to get up to speed, man.” Brian is trying to control his amusement as he says, “Pantherettes are the cheerleaders for the wrestling team. Get it . . . Paradise Panthers . . . Panther
ettes.
”

Huh? “Wrestling cheerleaders?”

Drew nods. “Pantherettes, dude. Gotta love ’em. Lots of schools have wrestling cheerleaders, so last year we got ’em, too.”

“You wrestling this year, Becker?” Tristan chimes in. “It might be Wenner’s last year coachin’. He’s got a kid due in the summer, and I think he wants to keep his Saturdays open to stay home with the brat.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I’ve got to work after school.” I intentionally leave out the part that work is actually community service and if I ditch it, I may have to go back to jail.

Brian takes a bite of his sandwich and says with a full mouth, “We need you, or we’ll suck like last year.”

Tristan and Drew nod their heads, agreeing with Brian. Nothing like peer pressure to make one give in. But the truth is I missed these guys. “Okay, listen,” I say. “If there’s a match I can make, I’ll compete.”

Brian holds up a hand for me to give him a high-five. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

I slap his hand. “You’re seriously pathetic if you think I can single-handedly make a difference.”

Drew shakes his curly-haired head. “You pinned
Vic Medonia
, Caleb. The guy is huge and a legend. Remember when you kicked his ass, getting that five point throw-down ten seconds before the round ended?”

“Drew, please,” Tristan says. “Don’t disrespect CB here. It was four minutes when he did the throw-down.”

“Whatever, Tristan,” Drew says, “I forgot you know everything.”

Tristan crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Damn straight.”

I take a bite of my sandwich while Tristan and Drew are at each other’s throats. It’s just like old times, except Kendra’s not here . . . and my sister refuses to join the land of the living.

Before that thought leaves my head, the girls minus my sister strut into the cafeteria. Sabrina, Danielle, and Brianne come in first, followed by Kendra and her best friend Hannah.

“How’d practice go?” Tristan asks Brianne.

Brianne reaches out and touches his shoulder. “That is so sweet that you care,” she says.

Drew coughs. “Why don’t you guys do a cheer for us?”

“Right here in the cafeteria?”

“Why not?”

Kendra winks privately at me, then says, “Sure, let’s do it, girls.”

Kendra stands up front while Brianne, Sabrina, Danielle, and Hannah settle into a pattern behind her. Kendra gets her hands up as if she’s about to clap and says, “Ready?”

The other girls respond, “O-kay,” then they all start clapping and jumping and chanting:

Takedown, tilt ’em,
Or go for the pin!
Stay off the bottom,
And get that win!
You gotta ride ’em, roll ’em, get that pin!
Come on Panthers, leeeeettt’s win!

The girls end their overly energetic cheer on a jump/kick combination.

Drew stands up and claps. “That was
in
-credible! Can you do that end part again where you bounce up and down and talk about riding them?”

“Shut up, Drew,” Kendra says.

He holds up his hands and shrugs. “What? I was just admiring the cheer.”

“Please,” Danielle says as she sits down next to Brian and gives Drew a disgusted look. “You were admiring something, all right. Our chests.”

“That, too,” Drew admits. “I’m a teenage guy with raging hormones, what do you expect? I bet Caleb admired them, too, ’cause he hasn’t seen any in almost a year. Isn’t that right, CB?”

I should have known it was just a matter of time before my jail time got thrown in my face. Great, now everyone is looking at me, waiting to hear the ex-con’s response. Including Kendra. I stand up and walk out of the cafeteria. I don’t want to deal with this crap right now.

“I was just kidding, Caleb. Come back here!” Drew yells.

Every week in the DOC we had rage-intervention classes. They stressed avoiding confrontation, teaching us instead to release anger in other, non-violent ways. Since punching Drew in his mouth that runs like diarrhea isn’t an option, I head to the school workout room.

I walk right up to the punching bag and whack it until there’s a permanent dent in the side. I don’t even care that my knuckles are bleeding.

“Caleb, take it easy on that thing.”

It’s Coach Wenner, standing near the free weights with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s wearing a golf shirt with
Panther Wrestling
embroidered on the front.

I stop punching the bag and stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my bleeding knuckles. “They tell me this is your last year coaching.”

“Yep. I’ll be teaching drivers’ ed as well as gym classes come next fall.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “Drivers’ ed?” The guy lives and breathes wrestling.

“The wife doesn’t want me to be away on the weekends after the baby is born. Above all else, you got to do what you think is best for your family. Right?”

“I guess.”

Wenner takes a sip of the drink and leans against the wall. “You know, what happened last year shocked the hell out of me. I would have bet my right arm a kid like you wouldn’t leave the scene of an accident.”

“Lucky for you, you didn’t make that bet,” I counter.

“Uh huh,” Wenner says, then adds, “go to the nurse and get those knuckles wrapped,” and casually walks out of the room.

sixteen

Maggie

It took Caleb a week to slide right back into his life without a hitch. I left the cafeteria this afternoon when the popular girls did a cheer right in front of him. I could have sworn he thought the cheer was just for him.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I heard Tristan Norris say in earth science that Caleb is going out for wrestling this year.

Not only did I lose Leah as a friend and everyone else thinks I’m a walking freak, I have no hope of joining the tennis team or playing sports ever again.

I’m chastising myself for comparing myself to Caleb as I ride the bus to Hampton for my first day working for Mrs. Reynolds. I just wish it was easier for me . . . or less easy for him. I realize I’m bitter, but I can’t help it. I’ve been through such pain and agony the past year, and going back to school has only emphasized what an outcast I’ve become.

I reach Mrs. Reynolds’ house and ring the doorbell. She doesn’t answer. I keep ringing, hoping nothing bad has happened to her. Just my luck she decided to fire me before I even started the job.

Placing my book bag on the ground, I head to the back of the house.

Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the porch swing. Her head is slumped over, but her chest is rising and falling with each breath. Okay, the woman is sleeping. Phew. Balancing in her hand is a glass of lemonade.

This job is going to be a piece of cake. I feel ashamed for taking so much money from Mrs. Reynolds for doing nothing.

I tiptoe toward the swing. I have to take the glass out of Mrs. Reynolds’ hand before it spills all over or, worse yet, shatters when her grip loosens and the glass hits the ground.

Slowly, silently, I reach out and slip the glass out of her hand.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The old lady’s voice startles me and I jump back. Mrs. Reynolds has one eye open like that guy from the cartoon monster movie. “I, uh, thought you were napping.”

“Do I look like I’m napping?”

“Right now you don’t.”

Mrs. Reynolds sits up straight, her grey hair perfectly styled on top of her head. “Enough chatter. We have lots of work to do today.”

“Do you want me to refill your lemonade? Make you a snack?”
Fluff your pillows?

“Nope. You see those bags over there?” Mrs. Reynolds says, her crooked finger pointing to the side of the yard.

About ten huge paper bags are lined up in the grass. They’re all labeled with strange names: Apricot Whirl, Chromacolor, Decoy, Drift, Yellow Trumpet, Lemon Drops, Rosy Cloud. “What are they for?”

“We’re going to plant them. They’re daffodils. Well, they don’t exactly look like daffodils right now. They’re only bulbs.”

Plant? I peer inside the bag marked “Drift.” There must be more than thirty bulbs in it. I limp over to the next bag, “Lemon Drops,” and there’s more in this one than the first.

“Don’t look so startled, Margaret,” Mrs. Reynolds says. “It doesn’t suit your face.”

I grab a few bulbs from the next bag, the one marked “Audubon.” Behind me Mrs. Reynolds says, “Don’t even bother picking them up right away. You need a plan first.”

“A plan?”

“Of course. Have you ever planted before?”

“Just some herbs in preschool. But that was in a little planter we took home for Mother’s Day.”

“No bulbs?”

I shake my head.

Mrs. Reynolds looks worried. “Let me tell you something about daffodils, Margaret. They’re fragrant, beautiful, and hardy.”

I scan the eight bags lined up. “These are
all
daffodils?”

“Oh, yes. But they each have their own unique scent and personality.”

Wow. I don’t know much about flowers in general, let alone details. My favorites were dandelions, because when we were younger, Leah and I used to search and pull all the dandelions from our neighbors’ lawns, sing
Mama had a baby and her head popped off,
and flick the tops of the flowers off of the stems as we sang the word
popped
. Although, to be technical, dandelions aren’t flowers. They’re weeds.

“You’ll need a shovel to start with,” my employer says, interrupting my daydream. “I think there’s one in the garage.”

I place the bulbs back in their respective bags, then head for the detached garage in the back of the yard. It’s a large, two-story structure. Yellow paint, though cracking and peeling from years of neglect, indicates this had once been a place of pride. There are stairs on the side, leading to the second level. Dirty, dusty windows outline the upstairs room. Is it an office of some sort? A private room?

The garage door is closed, so I have to lift it using my own strength, which isn’t easy. With a loud creak of protest, the door finally lifts to reveal a large, black Cadillac parked inside. The place is dark and full of spider webs. Which means the place is full of spiders.

I’m not fond of either.

Maggie, you can do this
. As I venture farther into the darkness, my eyes do the spider-scan. My mom used to make fun of me that I had peripheral vision specially designed to detect eight-legged creatures.

A shovel hangs on the wall, not far from the entrance. Good. I slowly inch forward, reaching out to grab the handle. Once I hold it, I let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding. I scurry out of the garage and head back to Mrs. Reynolds, sure at least a few webs have managed to stick to me.

“I got it,” I say, holding out the shovel like a prized trophy.

The woman doesn’t look impressed. “First, we’ll have to prepare the soil.”

I walk over to the empty flower beds and start poking the shovel into the dirt to loosen it. I do this for a few minutes. It’s not so bad.

Mrs. Reynolds sneaks up behind me. “Wait.”

I turn around. The woman is holding out a long, pink and green flower-print robe.

“What is
that
?” I ask.

“My muumuu. Put it on. It’ll keep your clothes clean.”

“Mrs. Reynolds, I can’t wear that.”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Reynolds clutches the muumuu, a big, ugly housedress. I’m self-conscious enough as it is without wearing something my great-aunt Henrietta probably has in her closet.

“It’s . . . it’s not my size,” I say lamely.

“Don’t be a ninny, muumuus fit everyone. One size fits all. Put it on.”

Reluctantly, I take the muumuu and slide the material over my head. The dress hangs on me like a tent.

Mrs. Reynolds steps back and surveys me. “Perfect.”

I smile weakly at her.

“Okay, let’s get to work.”

For the next forty minutes Mrs. Reynolds directs me on how big to dig the holes, how to measure the extra soil needed in the bottom of the holes to create a pillow for the bulbs, and the best way to plant the bulbs—not in rows but scattered five inches apart.

I’m sweating now, and I fear Mrs. Reynolds is just getting started. But I’ll do anything to keep this job. If it means creating pillows for her precious bulbs for the next few weeks until colder weather bears down on us, that’s just fine. I can handle anything if the end result is earning the money to get away.

Sitting back, I wipe the dirt from my face with the sleeve of the muumuu. “What’s over there?” I ask, pointing to a pile of lumber.

“The gazebo that never happened.”

“I was in a gazebo at the Botanic Gardens last year,” I say, imagining a huge gazebo in the middle of the yard. “It reminded me of that scene in
The Sound of Music
where Liesl’s boyfriend sings ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ to her.”

Mrs. Reynolds looks longingly at the pile. “Yes, well, I’m afraid the wood will probably be sitting there long after I’m dead and buried.”

“You should totally get someone to build it,” I tell her excitedly. “I can imagine it, with a pointed roof and all.”

“Let’s take a break,” she says. “No more talk about gazebos that will never be.”

Oh, yeah, I forgot. No senseless chatter for Mrs. Reynolds.

Since the accident, trying to stand hasn’t been easy. Being covered in a muumuu makes it that much harder. Especially when I have to extend my leg in front of me to get up.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting up.”

Mrs. Reynolds waves her hands around as if her limbs can talk. “Usually people bend their legs when they do that.”

“I can’t bend my leg.”

“Who says?”

I turn and look straight at Mrs. Reynolds. Is she kidding? Obviously I’m crippled. Okay, so not crippled. But I got hit by a car. I’ll never be the same again.

“You bend your leg when you walk. Don’t know why you can’t bend it when you stand, that’s all,” she says.

I finally stand, then take a deep breath. I’m itching to say something, but can’t. Mrs. Reynolds is the first person in over a year that treats me as though nothing is wrong with me. It’s refreshing and frustrating at the same time.