Pushing Send (14 page)

“Not hungry,” I respond after a moment, and I know she isn’t moving.

“Drink your milk and eat,” she says more firmly.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” I say, pushing the tray away.

“Are you food intolerant?” she asks plainly.

“Not hungry.”

“Bread and butter—”

“Lactose intolerant. Butter is made of—”

She snatches the tray and walks away.

I look up at the girl with dark skin and blue eyes, and she is smiling. I quickly look away.

I am brought a cup of soup or something like it.

“Eat.”

~*~

Back at D Unit, we are directed to our rooms, and the door remains open for quiet time while classical music plays very softly through the PA. I take the opportunity to make my bed, even though I wasn’t directed to do so, and put away my state-issued clothing.

When I finish, I sit on the thin, rock hard mattress and open my handbook.

Tryon Secure Residential Facility apparently serves juvenile offenders under sixteen who commit violent felonies and are convicted, then sentenced in an adult court. I am not a criminal or a felon; I am a fifteen-year-old girl who doesn’t understand why she is here. I haven’t been convicted or sentenced. This makes no sense to me.

It also serves “fennered” juvenile delinquents. I don’t know what this means. I wonder if that is what they are considering me to be. It says OCFS can hold custody over me until I am twenty-one.

Run. I need to run away. My mind races. I am stuck in a tiny room with nothing to occupy my time: no books to read; no music; no way to expel energy by running, riding a bike or moving more than six feet from the side to eight feet forward to back. I need to do something to get away from here. However, if I did that and got caught, I would be here longer.

I look back down at the handbook: counseling, mentors, therapists, and treatment plans.

I read on, seeing a section about group sessions dealing with self-management. Almost laughable. You can’t move to another Unit without going through Direction Unit or anger management. But when you are stuck on Direction Unit, you can’t write in a journal, get a book to read, or listen to anything other than what plays over the sound system when the guards play it to help calm the anger.

Substance abuse, sexual abuse, AIDS awareness—do they even call it AIDS anymore? No.

I skip the next few pages because I cannot manage the anger when these promises are on paper in a book that is not fiction, yet filled with lies.

The schedule.

Weekdays

6:20: Wake up begins

6:40: Group

7:10: Showers called

It skips to seven thirty, and I can’t comprehend how twenty girls shower in twenty minutes. How is that possible?

7:30: Breakfast

7:50: Education/Vocational on unit.

So, if I am reading this correctly, we don’t even leave this building for schooling. I didn’t see a bookshelf. God, I need a book.

11:40: Lunch

12:00: Group

12:30: Education/Vocational on unit

2:30: Recreation

3:45: Group

4:15: Rest/Chores/Individual Counseling

A complete contradiction.

5:00: Group

5:30: Showers called/Phone calls

6:00: Dinner

6:30: Group

7:00: Counseling/Homework

7:30: Snack

8:00: Bedtime

Weekends and Holidays

8:00: Wake up

8:30: Group

9:00: Breakfast

9:30: Group

10:00: Quiet Reflection/Individual Counseling

11:00: Recreation

12:00: Lunch

12:30: Group

1:00: Arts and Crafts

2:00: Group

2:30: Quiet Reflection/Individual Mentoring

4:00: Religious Services offered

5:15: Recreation

5:45: Dinner

6:15: Group

6:45: Movie/Snack

8:00: Shower

8:40: Bedtime

I sit back, look around this box, and then decide to lie down. As soon as my head hits the pillow, group is announced.

When I walk out, Henson points to the gray chair labeled number one. Apparently, this is my number on the Unit.

Gee, thanks for that directive
, I think as I sit down.

Hanson hands me a clipboard, “Sign your name and pass it on.” Then she sits down next to Reeves.

“After this afternoon’s fiasco, today’s group will be anger management. Starting with number twenty, moving to nineteen, and so on. Tell me one of your coping skills when you are angry.”

“Deep breathing,” number twenty says.

“That’s good.” Reeves smiles. “Very calming to concentrate on something you can control like your breathing. Next.”

“Counting to as high as I can,” is nineteen’s response.

“Prayer,” I recognize Seanna’s, or eighteen’s, voice.

“Watching TV, which we don’t get to do in this place, so if I start to freak, you’ll know why,” number seventeen says and then sucks her teeth, making a popping noise at the end.

When the room erupts in laughter, Henson stands up. “Threats will get you nothing but additional time. Keep that in mind.”

“You asked. Just answering the—”

She stops when Hanson takes her walkie-talkie and says, “One out of program on D Unit.” She releases the talk button and points the walkie at the foyer. “Go. Now.”

Hanson walks out behind seventeen, a tall, thin girl with long, black hair.

“Next,” Reeves says, without missing a beat.

“Smoking,” sixteen, who I know is Lucia, says, “Mara—”

“Out!” Hanson’s voice booms. “Rear foyer—”

“Been there, don’t need a damn map,” she sneers. “Shit, thought this was group. Dayum, crazy ass—” her mumbles are cut off.

“Two out of program,” Hanson says to what I am assuming is her walkie.

“Ladies, if you’ve been here or have read the handbook, you know you should be in your rooms, doors closed, until we have dealt with the situation.”

The “situation” takes a long time to rectify, during which I lie in bed, looking at the ceiling, wishing I had something from home. Hell, I want my mother at her craziest.

Tears spill out of my eyes, roll down the side of my face, and hit the pillow. I am alone, afraid, and want answers, but as the rules state, there is no speaking unless spoken to. Even speech has to be directed. Apparently, juvenile offenders like me don’t have the rights to an explanation, a trial, a lawyer, or the freedom of speech before being locked up.

Taking in a deep breath, I try to focus on Saturday.

chapter ten

Counseling

The entire week, I have spoken less than a hundred words. I know because I have counted them. If I can’t keep my mind busy with meaningless tasks, I am on the verge of tears, and from what I have learned in here, tears show weakness. As luck would have it, I am less of a target for Lucia since she is busy provoking and irritating the staff. The beauty in that is group interaction has not come full circle, and I haven’t had to participate.

From what I have overheard, Lucia is in a gang. She is a Criplette, a female Crip, and number sixteen is a Bloodlette, female Blood. Apparently, the staff who speak way too loudly at night outside my open door—which is the only open door on the unit since apparently I am on suicide watch yet have no idea why—see this. I see sixteen, or Rachel, as someone putting up a front. Neither girl has flashed signs or attacked one another, because they have both been here, both know the rules, and neither wants to be extended, but both are seeking power.

A power play in a place like this is a joke.

I am sitting in chair number one, looking down at the handbook, which I have now memorized, when the Unit phone rings. Perry, a guard for the weekend day shift, picks it up and looks at me then hangs up.

“Residents, please go to your rooms for quiet time. Shut your doors behind you.” I stand and she holds up her hand, stopping me. Once everyone is in their rooms with the doors shut, she looks at me. “You have a visitor.”

I follow her through the building, out the door, and to the Intake Unit.

My heart races and tears start to fall. I wipe them away quickly, knowing it has to be Mom and Dad, and I don’t want them to leave worried. If I am not with them, I want them to think everything is okay.

Everything is
not
okay, though.

I am brought to the hall that is just before where all the offices are held.

“Visits will be in Mrs. Keller office today. You ready?”

I nod and wipe my face again.

“Let’s go.”

When I walk into Keller’s office, my mom gasps, “What happened to you?” She jumps up and runs to me, hugging me so hard I would normally complain, but right now, it couldn’t be hard enough.

“I’m okay, Mom,” I say, hugging her back equally as hard.

“No. No, this is not okay.” She pulls back and looks at me before scrunching her eyes together. “I want to know everything. Everything. Do you hear me?” She pulls me into a hug again, her body trembling. “I love you so much, Hadley. So, so much.” She lets go and grabs my hand, motioning to the chair next to the one she was sitting in. “Start now.”

“Mrs. Asher—” YDC Keller begins.

“No,” she says in a firm voice that still surprises me when it comes out of her. “From my daughter.” She looks back at me. “Everything, sweet girl, everything.” She lets go of my hand and pulls out a pen and pad.

I have an overwhelming need to spill all the hell I have endured from my lips, hoping it will get me out of here and back home, so I do.

“In the van, I was kicked in the face by one of the girls they picked up. The entire time, I had to hear about what I was to expect, leaving me to feel like I had done something wrong Mom, I swear—”

“I know, Hadley. Continue please.” She clears her throat.

“I was brought here, where I nearly fell out of the van because I couldn’t use my hands to steady myself. Redder, the transport lady, is so cruel, Mom. I don’t even think she likes kids, so I have no idea why she works with them. Then I refused to undress to be searched and deloused. I told them I didn’t have lice, and they didn’t care. They held me against my will. Her husband”—I point to Mrs. Keller—“held me against my will as Redder pulled off my pants and underwear—”

“Is this true?!” she yells at Keller.

“It is unfortunate that Hadley didn’t follow program and—”

“She was stripped! She followed program, the one she has followed for years: don’t let someone put his or her hands on you. Don’t—”

“It is completely within our legal rights, Mrs. Asher. Safety and security of the residents, staff, and facility—”

“What about
her
safety, Mrs. Keller?” She doesn’t wait for her response. She looks at me, “I am so sorry. I promise we are doing everything we can to get you out of this hell.”

“When can I come home, Mom?”

“We are working on it. We’re meeting the lawyer again on Monday, okay, sweetheart? I promise we are trying. Even he says this is unreal. He thinks they are trying to make an example out of you, trying to use you to set a precedent. The judge who signed the paperwork—the warrant to have you placed—is close to Lana’s family. That’s the only thing we can come up with.”

“So he is using his power to help a friend? To make me look like a criminal for them?”

“It appears that way.”

“Your lawyer should look into getting this out of criminal court and into family court,” Keller interjects.

Mom doesn’t look at her. “Monday, we’ll know more.”

“Monday,” I repeat, looking down, trying to hide the hurt.

“If there was a way to break you out of here and move to Canada, I swear, Hadley, I would. I would in a heartbeat.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Keller says.

“I couldn’t care less,” Mom spits, standing from her chair and hugging me again.

“You may not believe this, Mrs. Asher, but I am on your side. It is wrong for me to say that, but I told Hadley the same thing. This makes no sense, none at all.”

“Then let her go home where she won’t be abused.” Keller attempts to interrupt, but Mom holds up her hand, stopping her. “Abuse, Mrs. Keller, is abuse. You can sit behind that desk and tell me how it’s not, that you have legal rights, that it’s to keep them safe, but you walk out of these damn doors and think about it. My daughter was hit and stripped.”