Toxic Bad Boy (2 page)

At the end of the hour,
Ms. Singh surveyed my progress. “Amazing, Caleb. You have a natural
talent.” Her gaze moved to the stick figure painting next to mine.
The disgusted expression on her face was priceless. With a flick
her flowing skirts, she drifted to where the guard stood. “See you
all tomorrow.”

I encountered Ian on the
way to my next elective, health class, where he’d just gotten out
of. I knew this time of day was when he met with the psychiatrist
and I couldn’t resist mocking him. “Have fun talking about your
daddy issues.”

Strutting past me, his
shoulder bumped against mine. “At least I don’t have an Oedipus
complex about my stepmom.”

“
Narcissus.”

“
What’s your point,
Caleb?” At least he could admit it. He turned a corner and I
thought back to our first fistfight. We’d been scrawny middle
schoolers fighting over something so stupid I couldn’t remember it.
After years of antagonism and altercations we were almost
friends.

In health class we were
shown pictures of people with STDs.
What a
joy
. I’d completed ninth grade health
class and been through the lecture. I bit back laughter at the
young kid whose eyes bugged out during the slides. Damn, they were
gonna make him too scared to lose his virginity.

Looking at the kid, it
amazed me I’d had sex for the first time around his age. A scrawny
girl around thirteen sat at the front of the class and I pictured
what Gianna looked like at that age. The female inmate was just a
little girl, but with the background these kids had, most of them
would already be sexually active. Although I’d been like them in
that aspect, my home life had been relatively sheltered. I was
grateful my girl’s had been even more so.

But that’d been shattered
when Josh attacked her. Something he’d continue to pay for after
they released him.

For now, he was in the
same wretched position as me. He’d be locked up for a lot longer,
which provided a modicum of pleasure. A decade in prison wouldn’t
have been enough punishment for the fear, pain and feeling of
violation he’d caused her.

Despite my resolve to
remain strong, it was hard not to feel sorry for myself. Being
locked up for ten months sucked and I still had nine more to go.
The judge had been a bastard for making our sentence mandatory. A
non-mandatory sentence could’ve seen me out of here
earlier.

My release date seemed so
far away and engendered a hopeless feeling I constantly fought
back. I felt sorrier for Ian. At least my parents cared about me.
My mom and dad had visited me twice in the past month.
Together
, which was a
trip, since they’d done little together since the
divorce.

Ian’s dad rarely answered
when he called. After going through the motions without leaving a
message, Ian used the rest of his phone time to call
ex-girlfriends. I’d passed by once as he was on the phone and he’d
been talking dirty to some chick.

I’d gagged.

At night I sometimes
dreamt about Gianna. In one dream we were tagging. Like the time
we’d almost got caught, except in my dream we
did
get caught and arrested by the
cops. Gianna and I sat on a curb, handcuffed but laughing our asses
off until Julie showed up breathing fire,
literally
.

In another dream we took
off to Vegas again, but this time to get married. The oddest part
was that Hailey was the person officiating the wedding, dressed in
an Elvis costume. In my dream Hailey had beamed down at us,
cheerfully admitting she’d been wrong about Gianna not sticking it
out with me.

I’d woken from the dream
feeling mixed emotions. I’d marry Gianna one day, but we were
nowhere near ready for marriage. Hailey sure as hell wouldn’t be
invited.

The nightmares were the
worst.

The one where I cried at
Gianna’s funeral had me waking up panicked, agitated and with no
outlet for the rising aggression. I’d been tempted to drag Ian off
the top bunk just to have someone to punch. Another nightmare
centered on me getting released from juvie only to find out she’d
fallen in love with someone else.

I hadn’t fallen back to
sleep that night. Gianna was amazing. Other guys
would
be sniffing around
while I was out of the picture.

After health class, it was
my turn to see the shrink. Since taxpayers generously paid for my
therapy, I figured I’d get their money’s worth. My therapist would
get tired of hearing me bitch about Julie by the time my sentence
was up. Maybe she’d recommend early release to the judge to get rid
of me.

I met with the
psychiatrist for individual therapy three times a week on Mondays,
Wednesdays and Thursdays. My group therapy was once a week on
Friday afternoons. Thank God Ian did group therapy a different day.
I heard enough of his yapping in our cell and at
mealtimes.

The shrink insisted on
discussing my parents, their marital problems before the divorce
and how the divorce affected me. It became tiresome after our
second session. I was from a broken home, poor me. I got into so
much trouble because I didn’t have a father in the house during my
formative years. Bullshit. I was offended when my therapist went
this route, because it was like saying my mom hadn’t been a good
single mom. This wasn’t true at all.

I owned up to my mistakes.
My parents were a hell of a lot better than what most of the kids
had in this place. They’d never mistreated me, even when I
misbehaved.

Each session, we talked
about Josh attacking Gianna. Besides it resulting in my own attack
on Josh, it had become apparent I harbored rage about the incident.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from killing him if I ever
saw him. Would I be able to keep myself from hunting him down after
his release?

I’d been reluctant to talk
much about Gianna directly. What we had,
still have
, was private. Those
memories were precious, not for others to analyze. After a whole
month with no letter from Gianna and not having her new cell number
yet, today I broke down to my therapist, Dr. Erica Adler. My
emotions were turbulent and I was anxious about the future of our
relationship.

Feeling embarrassed at
exposing my feelings, I hightailed it out of there at the end of
our session and a guard escorted me back to the cell block. Ian sat
in the common area, looking sullen. Maybe his earlier session
hadn’t gone so well either. It almost made me feel guilty about
my
daddy issues
comment earlier.

“
Hey, man.” I dropped down
into an armchair across from him.

“
I’m hungry,” Ian muttered
grumpily. “I hate how they make us wait until everyone checks in
before we can go to dinner.”

Tapping my right foot, I
was impatient to eat, also. My plain white tennis shoes were
comfortable, if not a little generic. When the shoes were first
issued to us, Ian complained they were poor people shoes. I’d
laughed and told him no more name brands for the rich
boy.

At least the staff fed us
well at mealtimes. The food in the place exceeded the quality at
public schools. It was as if the state of Colorado was attempting
to compensate for taking away our freedom.

After dinner, we got the
choice of staying inside or going outside. Despite the indoor gym
which most inmates preferred, I usually played basketball outside
in the cold because I relished the sense of freedom. Pretending I
was still in charge of my life brought a measure of sanity. With
the thick workman’s style coats they gave us to wear, it wasn’t so
bad.

During the weekends, we
had the option of either being outside, in the gym or watching
movies in the common room. Since the movies were usually rated PG,
with an occasional tame PG-13 thrown in to spice things up, I
usually declined and hung out elsewhere.

Beating Ian at one-on-one
hoops had become my new favorite pastime. Ian worked out to keep in
shape, but he had zero talent on the court. I whooped as I made
another basket. “In your face!”

Ian cursed, scowling in
frustration. “I’m tired of playing this game.”

Bouncing the ball, I
circled around him. “More like you’re tired of getting your ass
handed to you.”

“
Give me a soccer ball and
I’ll have you crying on the grass,” he boasted.

I scoffed, bouncing the
basketball between my legs before palming the dimpled leather. I
threw the ball at the hoop across the court, making it bounce off
the backboard without going in. “Soccer sucks.”

I found the chilly
November night refreshing. Running across the court after the
basketball had my blood pumping. Our time almost up, I was eager to
see if I got any mail today. The staff opened and examined the mail
before handing it out to the residents in the evenings.

When it was time to return
to the cell block, we filed inside. There were several bathrooms
with showers down the hall where we cleaned up one at a time. It
was messed up, but there was a risk of molestation if the inmates
weren’t kept separate at shower time. In the handbook they gave us,
sexual abuse by another inmate or staff was termed
bad touch
. At my turn
for the bathroom, I hurried through my shower, knowing I was being
timed and wanting to make the most of it.

Before we were locked into
our cells for the night, the staff checked for weapons. As we lined
up against a wall with several guards surveying us, one guard
yelled, “Pants!” In compliance, we each grabbed our pant legs and
pulled them above our ankles. After a minute, the same guard
yelled, “Shoes!” and we kicked them off, held them upside down,
then whacked them together. The slapping noises continued for a few
seconds until the guards were satisfied. I put my shoes back on and
smoothed back my damp hair.

A guard holding the stack
of mail called the names of several inmates, including Ian and
myself. When he said, “Caleb Morrison!” I moved forward to take the
letter he extended. Flipping it over, I saw it was from my
girl.

Finally!

A guard locked us into our
cell and Ian climbed onto his bunk, breathing a dramatic sigh. “Now
you can stop whining like a little bitch.”

Ignoring him, I laid down
on the bottom bunk. A rustling of papers could be heard from where
Ian relaxed up above. He hadn’t mentioned who his letter was from
and despite not wanting to be, I was slightly curious. “Who wrote
you?” I hoped his dad had sent him the letter.

“
The shrink signed me up
for some pen pal program with a church youth group. Some bible
thumper chick sent her first letter. I wonder if she’ll try to save
my eternal soul through the mail.”

I remembered the program
he referred to. I’d declined participating and was surprised Ian
hadn’t done the same. Flipping Gianna’s letter through my fingers,
I listened to him talk. I was both anxious and afraid at the same
time to open her letter. “Not even Jesus could save your soul,
Ian.”

“
Get this,” Ian started
then in a girly voice continued, “
Reading
your profile, I realize you need a spiritual
friend
.” He stopped to snicker. “Caleb,
do
you
need a
spiritual friend?”

I didn’t remind him I’d
started attending the Sunday morning church services given by a
non-denominational preacher they brought in. I laughed along with
him, but I wasn’t feeling it. I was preoccupied with Gianna’s
sloppy handwriting on the white envelope. For a girl, her
penmanship sucked.

Ian continued to read his
letter aloud. “Blah, blah, blah
. I’m
fifteen years old.
Blah, blah,
blah
. My favorite band is Paramore. I live
downtown Denver with my grandmother and older
sister
.” He went quiet for a moment.
“Listen to this.
I’m not allowed to tell
you my last name because you’re a criminal
.” Sounding offended, Ian complained, “And this is supposed
to lift my spirits?”

“
What’s her first name?” I
asked, only half caring.

“
Alexandra,” Ian answered.
He went quiet again, possibly more interested in the letter than
he’d admit. Knowing him, his new life’s mission was to get her last
name out of her. Give Ian a rule and he was bound to break it
eventually.

Finally mustering the
courage, I tore open the envelope and slid out Gianna’s letter.
Written on binder paper in blue pen, I questioned the
uncharacteristically sloppy handwriting. My eyes flicked to the
pictures taped above me before I started reading.

Dear Caleb,

I’m sorry if this is hard
to read, but I still have the cast on my right wrist. So I’m
writing this using my left hand and I suck at it. My jaw is
completely healed now and I invited Cece over yesterday to see my
dad’s new house in Englewood. We just moved in a couple days ago.
It’s weird living south of Denver now, but I like the
change.

Chance is still with my
mom, but my dad plans to pick him up most weekends. I’ll miss
living with Chance, but I’m glad for the break from my mom. I
agreed to come to her house at least one night a week for dinner.
Even if we don’t agree on how I live my life, she’s still my mom
and I love her.