1
There’s a customary breakfast for “free girls” their last day on the unit. It’s hosted in the dining room and there’s usually a lopsided farewell banner hanging above the kitchen door with a few balloons. The girl who’s leaving gets to request a special meal, pancakes or French toast, and everyone joins her for it. Most girls look forward to having something other than mushy oatmeal, and to getting a thirty-minute pass to ask personal questions without penalty. It’s supposed to be a morale-boosting celebration for the girls left behind—a reminder that their freedom, too, is close at hand.
I’ve gone to three and none of them felt that motivating to me. More like a slap in the face but with breakfast. So when it was finally my turn, I asked to skip mine. I didn’t feel like celebrating something that should never have happened. I just wanted to get out of the center and forget everything.
Well, maybe not everything.
The morning came faster than any other since I’d been here. The unit was pretty quiet last night as the girls tried to find a rhythm without Tanya and her gossip. I spent most of it in my room, though Ms. Bree let Samantha stay with me. I think she hoped I’d be encouraging but I don’t know if our time together changed anything for Samantha. She talked a lot abouther plans for after she got out, since I wasn’t sure about mine. Her excitement made me anxious but I let her talk.
By the time I was dressed, I could hear the girls talking and laughing in the dining room. I stood in the hallway, unprepared to do what I’d thought about almost every day since I got here.
Ms. Pat came into the rec area and smiled when she saw me. I walked over slowly, taking in everything as I passed. I felt more like I belonged here than I had when I’d arrived. I stopped out of view of the dining room so I wouldn’t make accidental eye contact with any of the girls. I had no desire to answer their burning questions.
“You ready to go home?” Ms. Pat asked, her dark eyes holding mine.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Do you want to say something to the girls?”
I shook my head.
She called for Ms. Bree, who appeared a few moments later with a donut. “I saved one for you to eat on the way down. You like the chocolate ones,” she said, handing it to me.
I took it cautiously.
“You’ve done your time, Jasmine. You’re ready to go home. Come on.”
Ms. Pat waved and wished me luck. I thanked her before following behind Ms. Bree, the way I’d always done.
Now, I’m sitting in a dim holding room picking at a chocolate donut, watching the second hand of a loudly ticking clock make its never-ending journey. I’ve thought long and hard about what I’d do when I got some real time to myself, but I don’t actually know what to do with it.
I haven’t been alone like this in twelve months.
My mom’s face pops up in the door’s small window. A moment later, the door opens, letting in a little bit of light.
“Hi,” she says, her smile wide but tentative. It’s been a year since we’ve been in the same room together. The last time was at my sentencing, and she looks a lot more rested than she used to. Her hair is silkier than I’ve ever seen it, like she’s been going to the salon more regularly. Her nails are bright red with polish and she uses a finger to push loose strands behind her ear. I almost don’t recognize her like this.
As happy as I am to see her, I’m not sure how to act around her, either.
“Excuse me, where can she change to go home?” my mom calls out behind her to the intake desk. They tell her she can stand at the door while I change in here. She hands me a shopping bag.
When she closes the door, the room loses the sliver of light. I don’t need it to see that these clothes—a pair of jean shorts in a size I might have worn once and a frilly white tank top—won’t fit. I wonder what version of me she was remembering when she picked these out. I tug the jeans to test for stretch, but the fabric doesn’t give. I look down at my thighs in my summer uniform—oversize gray shorts and a wrinkled T-shirt—and feel self-conscious for the first time since they were handed out. You quickly realize here that appearance is the least of your worries, and that’s been comforting.
Nope.I throw the clothes back into the bag and take a deep breath before knocking on the door. “Mom?”
She pokes her head in.
“I’m just gonna keep this on.”
If my refusal to put on the new clothes throws her, she doesn’t show it. She holds her hand out for the bag. “Let’s getout of here then.” My mom leads the way past the intake desk and waves at a woman who says goodbye and something about staying out of trouble.
I keep my eyes straight ahead. I plan to avoid trouble at all costs.
When we arrive at a set of large steel doors, I pause under the Exit sign. We never had the privilege of opening them.
“Go on,” the woman encourages from the intake desk.
I push the doors open and jump at the sound of a click, expecting an alarm to blare, but none does.
