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She looked embarrassed as her cheeks burned bright red. “I’ll see you soon,” she insisted.
“Yeah, okay.”
Then, she turned and left. No hug. No attempt at affection. She just scurried away like a rat, attempting to get away with something, and I had to wonder …
What the hell are youreallyupto, Mom?
And why don’t you want mecominghome?
CHAPTER SEVEN
TASTE OF FREEDOM
Age Thirty
“It’s my birthday, boys,” I announced to the kitchen crew the moment I burst through the swinging doors. “So, we’re not eating any of this shit. Iwannamake something good.” I grabbed the trays of burger patties and turned to stuff them back into the freezer.
“So, youwannatrade this shit for other shit—that’s what you’re saying?” Chuck—serving seven years after being caught snorting coke outside his daughter’s day care after nine years of being clean—asked, crossing his beefy arms over his chest and smirking.
“Ah, come on. Wegottahave something good in here.” I dug through the shelves of various frozen foods. The selection was worse than an elementary school cafeteria, but I was determined to not eat another crappy burger for my thirtieth birthday.
It was a new decade, baby, and I had a good feeling in my bones.
I pulled a few boxes of bland French fries and something that sort of passed as chicken breast aside to uncover a stack of thirty frozen pizzas. My face lit up like afreakin’ Christmas tree at the thought of eating pizza on my birthday—something I hadn’t done since I had been eight years old.
“Hey, check it out,” I said, pulling one out of the freezer and holding it up for the other guys to see. “Anyone want pizza?”
“Dude, that shit’sgonnagive us salmonella or E. coli orsomethin’,” Jag—serving three years for stealing his ex-wife’s car, following an ugly divorce that had granted her both vehicles—replied. “Like, Idunnohow long that’s even been in there.”
“Definitely long enough that I don’t remember loading it off the truck,” Chuck muttered, looking both skeptical and grossed out.
I turned it over in my hands, looking for a clue of its age or if it would kill us if consumed. “I don’t see a date on it or anything.”
“That’s‘causethey don’t give a fuck if we die of food poisoning,” Jag said. “They probably hope for it. One less mouth fortax payersto feed.”
“But, hey, man, if youwannarisk it, go for it. Happy birthday. Have a lovely case of diarrhea,” Chuck muttered with a snort, nudging an elbow at Jag’s ribs.
Jag laughed and grabbed for a bag of potatoes to peel for dinner. “Nothin’ better thankickin’ off a new year with the runs.”
Harry wandered in, his hands stuffed into his pockets, and greeted us witha,“Good evening, fellas. How’s it going?”
“Same shit, different day,” Chuck grumbled, opening the freezer to grab the patties I’d just put away.
I turned on the stove, getting it ready to fry up the mystery meat. It had been stupid of me to expect I could eat something other than what I’d been choking down the past nine years of my life. And why? Because it was my thirtieth birthday?
I hadn’t been special to anyone since I had been twelve when Gramma was still alive. What the hell had made me believe something would suddenly change now, especially as a convicted felon?
So, we cooked while Harry supervised, and then I ate my dinner with a little less enthusiasm than usual. Chuck and Jag did me the solid of rounding up a couple of other guys to sing a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday,” and they gifted me with a Twinkie someone had grabbed from the commissary. It was nice—more than anybody had done for me in years—and I enjoyed my Twinkie with the stupidest smile on my face. Because when I closed my eyes, sitting with my back against the library wall, I almost felt normal.
I had come in to find a new book to read, hoping there’d be something I hadn’t read yet, and thought I’d enjoy a few quiet minutes alone, surrounded by the warm scent of musty, old books. And now, I sat on the floor, finishing my birthday present with my arm wrapped around my knees, as I breathed deeply and imagined I wasn’t here, trapped within these stone walls. Iwas on theoutside, free to come and go as I pleased. Free to breathe the fresh air or buy a pizza whenever I damn well felt like it without worrying if it would give me salmonella.
The years were somehow passing slower now, and the monotony of life behind bars was taking its toll. The more time I spent at Wayward, the more I began to wonder when I’d ever see the outside again. It had been nine years since I’d been arrested, eight since I’d begun my sentence, and I knew it could be any day when they decided to release me back into the wild. I mean, why not? For the most part, I hadn’t done a fucking thing wrong since being locked up, apart from a few minor misdemeanors that hadn’t earned me anything but a little bit of time in solitary. I worked hard, I mostly stayed to myself or was otherwise friendly, and I never gave a guard or the warden shit.
God, when I really thought about it, why had it already been nine years of model citizenship without a single mention of what a good job I was doing?
I groaned, flopping my head forward against my arms, as my heart started a war with my head.
I was comfortable here. I liked the routine of it, the safety of it. And there was a reason I was here—a damn good one. Inever forgotthat. Not once. But, man, I missed freedom. And right now, I really missed pizza.
