Delinquent

  Delinquent

  By: M.F. Lorson

  Prologue

  “Ms. Elliot, you have a visitor.”

  It was the first time my name had been called over the PA system. “Elliot” sounded so stuck up. I wished I had a tougher last name. “Juarez” or “Torro,” maybe. Something that reeked of gang activity or at least petty theft. Instead, I had the type of name that made people question whether or not they wanted sugar in their tea. It didn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of the other inmates. Thirty sets of disgruntled eyes watched as I made my way through the common room to the visitors’ area. No one liked it when someone else got a visitor. Not even me; there was no one I wanted to see.

  I had no idea who it could be. It was highly unlikely to be my parents. In the thirty days I’d been at the San Jose Juvenile Correctional facility they hadn’t visited once. My grandmother came by during my second week, but she said my orange attire gave her a migraine and she’d switch to sending letters if I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t visiting hours, which meant whoever was here was either one of the useless sacks of mis-molded flesh on my legal team, or another stranger in a suit here to discuss the legal ramifications of my poor decision making. (“Poor decision making” was the term my legal team used for breaking and entering, and also someone’s face. ) Maybe it was my court appointed psychologist, Lucinda. Although she wasn’t prone to unscheduled (read “unpaid”) sessions. She tried hard to make it seem like she cared. But nobody you pay cares. If it was Lucinda she was in for a surprise. I wasn’t playing nice anymore. While waiting to be sentenced I’d been required to play the remorse card. Now that I was unlikely to see the un-imprisoned light of day anytime soon, there was no longer a reason to keep still. Wouldn’t she be taken aback to hear that my only real regret was getting caught? I wasn’t a huge fan of therapy but it was a nice idea, unloading on someone like that. I hadn’t been allowed to talk during my arraignment or sentencing. Pretty much since the moment they pulled me out of the house and pushed me into the squad car I had been instructed to keep my mouth shut. What a great deal of good that did.

  The visitors’ room was a small space with a table and no other furniture. One wall had a large mirror. It was obviously the type that transformed into a window on the other side. I wondered what made visitation so threatening that it needed supervision. Were they really worried that we would plot elaborate escape routes right under their noses? It was more likely that they observed for the sport of it. The other walls were covered in cheesy motivational photos showing pictures of families reuniting, images touting sentiments like “Family is Always There” and other insulting fictional ideologies. On the other end of the spectrum were the warning shots. The ones meant to scare you into submission. One was a black and white photo of a girl with two missing teeth and a hopeless expression. Below, the caption read, “Meth made me a nobody.” Next to it was an after shot. This time the girl had dental implants and sat at an easel painting some kind of floral landscape. Lots of bold colors, to go with her brand new smile. The caption read, “Sunnyside made me someone worth knowing again.” Clever how advertising could make its way into even the remotest of locations. The room was just one Pepsi logo away from being a grocery store bulletin board. But then again Pepsi couldn’t capitalize on its target audience the way Sunnyside could. Sunnyside was a rehabilitation center for wayward girls, one which the judge had suggested as an alternative to the correctional facility I was in now. I chose here. Group therapy, inspirational mantras, and the “confront your victims” healing process was not for me. I would, in fact, rather jump head first into the Grand Canyon.

  There was no one in the visitor's’ room yet, which meant they were either still being searched for inadmissibles or they were already sitting on the other side of that glass observing me right now. I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue and took a seat at the table. If I had hoped to look cool and aloof I was doing a bad job. My fingers drummed nervously on the tabletop. There were few things I hated more than waiting on the unknown. When the side door finally did open it was not my therapist. I had two visitors, a man and a woman. The woman wore a navy blue pantsuit with a gold scarf tucked neatly around her neck. Her hair was coiled into a perfect bun, in which not one wayward auburn strand poked out. Her companion was in similar attire though a great deal older than she was. I tried to remember if they had been present at my sentencing but I couldn’t place them. They sat down. The man leaned casually on the table, his hands clasped together. I assumed his demeanor was intended to put me at ease, but it didn’t. I was never at ease with strangers, one of the things kindergarten had effectively taught me. The woman had placed a black leather notebook in front of her. Like my therapist, she intended to take notes during our conversation. I observed them in silence, unaware of the proper protocol for engaging perfect strangers - strangers who clearly knew more about me than I did about them.

  The woman spoke first, “How are you liking it here?”

  I didn’t even have a chance to answer before the man jumped in with his own line of questioning.

  “Tell us, are you feeling reformed yet?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. Clearly, they were not employed by the correctional facility. Nor were they likely to be visitors sanctioned by the judge assigned my case.

  “It’s fine” I answered. “Fine” didn’t really do the place justice. “Fine” was a shabby guest room at your aunt’s house. The San Jose Juvenile Correctional facility was a padded room doused in beige and bars.

  “Fine,” said the woman, jotting something down on her notepad. “Fine is an interesting choice of words. It implies that you neither loathe nor enjoy your current situation.” So, she was the psycho babble type. Compelled to tell me how I feel. “What if I told you there was somewhere else you could go? Somewhere that could improve your situation rather than just penalize you for your mistakes?” Aha, now it was starting to click. This was an attempt to get me to choose Sunnyside. Probably the last ditch effort of my former parents.

  “I would tell you the same thing I told Judge Watkins. There is no way in hell I am going to Sunnyside.”

  The man laughed. “Jesus, I would hope not! The kind of people we take are not the type that swallow the load of horseshit they preach over there!”

  “Language,” reminded the woman. I noticed that she scribbled furiously on her notebook when I responded. If they weren’t from Sunnyside I didn’t have the slightest clue what they were after. As far as I knew there were no other options. The judge made it clear that there would be no leniency in my sentence, no shoulder pats for good behavior. Not that I had been behaving well…there had been an infraction…or two.

  “If you aren’t from Sunnyside then where are you from? The judge didn’t offer any alternatives. It was here or there.” The two exchanged a look. A private, knowing type of look.

  “Explain,” said the woman.

  “Gladly.. the man smiled obligingly. I am Mr Humphries and I am the dean of a small secondary school in Oregon. And Mrs. Lewis,” he said, motioning to the woman beside him, “ is head of our student advisory team. Our school is unique in that each student is handpicked by me and a team of other committed educators.”

  I was listening but I not quite following. I was a C student…on a good day.

  “We do not take traditional students. Instead, we select students who are in need of support. Students like yourself.”

  Students in need of “support.” Wasn’t that a kind way of putting it?

  “You select inmates?”

  “In short, yes. There has never been a student in our system who did not spend time either in a facility like this one or worse.”

  “There’s worse?”

  He continued on as if I hadn’t said a
nything.

  “By selecting in this manner we keep the playing field fair. We believe that students such as yourself have conducted themselves unbecomingly in the past but have the potential to channel their behavior into a positive trait in the future. Essentially, we admire your dedication, even if it is a little misguided.”

  The way he said misguided made me feel very small, like a child getting a lecture from her father. Except my own father had given up on lectures long ago. There was an air of “too good to be true” about this whole conversation.

  “And Judge Watkins is okay with me completely ignoring my sentence and road tripping to Oregon?”

  Mr. Humphries laughed.

  “He certainly wouldn’t have if I had phrased it that way. But Kate, I haven’t finished. I left out a few details, not all pleasant.” He drew in a large breath before continuing. “My school is an incredible opportunity. That is for certain. But it is not without strings. Huntley and Drake is a private boarding school unlike any other. You will receive an extraordinary education at no cost. Those are the perks”

  “Rip the band-aid off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t soften the blow, just rip the sucker off.” I was getting tired of the fluff. This man, didn’t drive all the way to San Jose to offer me a free ride, so whatever the bottom line was I wanted to hear it now. Save the “perks” for someone else.

  “You will not come and go as you please,” stated Mr. Humphries. “We don’t consider our students prisoners, but we keep them on a very short leash.”

  “ How short?”

  “ You will not have the freedom to leave campus nor will you have the freedom to use electronic devices, telephones, etc. Once on campus you are under the supervision of your mentors and though it is certainly not as strict as here at San Jose, it’s no picnic. You will be in the company of criminals. Undoubtedly, you have experienced that here. However, Huntley and Drake will be different because you will not be supervised at all times. You will be challenged socially as well as academically, and you will be required to do well.”

  “Better than well,” remarked the woman.

  “And you want me?” I asked, unable to disguise my genuine surprise.

  “That’s what we are here to determine,” she replied. “We are going to ask you a series of questions. There are no right or wrong answers. They are merely used to determine whether or not you are a good fit for our institution. We will begin when you are ready.”

  I had no clue whether I did or did not want to go to their school. But I was intrigued, and they were taking up time that would have been spent staring at the ceiling in my cell so I was content to draw the visit out as long as possible.

  “Fire away.”

  “In what subjects do you excel?”

  “None.” It was the truth. I hadn’t ever been a great student but in the last two years I had managed to hit an all time academic low. I wasn’t sure it was even possible to score lower than I did on my final math exam. I had been held back, attended the eighth grade twice and still hadn’t managed to get a passing grade in pre-algebra.

  The man laughed again. “Nothing like a bit of honesty.”

  Mrs. Lewis nodded, making additional notes before asking her next question. “What makes you special Kate?”

  I thought about that question long and hard. The longer I thought the less I liked it. What did they want me to say? That I was a deadbeat in need of reform? That I was clay ready to be molded? Maybe I didn’t want to be molded. Maybe I didn’t care either way. A lifetime as a gas station employee didn’t intimidate me the way it did some.

  “Is this the part where I am supposed to break down into tears and tell you ‘no one ever told me I was special?’ because if it is, I promise you, that’s not happening.”

  Mrs. Lewis looked up from her notebook. She was very interested now, her heavily lined lips pursed together tightly. I got the impression she wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out how to put it into words yet.

  “It’s interesting you should put it that way Kate.” Apparently she had found her words. “Because usually in this part of the interview people do just the opposite. They tell us just how incredibly incredible they are. How their reason for being in here actually makes them more genius than delinquent. You on the other hand have chosen to put yourself down rather than boost yourself up. If even you don’t like yourself, why should we select you?”

  “I never said you should.” I answered. I could feel the blood pooling in my cheeks. How odd for my body to tell them I was ashamed before I had the time to acknowledge it myself. It was probably better if they didn’t accept me. I was an academic misfit with obvious social skills issues and nothing, truly nothing that made me special.

  “Just one last question, Kate.”

  “Sure”

  “Do you regret the actions that placed you here?”

  I didn’t have to think to answer that one. In the last thirty days I had wanted nothing more than the opportunity to say it out loud.

  “No.”

  Chapter 1

  “Welcome to the Huntley and Drake school for defiant children. This is not Hogwarts. You are not here to make friends or hone an insignificant set of skills. You are here because you have been selected to be so. If you think your being here is a mistake I strongly encourage you to adapt. Some of you are here because you are court ordered to do so. Let that set the tone for the rest of you. The long arm of the law does not send juvenile delinquents to pleasant places. This is not the liquor filled dorm experience you have seen on TV. You may consider this your punishment, you may think of it as an academic prison, think of it what you like but note that for many of you this is your last chance. Most of the students in this school come to us with less than stellar transcripts. Those of you who have managed to maintain your GPA's have also managed to destroy your credibility. Colleges do not look kindly on students with mile high criminal records or disciplinary files that rival the great American novel. However, If you graduate here with a decent GPA, that says something. Our curriculum is advanced and our expectations are high. This school has the potential to make you better than you could ever hope to be on your own. Those who make it will walk out of here with a clean slate and their choice of college. Those who don't make it are likely to remember this speech for the rest of their lives. Squandered opportunity is a life time sentence.”

  Mr. Humphries did not have the same pleasant demeanor in public that he did one on one. If I hadn’t already met him I would have decided right here and now that he was a pompous jackass. The gym was packed with new students and their belongings. Though we had all been instructed to pack sparsely very few students had brought less than two bags. That was the benefit of incarceration; it taught you the beauty of having your own things. I had made few goals for my life here but one of them was to attempt to make friends. Something I hadn’t done in quite some time. I didn’t thrive at the whole friend thing. I was decent at making them but completely inadequate when it came to keeping them. The thing about making friends is it usually involves conversation. I turned to the redhead next to me. She had a nice smile, the inviting kind. “Orientation eh, doesn’t seem that different from incarceration to me.”

  “Prison’s better, food wise at least.” I had only spent thirty days in Juvie but the things they considered food there, stray dogs would turn away.

  “ Grrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeattttttt any suggestions?” I asked. The redhead smiled again.

  “Sure, I can give you some tips. It’s fairly simple. If it looks edible it probably isn’t.”

  “Oh my gawd!”

  “I’m just kidding. It’s all about safety. For example, vegetables are safe, meat is not,

  casserole is not, pizza…”

  “Let me guess, is not?”

  “Exactly! Become the salad bars friend and you will know what it’s like to sleep without

  piercing abdominal pain. ”

  “Thanks, I�
�m Kate by the way.” I held my hand out to her but immediately felt stupid and

  retracted it. Apparently my brief stay in Juvie was long enough for me to forget everything about normal teen interaction.

  “Not a problem Kate.” The girl with the red hair had been digging around in her oversized bag for what seemed like an eternity. Maybe I was lucky. Maybe she missed that whole awkward hand gesture –take-back thing. After a few seconds she held up a set of keys “Giant bag, small keys remind me to fix that.” It looked like she was getting ready to leave but as far as I understood orientation was a full day's worth of mandatory events. Maybe I was mistaken and could bail on the rest as well.

  “So, you’re not going to stay for the rest of orientation?” I asked, attempting to sound casual.

  “I’m a junior, been there done that. That’s why I am allowed to leave. I’m not actually even required to be here. My boyfriend is though so I came to visit before they close campus up to everyone but staff and you newbies.” If she was a junior the whole conversation was worthless. But I couldn’t exactly say that. It probably wouldn’t go over too well if I just blurted out ‘You're not eligible to be my friend so we should probably stop talking and just get on with our business.’

  “So you’re dating a staff member?” I asked.

  “Student staff member. No shock value there. It isn’t like a Mrs. Robinson thing. Good luck though. I gotta get out of here.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and turned toward the exit.

  “I’ll see you around then?” I called after her, she didn’t have to respond to that. It was more an exit strategy than a conversation piece but before I knew it she was wheeling back in my direction.

  “I’ll tell you what, if you make it past first cut we can do lunch, you’re gonna need a good lunch by then. Until then I’m rooting for you, silently….from a distance. I don’t like to get attached too early; it’s nothing personal just statistically speaking by the time I’m packing up for first term you might not even be around.” She was lost in the crowd before I had a chance to ask what “first cut” meant. What I did know was that I sure as hell better be here long enough to have lunch with her. Failure wasn’t an option. I wasn’t going back to Juvie and I sure as hell wasn’t going home.