Then
The trees start to blur together as the van picks up speed.
We are finally on the highway, and something about the growing distance makes me nauseous.
I still can’t believe I’m on my way to a juvenile detention center.
The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of consequences and disappointment.
My mom’s face has been frozen in shame since the moment she saw me at the police station.
Being on PINS basically made my sentencing a done deal.
It felt like Ms. Dean had been waiting for me to screw up so she could send me away.
She didn’t seem to care how many times I repeated that I didn’t know the car was stolen.
She said I should be happy I didn’t get a worse punishment, but Desiree, Chris, and Ty all got community service—they get to stay at home.
The girl behind me taps my shoulder. I look at the rearview mirror to make sure the driver isn’t paying attention.
When we got on board, he’d made it very clear that profanity and touching were “punishable offenses,” whatever that meant.
I turn slightly to see a girl who looks to be about my age or younger inching closer to the back of my seat.
She motions for me to move toward her and cups her hands around her mouth.
“You have anything to trade?” she whispers. I’m not sure what she means, but before I can ask her anything, she points to the paper bag on her lap. “They take everything off us when we get there, so we usually do this on the way.”
I fight the urge to be sarcastic and offer up my twelve-month sentence. Instead, I mumble, “Sorry, I’ve got nothing,” and quickly turn back to the window.
The girls in the back of the van haven’t settled since we got in, and the driver yells another reminder that his only job is transport. “I said no cussing back there. I’m not a damn babysitter so save the acting up till you’re outta here.”
The girls just burst into laughter.
I’ve been wondering if it would be weird to ask for an ETA, and now I decide this isn’t the best time. I realize I am one blink away from a breakdown, which is the last thing I need to have in this van, with these girls.
Get your shit together, I say to myself over and over.
I remember the advice Ms. Dean gave me before I left: Keep your head down and be good.
The program rewards girls who don’t stand out.
I had to stop myself from asking what the obsession was with making kids “good.” My mom signing me up for PINS and the way she’s been acting the past few weeks made her captain of that club.
She’s been carrying around the center brochure as a visual aid to get me to see the bright side of going to a “specialized facility.” She corrected me every time I called it jail by opening to a different page and showing me that it wasn’t.
The most popular page was a group of smiling girls, all dressed in the same gray sweat suit.
“Look, they’re happy. You’ll make new friends,” she’d said. I couldn’t tell if she really believed that, but I wasn’t convinced.
After what seems like ages, the van pulls up to a short driveway. I see a pair of women on the sidewalk dressed in matching khaki and green short sets. There’s some writing on their shirts that I can’t make out.
The van comes to a complete stop, and the white woman climbs in.
The dynamic in the van shifts and for the first time since we left the courthouse, the other girls are completely quiet.
We all watch as the driver talks to the woman, who playfully slaps him on the shoulder.
A girl in the back breaks the silence. “Hello to you too, miss.”
The woman turns to face us as though she’d forgotten we were there and smiles widely.
Her teeth are perfectly white and almost too big for her mouth.
She pushes her green headband back farther onto her blond bob as she looks around the van.
“My apologies, ladies. Such a beautiful group we have here!” She kneels in a seat.
The skin around her eyes is drooping a little; she looks like she could use some sleep.
“I’m Ms. Lydia. Welcome to Guiding Hearts Home for Troubled Girls. Please gather your belongings and join Ms. Bree so we can get you all checked in.” She sticks her arm out of the open door and signals for the Black woman to come over.
“All right, girls, let’s have you line up out here,” Ms. Bree calls from the sidewalk.
My row begins to empty as Ms. Lydia goes back to whispering with the driver. I put my head down and quickly move toward the door, following the other girls.
When I step off the van, there’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Don’t you have any belongings, sweetie?”
I turn to see a look of concern on Ms. Lydia’s face. I shake my head no.
She chuckles and says to the driver, “A light packer—a girl after my own heart. Good to go.”
I roll my eyes and walk over to the other girls.
Ms. Bree, who actually looks like a teenager up close, is staring at an older woman in the same outfit coming toward us.
Ms. Bree runs her hand over her slicked-back bun, the neatest one I’ve ever seen, and stands a little straighter.
Her gold hoops remind me of a pair Desiree got for Christmas one year. Maybe she’s going to be cool.
I join the line and try to make out the words on her shirt.
Guiding Hearts Home for Troubled Girls: Guiding Young Hearts Home Since 1930.
The older woman comes to a stop by Ms. Bree, her red lips shaping into a frown as if the sight of us has ruined her day.
She tries to hand over a clipboard, but the large ring of keys on her belt gets stuck.
Ms. Bree sort of smirks like she’s trying not to laugh.
I wish she would. Maybe that would prove this won’t be that bad.
Ms. Bree eventually gets the clipboard, and the older woman makes her way back up the path.
I take in our surroundings for the first time. There’s so much grass here, like the picture on the front of the brochure. My mother said it looked like a college campus, and that might be the only thing I agree with.
At the entrance to the campus is a tall wrought iron gate.
Beyond the gate, there’s a sloping path that leads to a row of brick buildings I recognize from the pictures.
The sun is starting to set behind them and it actually looks sort of pretty.
There’s no barbed wire or dramatic watchtower.
Maybe this isn’t exactly jail. The buildings seem oddly placed, like an Oreo with the two tall buildings as cookies and the short ones as filling.
The older woman walks into one of the shorter buildings.
It has big glass windows and doors—no bars.
I start to feel a tinge of relief, but then I notice that the taller buildings have big metal doors.
The knot in my stomach comes back instantly when I see that the walls are lined with small symmetrical windows—barred windows.
I don’t realize I’m zoned out until Ms. Bree’s voice gets loud. “Your name?” she asks, her eyes on her clipboard.
“Oh, umm, Jas … mine. I mean Jasmine, like one word,” I say.
She looks up, her lips twisted into another smirk. We make eye contact for the first time. Her eyes are kinder than her tone was, and the deepest brown, like mine. I look away.
“Relax, Jas-mine,” she says softly.
I try to do just that as she makes her way down the line to the other girls. They all seem a lot less nervous than me.
The van pulls off and Ms. Lydia walks over to us with less enthusiasm than before. “Bree, ’bout ready to head in and get the ball rolling?” she asks.
“Yep,” Ms. Bree says. “Keep the line straight, ladies.” She gestures for us to follow Ms. Lydia up the path.
I pause under the gate’s archway and realize it’ll be a while before I see it again. Any relaxing I’d attempted goes out the window as I try to catch my breath, or my balance. I feel a hand on my shoulder push me along.
“Keep walking,” Ms. Bree warns. The gate creaks behind me.
Ms. Lydia pulls open one of the big metal doors and motions for us to walk straight in.
The older woman is there, holding a folder in front of a large desk with an Intake sign above it.
Ms. Bree takes a seat at the desk. There are three large metal doors behind her with small windows at the top of each one.
A girl’s face presses up against the middle window.
“I’m ready to go back to my unit, Claaaaire Brewster,” she yells.
The older woman’s frown deepens and she turns sharply to the girl. “At this rate, you’re going to sleep in there, Samantha. Be quiet.” The girl’s face disappears from the window.
The woman returns her focus to us. “Hello, ladies,” she says with the same stern tone. “Step in further, put your bags in the bin to the right, and gather in front of me quickly. We have a lot to go over.”
As the girls drop their bags into the bin, I make my way around to the small group. I’m close enough to the older woman to see that she looks a lot like Ms. Lydia, short blond hair and tired eyes included.
“I’m Claire Brewster. Director Brewster to you. Welcome to Guiding Hearts,” she says when all the girls have gathered. She sounds anything but welcoming.
“I’m sure you’ve been told that this is a secure facility.
That means you reside here and also attend school here until the completion of your programs.” She pauses like there might be room for questions but doesn’t ask for any.
“Those of you who exhibit appropriate behaviors will be granted home visits after your ninety-day settling period ends. The rest of you will not. From here on out, you get out of your program exactly what you put into it.”
She glances down at the tiny watch on her wrist before continuing.
“You’ll get a full run-through of the rules on your units, but here are some of the basics: Remain in your assigned lines silently; no touching; no communicating between units; no talking back; and absolutely no relationships.
” Someone behind me giggles. “I’m glad that’s funny, young lady.
The consequences usually aren’t. Remember, I’ve got eyes everywhere.
If you think no one’s watching, you’re wrong.
Now, once Ms. Bree and Ms. Lydia call your name, line up in front of them and prepare to head to your unit.
” She walks to the metal door on her left and opens it.
Ms. Bree steps in and calls the first name. “Jasmine—you’re on North. Start the line here, please.” She points in front of her.
I take a deep breath as I walk through the door.
I stop right in front of her feet and look up only enough to see a lanyard now dangling from her neck.
Bree Brown, Resident Counselor: North Unit.
I have my eyes trained on the ground as the counselors continue to call names and girls move to their assigned lines.
Another set of feet shows up next to Ms. Bree’s.
“I’m not going to the back,” the girl says. She’s the one who yelled earlier.
“Get in the front then, Sam,” Ms. Bree says. “Step back a little, Jasmine.”
I lift my head to see the girl, whose green eyes and round face make her look too young to be here.
“Later, Southies!” Samantha yells before slapping her hand across her mouth. She has a letter tattooed on every finger but moves her hand before I can make them out. “Whoops, my bad, Ms. B,” she mumbles.
Ms. Bree rolls her eyes.
Here we go, I think as we move away from the intake area. There are some whispers in the back of the line and Ms. Bree stops us. “Remember the rules, ladies, in line and silent,” she says, staring at someone behind me.
“Remember, this is jail, ladies,” Samantha mocks quietly. She turns to me with a tattooed finger to her lips, the letter M. I freeze as she turns back. It really is.