Chapter 1 #3
My first stop is the fiction section. I scan the shelves for anything written about teenagers.
I’ve missed out on a lot living here, and the foster care system and group homes aren’t exactly normal either.
If I want to blend in with other people my age, I need to know what they know.
I need to behave like they behave and speak like they speak.
I choose two thick novels, and then I move on to biographies, specifically autobiographies.
Reading people’s stories about themselves gives me a lot of information about what people think about and how they feel.
I usually end up learning something about history or politics while I’m at it.
Win-win, I guess. I tuck a memoir into the growing stack in my arms.
My last stop is the nature and travel section.
We see almost nothing but white walls in this place.
What few glimpses we get of the outside world are usually from the inside of a transport van.
I like to know about what’s out there. I choose a picture book on birds of the Midwest, which I’ve checked out multiple times already, a book on state parks, and a United States road atlas.
Satisfied, I bring my stack to the teacher’s desk. She notes my choices in my chart to be analyzed by my therapist later, and then she logs the books into the library system. When she’s done, she smiles stiffly and shifts her eyes away from mine uncomfortably as she hands them back to me.
“Enjoy!” she says a little too sweetly.
Three o’clock finally hits, and I line up by the door with everyone else and wait for our escort.
They’re always escorting us everywhere, like it matters.
Even if one of us managed to make a break for the door and run outside, there’s really nowhere to go.
Peoria, Illinois, isn’t that bad, but once you get outside of the city, you’re basically in the middle of nowhere.
If you want to go anywhere worth going, you’ll need a train ticket, and train tickets cost money.
I heard that a few years ago one girl made it to the station, did a few “favors,” and got all the way to Chicago by the next morning.
Whatever it takes, I guess. The elevator stops on the third floor, and Ms. J pushes her cleaning cart into the tiny space next to us.
She’s just clocked in for her shift. The sharp smell of cleaning solution fills the elevator, burning my nose.
Ms. J gives us a small wave and a smile.
She avoids making eye contact with me though.
As adults go, Ms. J isn’t the worst. When she cleans our unit, she’s supposed to search our rooms for contraband, but she never narcs on anybody for their candy stash and leaves Jan alone when she hides extra art supplies under her bed.
The elevator dings. Ms. J pushes her cart toward the fifth-floor bathrooms as we continue up to the sixth floor.
When we get back to our unit, I drop my books in my room and join the rest of the girls in the dayroom for free time.
I usually skip this part. Given a choice, I’d always rather read in bed.
Lately, though, I’ve been trying to force myself to be social once in a while.
Ms. Michelle started writing notes in my chart about isolation, and my therapist started contemplating adding another personality disorder to my diagnosis.
This week I’ve socialized almost every day in hopes that today’s meeting with Keisha wouldn’t seem suspicious.
I scan the dayroom and find Keisha by the game table, saving a seat for me. Without a word, she deals a hand of Go Fish. Here we go.
“So, we’re still good for nine then?” Keisha asks quietly, her eyes on her cards.
“Give or take,” I say with a wave of my hand. “The timing depends on how well I can plan out the distraction. It’ll be close to the shift change, right after Mr. Josh does his last round of bed checks before he leaves for the night. Do you have any fives?” I ask to keep up the optics.
“Go fish,” Keisha says.
“What about the alarm on the south door?” I ask as I pick up another card.
Keisha gives me a little smirk and rolls her eyes. “I already told you. I have the staff code. Do you have any twos?” she says a little louder. “All we need to do is make sure no one sees us leave. Once you set Ginger off, all eyes will be on her. I’ve got the rest covered.”
“Already on top of it,” I whisper. “Got any sevens?”
“I can’t wait to watch the master work.”
Behind us, the word “riot” catches my attention. The news plays quietly on a boxy television hanging from the ceiling, and I crane my neck to see it. On the screen, a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit addresses the camera confidently, though he looks like he’s been up all night.
“Riots continue to break out throughout the city of Chicago and its surrounding suburbs, resulting in multiple police-involved shootings and at least forty-three deaths. The riots began earlier this month and appear to be growing in size and frequency throughout the area. The mayor of Chicago is advising citizens to avoid large crowds and adhere to a strict curfew in hopes of containing the disturbances. At this time, Police Chief James Roberts reports that the group responsible remains unknown at this time. Police have been unable to identify a pattern in—”
Mr. Josh unceremoniously flips the channel to a nature documentary, leaving me hanging on the anchor’s words. It’s not the first time I’ve heard the news talking about these riots, but it is the first time I’ve heard them talk about them spreading to the suburbs.
“I was watching that,” I grumble at no one.
Mr. Josh struts over to our table, leans low, and whispers in my ear.
“I bet you were, psycho.” He chuffs, stands upright, and moves toward the center of the room, where Ginger and Diamond flip through magazines.
My skin rips into flames, and my heart beats faster.
I’m on the edge of losing control, but years of therapy kick in.
I close my eyes and take three deep breaths.
Count my fingers. Remind myself how much I have to lose if I react.
My heart slows, and a trickle of sweat drips down my spine. I open my eyes, calm again.
“Nice work,” Keisha says, impressed.
“Do you have any tens?” I ask.