Chapter 4
Ihad prepared for Mr. Franklin to visit by wearing my loosest scrub set.
Unfortunately, I was splattered with an unmentionable body fluid right before I was set to leave and I had to grab my back-up--a set with teddy bears printed all over it.
That wouldn’t have been so bad except that two of the teddy bears were positioned just right over my chest, and the top was a size too small.
Whenever I had to wear it at work, Caitlin would sneak up behind me, cant her voice real creepy and low, and say, “Hey lady. Nice teddies.”
It was pretty much the last shirt I want to be wearing when I meet Mr. Franklin at my house, but I suppose it’s better than going in my bra. Maybe.
When I pull up the driveway at five past eleven, Mr. Franklin’s car is already there. It’s a weird greenish-gold Toyota Camry. I assume that he got a fantastic deal on the thing because it’s hard to look at. That’s not why the sight of it opens up a twisting pit in my stomach, however.
I hear voices in the backyard near the pool house, so I go in through the gate.
It’s already hot, one of those days where you feel like some giant has put a magnifying glass over the sun.
Alex and his parole officer are standing in front of the open door of the pool house.
Mr. Franklin is probably giving Alex a lecture about some imaginary infraction that isn’t on the list provided by the parole board.
I’d met people like Mr. Franklin before--both male and female--the type of person who’s given a little power over others and it goes straight to their head. Instead of being gracious, they turn into little tyrants, each one ruling with an iron-fist over their own domain.
Unfortunately, Mr. Franklin’s domain currently includes Alex, and by extension, me.
I blink and do my best to smile instead of grimace when Mr. Franklin swings his beady eyes to me.
He’s the sort of man who permanently has a sheen of sweat on his brow.
I think if I saw him in the winter, he’d have the exact same shine to him.
Even odder is the sweat pattern that always appears on the front of his shirt.
He invariably wears polos embroidered with the parole office insignia, always tucked in tightly along his belly. One side of his stomach hangs down a little lower than the other—I don’t want to know why. I just try not to make eye contact with it.
But he sweats so that there’s a little outline under each of his chest droplets—they’re too saggy to call pecs—as well as an outline of his belly button. Today he’s wearing light blue so the sweat pattern is super visible. It looks like a face with closed eyes and a mouth in an ‘o’ of surprise.
“Miss Ramos,” he says, his voice nasal. “Thanks for finally joining us.”
I press my lips together, still smiling, while I fight the urge to point out that I’m not even required to attend these visitations. That I do so to make sure Alex is completely in compliance.
But that’s how it’s been with this guy from the start.
He acts as if Alex and I are both guilty of an unnamed number of crimes, and it’s his job to catch us.
Instead of seeing me as an older sister who’s helping to keep her brother from going back to prison, I’m guilty of being sister to a convicted criminal.
Instead of seeing Alex as a guy who’d been arrested when he was just a kid, after losing both parents, Mr. Franklin views him as a threat to society--scum that needs to be managed.
I’m the first to admit that my brother screwed up.
But he’s not dangerous. In my eyes, if our dad hadn’t died, none of this would have happened.
Dad was always the one who could manage Alex the best.
But he did die, so here we are.
“Have you guys gone through Alex’s apartment yet?” I ask, more to break the silence than anything.
I hate how Mr. Franklin just stares at me sometimes. I don’t know if he’s trying to intimidate me or if he’s just a creep, but it always makes me wish I was wearing one of those massive rubber coats and bucket hats--the kind that fisherman wear.
“You know the rules, Miss Ramos. At least you should. I'm able to search the entire premises to make sure Alex is in compliance.”
I press my lips together in my fake smile again. Truthfully, when the tired guy at the parole office first explained the terms to us, it hadn’t sounded that bad. Or at least, not nearly as invasive as Mr. Franklin makes it.
I certainly didn’t expect that my underwear drawer would be up for regular inspection, for example. But that’s where I’d caught Mr. Franklin looking, the first time he was here. He hadn’t even looked guilty, either. He’d just smirked over his shoulder and kept looking.
It’s not like you can leave reviews for a parole officer, either. Even if I could have, I wouldn’t. Mr. Franklin has the power to make Alex’s life a living hell. He has the power to end my brother’s life, actually--by sending him to a regular prison.
Mr. Franklin heads toward the back door to my house, turns the doorknob and yanks at it. Then he frowns at me like he’s disappointed it’s locked. I hurry over, fumbling for the keys in my purse.
“I’m entitled to search the entire premises,” he says haughtily--as if he didn’t just say the same freaking thing five seconds ago. “Even if you aren't present.”
“I know,” I say, finally pulling the keys from my purse and unlocking the door. I step back so Mr. Franklin can enter. “Alex has a set of keys.”
My brother shrugs. “I don’t know where they are, though.”
I shoot my brother a furious look that would cause most men’s nuts to shrivel up.
He just shrugs at me like it’s no big deal.
Inside, I’m fuming. I’m going to yell at him for that one later.
What if I hadn’t got my lunch break switched?
What if Mr. Franklin showed up and wasn’t able to search my house?
Would my brother be in violation of his parole? Would he be sent back to prison?
Alex, the dummy, has no clue how much trouble he’s in for later. He follows Mr. Franklin into the house. I walk in afterward, wondering whether I could slap my brother on the back of the head without Mr. Franklin noticing.
I’m so mad I forget to brace myself. Mr. Franklin looks around the living room and dining room and hums like he’s disappointed, somehow. It was shocking to me, the first time I went through this.
I don’t know if Mr. Franklin thinks that my brother is spending way more time in my house than he really is, or if he’s just a nosy bastard, but he looks at everything.
He opens every cupboard. He inspects every DVD, every book on the shelves.
He’s not tossing the place, thankfully--it’s not like that. But it is extremely invasive, anyway.
It grates on me and I wonder if Mr. Franklin knows that, if he gets off on it, somehow.
He certainly spends way more time in here than he does in Alex’s apartment.
Alex just slumps on the couch and turns on the TV like he’s bored.
He has reason to be--there’s nothing illegal in here.
Mr. Franklin isn’t going to find anything illegal or wrong.
I still haven't figured out if it would be easier for me to sit on the couch next to Alex. There’s something in me that rebels at the thought, that wants to see what Mr. Franklin is doing.
So I watch as he rifles through my kitchen cabinet, making little noises of disapproval at the coffee grounds I decided to try out this month, as he sticks his head into the fridge, opening the leftover pizza box.
I keep my cold, polite smile on my face as I follow him to my bathroom and watch him inspect my tampons and makeup, as he wanders through my bedroom and flips back the blankets, smoothing his hand over the sheet in the spot where I sleep.
I’m washing those sheets before I get back into them, I decide.
Those are going straight into the washer even before I head back to work.
I’ve since learned my lesson and cleared out my bedside table of anything shocking.
I’d naively thought that Mr. Franklin wouldn’t find my favorite romance novel and the battery-operated device if I put them into a zippered canvas bag in the bottom drawer.
That moment almost made me cry in embarrassment.
He’d chuckled--chuckled--and pulled the device out of the bag before raising his eyebrow at me.
I was so angry that I wanted to punch him in the nose.
I think he saw the momentary flash of anger, too--he’d smirked at me.
I threw the entire bag away after he’d gone.
I guess I was going manual until Alex was off parole.
This time, Mr. Franklin kind of slams my nightstand drawers shut like he’s mad--like I’m holding out on him. Then he heads straight to my underwear drawer as if in punishment.
But I’ve learned a thing or two. It’s my turn to smirk--at least on the inside.
On the outside, my expression doesn't flicker as he sticks his sweaty hand into my top drawer and pulls out a pair of the most enormous beige underwear he’s probably ever seen.
Caitlin and I ordered them from Amazon after I called her crying the last time.
My real bras and panties are in a suitcase I keep in my trunk.
But if I think I've won something, my victory is short-lived.
He tosses the mammoth underwear back in my drawer and slams it shut.
“Do you think this is a joke, Gabriella?” he hisses.
“Do you think this is a game? Do you know the power I hold, where your brother’s concerned?
I'm the one who signed off on his little job. Tell me, Gabriella, does he actually work forty hours a week? Or does he get paid for forty hours? Because in the eyes of the parole board, there’s a big difference. ”
I don't say anything because he and I both know the answer. Alex gets paid forty hours, but he’s often on-site far less than that. He’s on call twenty-four seven, but he often works way less. It’s a sweet gig, but I didn't know that working less than forty hours would be a violation.
I hold my breath as Mr. Franklin approaches. He stands very close to me, his sweaty paunch nearly brushing my stomach. He stares down at the teddy bears on my scrubs top with cruel eyes for long moments as if making a point. As if daring me to step back.
I don't because I think it will make him angry. I didn’t mean to make him angry with the massive underwear--I was just trying to retain some of my dignity.
He has no way of knowing it, but Mr. Franklin’s searches aren't the first time I’ve felt as if my privacy has been invaded.
Just when I thought I was getting over that messy interlude, Alex got out on parole and Mr. Franklin started coming over.
His breath is hot on my face when he finally speaks. “I would think long and hard about getting cute with me in the future, Miss Ramos. Your brother’s future might depend on how well you’re following my rules.”
I notice he said my rules. Not the rules. His--these were Mr. Franklin’s rules, and I had to play along.
I nod because I think he expects an answer and I don't trust my voice enough to speak. I know it’s wrong, what he’s doing. I know it, but I can't figure out how to stop him without hurting Alex. Without maybe getting Alex sent back to prison.
He leans in, until his mouth is mere inches away from mine and says, “Good girl.”
I can’t help it; I flinch. Then I back up and leave the room to go sit on the couch next to Alex.