39

Lilla

I wipe my snotty nose on the sleeve of my new North Face jacket because I don’t have a tissue. I’m trying not to cry. I hate crying. It makes me feel as if I have no control of my life. Which I suppose I don’t.

They wouldn’t let me in at the prison. I made it all the way here without being hit by a car while walking all the way to an I-10 on-ramp or murdered by a psychopath on the highway, and then they wouldn’t let me see my mom.

Because I’m under eighteen.

Under eighteen, you have to have a parent or a guardian, the lady at the window told me after I waited in line for, like, twenty minutes. She said she was sorry, but she didn’t act like it. I tried to tell her I only needed to see my mom for a minute. She asked me how I got there and I just mumbled “Thank you” and walked away. I was afraid she would call the police if she figured out I came on my own. I don’t think they can arrest me for coming here without permission from my parents, but I didn’t want to wait to find out.

Now I’m standing outside the prison, near the sign, crying like an idiot. Because I was an idiot to think this would work. That I could just come here by myself, see my mom, and get on with my life. My new life.

And now it’s starting to rain.... What happened to warm, sunny New Orleans? It seems as if all it does here is rain.

I shift my backpack. I went to the bakery, but I didn’t get English muffin bread. I got these café au lait donuts my mom likes. I was going to see if they would let me take one in to her. I have flavored bubbly water, too. We were supposed to get to sit in a room and talk. It’s not like you see in movies, where you have to talk on a phone and only see each other through a glass wall.

I look at the country road I’ll have to take back to the on-ramp. I know it was dangerous to hitchhike here. But I was so excited about coming that I wasn’t really scared. Two women picked me up near the I-10 ramp. Evy and Jerilene. They were headed to Baton Rouge. They talked about Jesus all the way to the exit to the road to St. Gabriel, where the prison is. I didn’t tell them where I was going, but I think they figured it out. They were nice enough, but the Jesus talk was a little overwhelming. I told them I’d think about visiting the First African Baptist Church of New Orleans. I doubt Harper Mom will let me, but I didn’t tell them that. I’ve never been to a Baptist church, or to an African American one. I wouldn’t mind checking it out. So I wasn’t lying to Evy and Jerilene. And they didn’t hurt me. Or even scare me.

But now I’m here and I didn’t even get to see Sharon Mom and now I’m scared to hitchhike home.

I look back in the direction of the prison. Maybe I should try to get a ride back to New Orleans with someone here visiting a prisoner. There were a lot of people in the line waiting to get in, a lot of people with kids. No one would kidnap a teenager with their kids in the car, would they?

I almost laugh out loud. I’ve already been kidnapped once in my life. What are the chances it could happen again? Dad’s been telling Harper Mom that for two months now.

It starts to rain harder and I pull up my hood. The rain is cold and my jeans are getting wet. And tears are running down my cheeks. I need to do something, but I don’t know what.

Call a cab?

If someone would take me all the way to New Orleans, Harper Mom or Dad would pay for it. They’d give someone a hundred-dollar tip for bringing me home.

Or do I just call them and ask them to come get me?

I texted Harper Mom that I was okay and that I’d be home in a few hours, but I know she’s got to be going crazy, worrying about me.

I should just call her. At least tell her I’m safe.

Maybe she’ll call a cab for me and give her credit card number or something. Or maybe there’s some way for her to order me an Uber and pay for it with her card.

I look up at the sign that says Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women. The place doesn’t look like what I thought it would. Not like the creepy brick buildings at Sing Sing or Alcatraz that I saw in documentaries on TV. A lot of these buildings look like pole sheds to me.

I watch a car go by on its way out; there are kids in the backseat. I wonder if I should try and flag them down. Then one of the kids sticks her tongue out at me and I decide I wouldn’t want to ride for an hour in the car with them, anyway.

I wonder if Sharon Mom has realized I’m not coming. Maybe she even found out they wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have an adult with me. Would someone tell her, or is she just sitting there waiting?

I pull my phone out of the back pocket of my jeans, thinking it would be funny, not ha-ha funny, but ironic funny, if I couldn’t get a signal. Then I can’t call home. But I’ve got three bars.

I want to talk to Dad. But for some reason, my thumb finds Harper Mom’s number and I touch it. I call before I chicken out and walk out to the highway to hitchhike and possibly beat the odds and get kidnapped again.