The next morning, I shake off my bad dream as soon as I open my eyes. This time, when I see the man in the snow, it isn’t Aisha’s dad. It’s my dad.
My heart is shaking up my insides with its erratic beat. My legs are red again. I lie in bed until Collins makes me get up and start my day.
As I leave my room for the cafeteria, I spot Wired in the hall. He’s walking my way. All the crap with the gang comes rushing back to me. I’m not going to be safe unless I fix this somehow.
Since I need to keep the gang and Wired off my case, I turn to Collins. “Can I talk to Jackson?” I ask my CO. “It’s an emergency.”
“What’s the reason?”
“I need to set up a visit. Or I’ll die. And I don’t mean figuratively!”
Wired slows his pace like he is listening to what I’m telling Collins.
Collins and I walk to the phone and he dials Jackson’s cell number. I hope Jackson answers.
Wired takes his time passing us.
My PO answers.
“Hey, Jackson,” I blurt out. Then I say the next part loud enough for Wired to hear. It’s for his benefit. “So when is Larkyn back on my roster? I need to see her.”
It works. Wired stops and listens.
“I thought you were done with her. What’s up?” asks Jackson.
“I need to confront her on some stuff. I want to clear the air. For me. Before I see Aisha. If I can’t work things out with Larkyn, how can I deal with the bigger stuff Aisha and I are trying to figure out?”
I have to admit it sounds pretty good. Wired definitely buys it. He keeps walking down the hall.
“Okay,” says Jackson. “I guess I can do that. Anything else on your mind?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
But there is a ton on my mind. Like how I am going to survive in here. If I follow through and see Larkyn, it’s like I’ve agreed to stretch my term in juvie indefinitely. If I get caught moving contraband for Wired, the court will give me a longer sentence. I may even get my wish to go up to adult prison.
Before, I wanted to stay in because I was scared of the future. I was afraid I couldn’t cut it out there. But now I am scared of what will happen if I get pulled into this gang stuff. If I help Wired, I enter a whole new level of screwed.
I head to my room and crash on my bed. A few days ago, I had some lyrics rolling around for a song. But I can’t seem to get the tune down. Not with my drum beat on the desk, not with thinking of chords for the guitar.
Then I remember something Sean said the one time the writers got to visit us. He said the hardest thing is to get the two right. To get the lyrics to match the tune, or to get the tune to match the lyrics. The essence of the two have to fit together. Then you have a hit song.
Guess that’s why my life is such a mess. It’s like I haven’t had a ‘hit song’ in years. Like my dreams and goals aren’t matching up with me or my life in here. And right now, it feels like they never will. Like I’m stuck. Stuck in this place. Stuck in a crazy loop with my dad, with Wired, with myself. I think about everything I’m doing right now. Giving Wired money to keep him off my back. Giving in to see Larkyn so I can move contraband and keep the gangs away. All of it is just going to spiral out of control. It isn’t going to get better.
It’s only going to get worse.
And to top it all off, I’m pretty sure I failed the History exam. I’ve been failing in every other part of my life. At least I am keeping it consistent. I get my $25 pay for cleaning the gym. I pocket it until the next time I see Wired. It’s his now, anyway.
The only good thing about today is that we finally get to see the writers again. I’m looking forward to it. It’s an hour where I won’t have anyone staring me down. No one pushing me. No one giving me a hard time about what my future looks like if I don’t do as I’m told.
When it’s time, I head to the room where we meet with the writers. As usual, Macaroni and I are the first two there. It’s grey day today, so we’re both in grey sweats. Macaroni motions for me to sit beside him. I do.
“Hey, Strider,” he says. “Get anything done on your song?”
“Not really. It’s been a tough week.”
“Yeah, the lockdown and all.”
At least he doesn’t go off on me.
“I didn’t mind being stuck on my own. It meant no one could harass me,” he continues. “I took the poetry session last time. The dude introduced us to Shane Koyczan. Know him?”
“No . . . Wait. Is he that guy at the 2010 Olympics?” I remember an English teacher talking about him, how poetry made the big stage.
“Yeah. That’s the guy. Well, his slam poem ‘To This Day’ really hit me. I mean, it’s my story. Only I got back at the bullies, and it landed me in here. So I just hurt myself more. Know what I mean?”
“I guess.” The writers are filing in. Sean waves at me. I hope he doesn’t expect a lot since the last time we were together.
“Well,” Macaroni goes on, chewing on his nail. “I have a full poem ready to go. One that talks about the bullies. The guys who made my life miserable. The guys who got me so riled up I did something . . . something that got me sentenced to this place. This place is one hundred times worse than out there. I wish I never . . .”
I look at Macaroni. I really see him for the first time. He’s just a lost, scared kid who finally got back at the jerks who gave him crap. Only to trade that for bigger jerks who make things even worse for him. He screwed up too. Everyone in here has screwed up. Some worse than others. But we’re all looking for the same thing — a little peace. Just a little peace.
And that’s the last thing we get in here.
As the afternoon goes on, Sean gives me cool tips for song writing. Mostly we just jam some tunes on the guitars. It’s an hour where I almost forget where I am. But before I know it, the guards are calling “Time.” I drag myself down the hall. Back in my room I work on Strummer’s song.