CHAPTER

15

After we got to the school trailer the next morning, an assistant teacher rounded up the new jacks from all three Sprungs and brought us over to the mess hall to take a placement test.

He handed out the test facedown and then gave each of us a fresh sharpened, full-size PROPERTY OF DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION pencil.

“We collect every one of these,” he fussed, waving a pencil. “If even one disappears, we’ll have the officers search you all. Understand? We’re not here to supply you with weapons.”

“Now don’t be giving these kids any bad ideas,” snapped Ms. Armstrong, the CO with us. “They’ve already got too much nonsense on their minds.”

I almost couldn’t believe what I was holding. I touched the lead point with one of my fingertips. It was so long and sharp, you could stab someone clean through.

The dude sitting to my right had a tattoo of a cross on his neck. In my mind, I imagined it was that spiderweb on the kid who’d cut me. And for a few seconds, I gripped that pencil tight inside my fist, till that wave of anger passed.

House COs only give out pencils about the size of your thumb for writing letters. Even the pens you buy in commissary come without a hard, plastic cover. They just sell you the metal point and the tube filled with ink. So if you tried to stick someone with that, it would bend before it ever broke skin.

Ms. Armstrong was a combination CO and housemother. Inmates want this kind of women officer because when something breaks down, like the hot water, you can put it in their ear that it’s not right. They’re usually real sensitive about kids being locked up and not getting services. They’ll keep dialing the phone till somebody comes out and fixes what’s wrong.

She was black, with a round face and big hips. Most kids had a mother or aunt who looked and acted just like her.

“I got a son in junior high right now,” said Ms. Armstrong, reading the test over our shoulders. “I help him with his homework all the time.”

“He ever been locked up?” a kid asked.

“I didn’t say I busted his ass, did I?” she came back.

Then Ms. Armstrong caught somebody just filling in the blanks without even looking at the questions.

“You want people to think you’re stupid, boy?” she said, slapping him on the back of the head.

Halfway through, Demarco walked in and told us to put our pencils down. The assistant giving the test got all nervous about it and went to the door to watch for who might be coming. I guess he didn’t want to get in trouble for letting Demarco interrupt us.

“Look, even the teachers got to watch the door in jail,” cracked Ms. Armstrong. “Only it’s not the COs they’re fearful of; it’s the principal.”

“I’m Demarco Costa,” he said. “But what’s really important is who all of you are. So let me hear your names.”

Then Demarco pointed to us one by one, and kids said their names.

When Ritz said his new tag, everyone from that Sprung #3 storeroom broke up laughing.

Demarco looked at him funny and said, “Is Ritz your last name?”

“No, somebody called me a cracker. Then dudes decided I would be a Ritz because of my obvious style,” he explained, with Demarco grinning from ear to ear. “But my real name is Walter.”

When it was my turn, I said, “Forty.”

“I might as well call you table or chair,” Demarco said. “I’m not interested in knowing you like that.”

I didn’t know what to say back.

Then the next kid took his turn and it continued down the line.

I felt like I’d missed out on something good.

Demarco said that the test wasn’t all a waste of time, and that if we wanted to get put in the right class level or try for a GED, we should take it for real.

“I know it’s not easy to think about school when you’re locked up,” he said. “But you want to show people, like a judge, that you’re serious about what you do. And you don’t want to fall behind everybody your age to get things, like a good job to support yourself and your family.”

After hearing that, lots of kids were looking at Demarco like he was too good to be true for this place.

Demarco wasn’t white, but he wasn’t dark enough to be black either. Kids asked him what he was and he answered, “I’m a teacher.”

The assistant started flapping his arms, like a bird that’s about to take off, and came running back from the door. We picked our pencils up and everyone got quiet.

Demarco was looking up at the ceiling when a thin, middle-aged black woman in high heels and a dress that hung down to just above her bony knees walked into the mess hall and said, “Good morning, Mr. Costa.”

She looked us up and down and said, “I’m Ms. Jackson, the principal here. Let’s go over a few basic rules. When you’re in class, you are to be respectful of”—blah . . . blah . . . blah.

I wanted to tell Demarco my name was Martin. But he moved behind the principal while she was talking, giving us all a thumbs-up before he slipped out the door.