from the braided blue strand.
“I’m watching you, Bourne,” the warden hissed. “I know what you’re up to. You know damn well your heart isn’t going to be worth anything once it’s pumped full of potassium chloride in a death chamber. You’re doing this because you’ve got no appeals left, but even if you get Barbara freaking Walters to do an interview with you, the sympathy vote’s not going to change your execution date.”
The warden stalked off I-tier. Officer Whitaker released Shay’s handcuffs from the bar where he was tethered and led him back to his cell. “Listen, Bourne. I’m Catholic.”
“Good for you,” Shay replied.
“I thought Catholics were against the death penalty,” Crash said.
“Yeah, don’t do him any favors,” Texas added.
Whitaker glanced down the tier, where the warden stood outside the soundproof glass, talking to another officer. “The thing is … if you want … I could ask one of the priests from St. Catherine’s to visit.” He paused. “Maybe he can help with the whole heart thing.”
Shay stared at him. “Why would you do that for me?”
The officer fished inside the neck of his shirt, pulling out a length of chain and the crucifix that was attached to the end of it. He brought it to his lips, then let it fall beneath his uniform again. “He that believeth on me,” Whitaker murmured, “believeth not on me, but on him that sent me.”
I did not know the New Testament, but I recognized a biblicalpassage when I heard one—and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he was suggesting Shay’s antics, or whatever you wanted to call them, were heaven-sent. I realized then that even though Shay was a prisoner, he had a certain power over Whitaker. He had a certain power over
all
of us. Shay Bourne had done what no brute force or power play or gang threat had been able to do all the years I’d been on I-tier: he’d brought us together.
Next door, Shay was slowly putting his cell to rights. The news program was wrapping up with another bird’s-eye view of the state prison. From the helicopter footage, you could see how many people had gathered, how many more were heading this way.
I sat down on my bunk. It wasn’t possible, was it?
My own words to Alma came back to me:
It’s not probable
. Anything’s
possible
.
I pulled my art supplies out of my hiding spot in the mattress, riffling through my sketches for the one I’d done of Shay being wheeled off the tier after his seizure. I’d drawn him on the gurney, arms spread and tied down, legs banded together, eyes raised to the ceiling. I turned the paper ninety degrees. This way, it didn’t look like Shay was lying down. It looked like he was being crucified.
People were always “finding” Jesus in jail. What if he was already here?
“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work;
I want to achieve immortality through not dying.”
—WOODY ALLEN, QUOTED IN
WOODY ALLEN AND HIS COMEDY,
BY ERIC LAX
Maggie
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
There were many things I was grateful for, including the fact that I was no longer in high school. Let’s just say it wasn’t a walk in the park for a girl who didn’t fit into the smorgasbord of clothing at the Gap, and who tried to become invisible so she wouldn’t be noticed for her size. Today, I was in a different school and it was ten years later, but I was still suffering from a flashback anxiety attack. It didn’t matter that I was wearing my Jones New York I’m-going-to-court suit; it didn’t matter that I was old enough to be mistaken for a teacher instead of a student—I still expected a football jock to turn the corner, at any moment, and make a fat joke.
Topher Renfrew, the boy who was sitting beside me in the lobby of the high school, was dressed in black jeans and a frayed T-shirt with an anarchy symbol, a guitar pick strung around his neck on a leather lanyard. Cut him, and he’d bleed antiestablishment. His iPod
“I’m watching you, Bourne,” the warden hissed. “I know what you’re up to. You know damn well your heart isn’t going to be worth anything once it’s pumped full of potassium chloride in a death chamber. You’re doing this because you’ve got no appeals left, but even if you get Barbara freaking Walters to do an interview with you, the sympathy vote’s not going to change your execution date.”
The warden stalked off I-tier. Officer Whitaker released Shay’s handcuffs from the bar where he was tethered and led him back to his cell. “Listen, Bourne. I’m Catholic.”
“Good for you,” Shay replied.
“I thought Catholics were against the death penalty,” Crash said.
“Yeah, don’t do him any favors,” Texas added.
Whitaker glanced down the tier, where the warden stood outside the soundproof glass, talking to another officer. “The thing is … if you want … I could ask one of the priests from St. Catherine’s to visit.” He paused. “Maybe he can help with the whole heart thing.”
Shay stared at him. “Why would you do that for me?”
The officer fished inside the neck of his shirt, pulling out a length of chain and the crucifix that was attached to the end of it. He brought it to his lips, then let it fall beneath his uniform again. “He that believeth on me,” Whitaker murmured, “believeth not on me, but on him that sent me.”
I did not know the New Testament, but I recognized a biblicalpassage when I heard one—and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he was suggesting Shay’s antics, or whatever you wanted to call them, were heaven-sent. I realized then that even though Shay was a prisoner, he had a certain power over Whitaker. He had a certain power over
all
of us. Shay Bourne had done what no brute force or power play or gang threat had been able to do all the years I’d been on I-tier: he’d brought us together.
Next door, Shay was slowly putting his cell to rights. The news program was wrapping up with another bird’s-eye view of the state prison. From the helicopter footage, you could see how many people had gathered, how many more were heading this way.
I sat down on my bunk. It wasn’t possible, was it?
My own words to Alma came back to me:
It’s not probable
. Anything’s
possible
.
I pulled my art supplies out of my hiding spot in the mattress, riffling through my sketches for the one I’d done of Shay being wheeled off the tier after his seizure. I’d drawn him on the gurney, arms spread and tied down, legs banded together, eyes raised to the ceiling. I turned the paper ninety degrees. This way, it didn’t look like Shay was lying down. It looked like he was being crucified.
People were always “finding” Jesus in jail. What if he was already here?
“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work;
I want to achieve immortality through not dying.”
—WOODY ALLEN, QUOTED IN
WOODY ALLEN AND HIS COMEDY,
BY ERIC LAX
Maggie
|||||||||||||||||||||||||
There were many things I was grateful for, including the fact that I was no longer in high school. Let’s just say it wasn’t a walk in the park for a girl who didn’t fit into the smorgasbord of clothing at the Gap, and who tried to become invisible so she wouldn’t be noticed for her size. Today, I was in a different school and it was ten years later, but I was still suffering from a flashback anxiety attack. It didn’t matter that I was wearing my Jones New York I’m-going-to-court suit; it didn’t matter that I was old enough to be mistaken for a teacher instead of a student—I still expected a football jock to turn the corner, at any moment, and make a fat joke.
Topher Renfrew, the boy who was sitting beside me in the lobby of the high school, was dressed in black jeans and a frayed T-shirt with an anarchy symbol, a guitar pick strung around his neck on a leather lanyard. Cut him, and he’d bleed antiestablishment. His iPod
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