Fault Lines by Brenda Ortega

her hands hovering over the keys. I keep my eyes on her typing. The man scares me.
    “You are to be commended for choosing the Juvenile Diversion Program for First Offenders, also known as JDP,” the man says in a voice like he’s reciting a memorized speech. “This is an effort to reduce juvenile recidivism. Here, if the offender is willing to admit guilt, we ask him to take moral and emotional responsibility for his crime. We tailor the punishment and keep close tabs on the progress of our clients. Those who do not re-offend will have their records wiped clean.”
    Mom never told me anything about a first-offender program.
    “I’m Judge Abrams. Miss Burkhart, do you know what recidivism is?”
    “No,” I say, keeping my eyes averted.
    “Please look at me.” I do. His eyes are cold blue. “Recidivism is the repeating of behavior, in this case destructive, criminal behavior. We don’t want that, do we?”
    “No.”
    He leans over the table with his arms out in front of him. His eyes are locked on mine so tight, I can’t blink. “I understand that you’re not doing well in school right now, that you have a lot going on at home. We all have problems to deal with in life. And we all have choices in how we deal with them. You, Miss Burkhart, are at a crossroads. You can choose a path of chaos and unhappiness, or you can choose education, hard work, success, achievement. Which will it be?”
    My eyes burn from not blinking, so I sneak in a quick blink before answering. “Success.” I wonder if anyone ever has the nerve to answer “Chaos.”
    “Good. I’m here to help you take the first steps down that path. Now, you and your mother have each signed a form admitting your guilt. Firstly, your punishment will involve twenty-five hours of community service to be completed only at a charitable organization approved by the JDP. My hope is that you will learn something about being a contributing member of society, rather than a destructive one.”
    He fumbles with some papers. He slides a sheet across the table, titled “JDP Community Service Options.”
    “Additionally, you are required to pay restitution to the victim,” he continues, looking into the file folder and thumbing through more paper. “In this case, that would be Mr. Harold Reiber, 3376 Eastlane Drive. Mr. Reiber has provided a written estimate of the cost of replacing the picture window. The total cost of custom manufacture and installation is $578.93.”
    Judge Abrams doesn’t look up or react in any way to the window’s cost, but I do. I feel sick. How will I ever come up with that much money? I glance at Mom, and she gives me the look that says, See what happens when you break a window?
    “Last but certainly not least, you are required to write a formal apology to the victim,” the judge says, and he pulls off his glasses. His eyes lock on me again, so I blink. “This letter of apology will first be sent to me for review. I expect it to be heartfelt and detailed in its explanation of what you did and why you are sorry for it. If this letter does not impress me with its sincerity and detail, then I will send it back for revision until it’s right. Understood?”
    My head nods, but it isn’t a heartfelt “Yes.” I feel like I have a bobblehead bouncing up and down from someone jiggling it.
    The judge takes a few minutes to write some things on a form, and I take the opportunity to frown. The lady in the snowman sweater stares at me with a pity smile, like I’m some half-starved dog on the side of the road.
    I feel sorry for me too, not so much for the community service or the cost of the window. The worst of my punishment is having to apologize. How can I pull off a sincere apology to Creeper if I can’t even fake an enthusiastic answer to a judge?
    “You have a sour look on your face.” The judge’s voice startles me. “You should be grateful for this opportunity. Things could have been worse for you. So start working on your