keep asking her name.
I resorted to looking at the mail.
Even seeing it in print wouldn’t help, though. Whenever I needed to
remember her name, or anything else, I’d ask Avery. And Jake
sometimes, too. He already thought I was a weirdo and Avery never
cared. Avery used to do this funny thing, when I asked her to
remind me of someone’s name, she’d always give me a word—sometimes
one she made up—to rhyme with the sound of the Fosters
name.
“I can’t remember her name.” I’d
mutter, sulkily.
“What do you mean-a ?” She’d grimace .
. . and then I’d remember. Her name is
Deanna.
If no one was around to ask and the
mail was put away, I’d sarcastically, if not affectionately, call
my foster mother, Foster. She didn’t seem to mind. As far as
Fosters went, she was okay—more so, in some ways—maybe not the
best, but my best.
12
—Angel
My bladder feels stretched
beyond capacity. I’m squirming, trying to find relief. “I have to go to the
bathroom.”
It’s the third time I’ve mentioned it.
They always say they’ll take you the first time around, but they
just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty
minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask
me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping
point.
I suppose that’s kind of my fault,
though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I’ve been going
off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks,
trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails
to understand is that I can’t tell just one part of the story. I
have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their
questions, or skip over anything, I might miss
something.
The quiet man that gives me the Diet
Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time,
just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of
my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared
glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the
wall.
She presses a button. A moment later,
a crackly voice answers.
“Miss Patel needs a restroom
break.”
Finally.
Within seconds, the wide wooden door
swings open. In its’ frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a
woman named Jo. She’s very plain and has short brown hair with a
prominent jaw—too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don’t
recognize. He might be new. He doesn’t have a name tag or
badge.
New Guy steps in first and opens one
cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my
feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor.
The walk to the restroom is quiet.
When I first got arrested, I used to
think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so
was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.
New Guy has to wait outside the
bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall
door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was
hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my
bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It’s normal now.
And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed
that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an
audience. But today, it’s only number one.
I am mid-stream when the echo of
Avery’s voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom
stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side
panels meet. It’s only an inch or two wide, but it’s enough to see
the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her
frown.
“Angel. For the millionth time, I’m
sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you.”
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way
her voice cracks as she whimpers, “you’re my only
friend.”
I usually take my time washing my
hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in
here.
My hands are still damp when I’m back
inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly
I resorted to looking at the mail.
Even seeing it in print wouldn’t help, though. Whenever I needed to
remember her name, or anything else, I’d ask Avery. And Jake
sometimes, too. He already thought I was a weirdo and Avery never
cared. Avery used to do this funny thing, when I asked her to
remind me of someone’s name, she’d always give me a word—sometimes
one she made up—to rhyme with the sound of the Fosters
name.
“I can’t remember her name.” I’d
mutter, sulkily.
“What do you mean-a ?” She’d grimace .
. . and then I’d remember. Her name is
Deanna.
If no one was around to ask and the
mail was put away, I’d sarcastically, if not affectionately, call
my foster mother, Foster. She didn’t seem to mind. As far as
Fosters went, she was okay—more so, in some ways—maybe not the
best, but my best.
12
—Angel
My bladder feels stretched
beyond capacity. I’m squirming, trying to find relief. “I have to go to the
bathroom.”
It’s the third time I’ve mentioned it.
They always say they’ll take you the first time around, but they
just want to know one more thing. And before you know it, twenty
minutes have passed. They just keep on with their questions or ask
me to hold it until I get to a convenient stopping
point.
I suppose that’s kind of my fault,
though. My audience has a schedule to keep and I’ve been going
off-topic. My lawyer has cued me with not-so-subtle nods and looks,
trying to urge me back in one direction or another. What he fails
to understand is that I can’t tell just one part of the story. I
have to tell them everything. If I stick to just answering their
questions, or skip over anything, I might miss
something.
The quiet man that gives me the Diet
Cokes has been standing between the cameras almost the whole time,
just watching. Now, he slinks forward and snatches the remnants of
my second can of soda as the woman with the tight bun and squared
glasses leans to one side, edging toward the phone mounted on the
wall.
She presses a button. A moment later,
a crackly voice answers.
“Miss Patel needs a restroom
break.”
Finally.
Within seconds, the wide wooden door
swings open. In its’ frame stands two uniforms. One of them is a
woman named Jo. She’s very plain and has short brown hair with a
prominent jaw—too prominent to be feminine. The second one, I don’t
recognize. He might be new. He doesn’t have a name tag or
badge.
New Guy steps in first and opens one
cuff at a time, releasing me from my chair. He orders me onto my
feet and takes me by the elbow, leading me out into the corridor.
The walk to the restroom is quiet.
When I first got arrested, I used to
think I needed to fill the silences. They seemed awkward, but so
was the incessant talking. Now, I relish the quiet.
New Guy has to wait outside the
bathroom door while Jo sees me inside. She waits at the open stall
door, watching me pee. That used to make me nervous, too. It was
hard, at first, to summon the suddenly scared urine down from my
bladder. My first two weeks, I refused to poop. It’s normal now.
And damned depressing, too. As a kid, I never could have dreamed
that I would one day be so at ease dropping the deuce for an
audience. But today, it’s only number one.
I am mid-stream when the echo of
Avery’s voice carries through the thin partition of the bathroom
stall. A face slips into the small space where the front and side
panels meet. It’s only an inch or two wide, but it’s enough to see
the watery green of one eye, staring at me and the edge of her
frown.
“Angel. For the millionth time, I’m
sorry. Please just listen to me. I need you.”
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way
her voice cracks as she whimpers, “you’re my only
friend.”
I usually take my time washing my
hands, singing the alphabet song as I go, but not with her in
here.
My hands are still damp when I’m back
inside the room. I wipe the remnants of water on the wooly
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