to push it through.
I smile when I see the cans of silver on the table. Thanks, Rodney. I turn and give Xavier, who’s watching me solemnly—these kids are always expecting to get screwed—a thumbs up. He grins and starts fooling around with Reggie.
“Xavier and Reggie,” Kimberly calls. “Shut it down.”
“How many blues?” I ask, as Kimberly hands the cans out to the boys. “Yellows? Reds?” I give Xavier two cans of silver paint. “You’ve got a lot of Buds there.”
He doesn’t answer, just ducks his head shyly.
There are three sizes of brushes—all with square, rather than pointed ends—but I only hand out the smallest, instructing the kids first to outline the inside of the permanent marker before starting on the larger spaces. Within minutes, the room is silent. The concentration is palpable.
I walk over to Xavier. “Is it okay if Manuel helps you with all your cans? You could be at this for months without him.”
Xavier shrugs without turning from his painting.
I hand Manuel a brush. He takes it but doesn’t move. Xavier, who’s already completed outlining three cans, points to the cans farthest away from the ones he’s working on. I turn to Kimberly, and she nods her approval.
Kimberly and I walk up and down the line, helping where it’s needed: handing out other paint, different brushes, offering suggestions. The guards watch the boys closely.
I mix up a couple of cans of purple, orange, and green and open up a white. This is going amazingly well. I’d been discouraged from doing a group project, told it would be a set-up for hostility, but so far so good. Not that I’m complacent. I’ve been coming to Beverly long enough to know that it takes only a second for things to blow.
Which is exactly what happens. Suddenly, Manuel punches Xavier in the stomach. Xavier, a foot taller than Manuel, stumbles backward, hits the wall, and crumples to the ground. With lightning speed, two guards have each boy’s arms twisted behind his back, his hands cuffed. The third grabs Reggie as he starts to come to Xavier’s rescue and does the same.
“Everyone up against the wall with your hands up,” Kimberly orders, pulling out her walkie-talkie. “Now!” The other boys turn and face the wall, hands raised.
“Fuck you,” Manuel screams at Xavier, as he’s being pulled across the room by the guard. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“They’re my cans, asshole,” Xavier retorts, “and you’re fucking them up. You’re going the wrong way.”
I watch as Manuel, Xavier, and Reggie are removed from the dayroom. Two new guards race into the room. Kimberly motions that she’s got it under control. They look dubious and post themselves on opposite ends of the line.
“Okay,” Kimberly says. “Starting at the front of the line. Christian. Close your paint cans and put them on the table. Brushes, too. In that tray Ms. Roth has there. Then go stand on the other side of the room, hands up. Johan, you’re next. Then Sean.”
The boys do as she says. When they’re all on the other side of the room, the guards march them out single file. Everyone stares straight ahead. No one says anything.
I drop into a chair and run my fingers through my hair.
Kimberly sits down next to me. “You okay?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“It’s so close to the surface.”
“Do you know why Manuel hit him? Were they arguing?”
“I just heard Xavier tell him that he wanted him to paint in the other direction so that it would match his own cans.”
I walk over to Xavier’s cans and squat down to look. “Was he angry?”
“You know Xavier, he’s usually pretty low confrontation.”
I think about asking her why Xavier’s in here, then remind myself that I don’t want to know. “So Manuel just belted him?”
“He’s got some anger issues.”
“You think?” I compare Xavier’s cans to Manuel’s. Both boys did a pretty good job of outlining, and although the
I smile when I see the cans of silver on the table. Thanks, Rodney. I turn and give Xavier, who’s watching me solemnly—these kids are always expecting to get screwed—a thumbs up. He grins and starts fooling around with Reggie.
“Xavier and Reggie,” Kimberly calls. “Shut it down.”
“How many blues?” I ask, as Kimberly hands the cans out to the boys. “Yellows? Reds?” I give Xavier two cans of silver paint. “You’ve got a lot of Buds there.”
He doesn’t answer, just ducks his head shyly.
There are three sizes of brushes—all with square, rather than pointed ends—but I only hand out the smallest, instructing the kids first to outline the inside of the permanent marker before starting on the larger spaces. Within minutes, the room is silent. The concentration is palpable.
I walk over to Xavier. “Is it okay if Manuel helps you with all your cans? You could be at this for months without him.”
Xavier shrugs without turning from his painting.
I hand Manuel a brush. He takes it but doesn’t move. Xavier, who’s already completed outlining three cans, points to the cans farthest away from the ones he’s working on. I turn to Kimberly, and she nods her approval.
Kimberly and I walk up and down the line, helping where it’s needed: handing out other paint, different brushes, offering suggestions. The guards watch the boys closely.
I mix up a couple of cans of purple, orange, and green and open up a white. This is going amazingly well. I’d been discouraged from doing a group project, told it would be a set-up for hostility, but so far so good. Not that I’m complacent. I’ve been coming to Beverly long enough to know that it takes only a second for things to blow.
Which is exactly what happens. Suddenly, Manuel punches Xavier in the stomach. Xavier, a foot taller than Manuel, stumbles backward, hits the wall, and crumples to the ground. With lightning speed, two guards have each boy’s arms twisted behind his back, his hands cuffed. The third grabs Reggie as he starts to come to Xavier’s rescue and does the same.
“Everyone up against the wall with your hands up,” Kimberly orders, pulling out her walkie-talkie. “Now!” The other boys turn and face the wall, hands raised.
“Fuck you,” Manuel screams at Xavier, as he’s being pulled across the room by the guard. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“They’re my cans, asshole,” Xavier retorts, “and you’re fucking them up. You’re going the wrong way.”
I watch as Manuel, Xavier, and Reggie are removed from the dayroom. Two new guards race into the room. Kimberly motions that she’s got it under control. They look dubious and post themselves on opposite ends of the line.
“Okay,” Kimberly says. “Starting at the front of the line. Christian. Close your paint cans and put them on the table. Brushes, too. In that tray Ms. Roth has there. Then go stand on the other side of the room, hands up. Johan, you’re next. Then Sean.”
The boys do as she says. When they’re all on the other side of the room, the guards march them out single file. Everyone stares straight ahead. No one says anything.
I drop into a chair and run my fingers through my hair.
Kimberly sits down next to me. “You okay?”
“I’ve seen it before.”
“It’s so close to the surface.”
“Do you know why Manuel hit him? Were they arguing?”
“I just heard Xavier tell him that he wanted him to paint in the other direction so that it would match his own cans.”
I walk over to Xavier’s cans and squat down to look. “Was he angry?”
“You know Xavier, he’s usually pretty low confrontation.”
I think about asking her why Xavier’s in here, then remind myself that I don’t want to know. “So Manuel just belted him?”
“He’s got some anger issues.”
“You think?” I compare Xavier’s cans to Manuel’s. Both boys did a pretty good job of outlining, and although the
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