Who Owns Kelly Paddik by Beth Goobie Page A

started to cheer me up, until I remembered Jim.
    â€œC’mon in and I’ll show you your room,” Sister Mary said.
    Just like hotel service
, I thought.
    Jim followed close behind to make sure I didn’t make a run for it again. I felt as if I was wearing him like a body glove. He probably thought of himself as my bodyguard — just a nice guy keeping Kelly Paddik away from all the bad stuff. So if he was so nice, then why was he making my hands sweat and my heart pound? I wanted to turn around and shove him, hard.
    Before I could, Sister Mary opened the front door and we stepped inside the building. It seemed very dark after the bright sunshine and the yellow flyaway leaves. From somewhere nearby, I could hear girls’ voices. We went down a long hall and through a locked door. Then we climbed two flights of stairs. I was watching the old nun, waiting to see if she would fall over from all this exercise. But she wasn’t even breathing hard. Maybe she worked out and lifted weights.
    When we got to the top of the stairs, we turned down another hall. On my left I could see an office with a large window run through with wire. I guess the staff thought they needed somewhere safe to hide out. Ahead of us there was a big room with sofas, a TV, and a kitchen area. Onboth sides of this room were five doors.
One girl per room
, I thought.
That makes ten girls
.
    Sister Mary led me to the middle door on the left. She unlocked the door and said, “The girls in this unit are twelve to seventeen years old, Kelly. I’m the supervisor. Anytime you want to talk to me about anything, just let one of the staff know. This is your room.”
    I walked into the narrow room after her, followed by Jim. It really was small — one sneeze would fill the place right up. Honestly, four or five steps would take you across it. And there was no place to hide anything, unless you stuck it in the heating vent. As I thought about this, Jim put my suitcase on the bed. Then he opened it and started going through my stuff. I could feel my anger rising in a huge wave. But I got it under control. You have to do that in these places — sit tight on everything you feel. If you don’t, you lose it and you’re locked up longer. I always sit tight on my anger and sadness and don’t let any of it show. It ends up feeling as if I’m sitting on myself — as if I’ve got this big bum parked on my head. But if it means I’ll get out faster, that’s all that matters.
    â€œI don’t have a bomb in there,” I muttered.
    â€œI’m sorry, Kelly. We have to do this,” Jim said. Then he held up my pet rock. It was a hunk of granite I’d picked up off a beach somewhere and decided to love. Stupid, I know. I called it “Family” and talked to it when no one else was around. My pet rock was a great listener. At least it never interrupted.
    â€œWe’re going to have to keep this in the office,” said Jim.
    â€œBut that’s my pet rock. I need it in my room with me,” I said.
    Jim shook his head. “It’s one of the rules. You can’t keep anything that could be used as a weapon in your room.”
    â€œBut it’s
a pet
rock, not a
killer
rock,” I argued. I needed that rock. I told it everything.
    â€œSorry, Kelly. You’ll get it back when you leave. Why don’t you unpack now?” said Jim. Then he and Sister Mary left to go talk to my social worker.
    I stood looking at the room they’d given me. There was hardly any furniture — just a dresser, a desk, and a bed. Then I saw the window, with wires run through it like all the others.
    I leaned my face against the cool glass and stared out. I started to get cross-eyed staringat the wires. Outside, I could see a long hall that connected this building to a school. That had to be the way the girls got to classes. Beyond the school was a huge, fenced-in yard.
They don’t even let