“Who knows? I’ve never heard of that happening. The staff has nothing to gain. And none of them gets to know us well enough to come up with compelling evidence. We’re just sheep to them. We’re just paper to be pushed around.”
I think of Miss Bailey and Benny and Dr. Wilson, and want to argue with her, but then I wonder how much I really matter to any of them. How much they actually care.
“What about Benny?” I ask. “You two are close.”
“She might do it, if I asked her. But I’ll get denied every time. Some cases—yours, mine—it’s too black-and-white for them. No amount of good behavior or promises or Bible quotes will erase how they see us.”
I nod and rest my head on my knee.
“Minnow,” she says solemnly, “please don’t convince yourself you stand a chance. You’re going to Billings, and next year I’ll join you there.”
The short-term girls talk about Billings, trying to scare us with stories of rapists and meth-whores who’ll stab you for looking at them out of the wrong eye. But the long-term girls whisper about how much better things will be at Billings, finding any reason to avoid thinking about the stories they’ve heard. They talk about how the uniform is actual clothes—box-shaped burgundy T-shirts and khakis, not jumpsuits. They say inmates with good behavior are given a stray dog to care for. They say some of the guards are even men.
“Can’t wait,” I mutter just as the bell rings for dinner.
? ? ?
When we arrive in the cafeteria, Mrs. New stands at the front beside a tall, lean woman in a gray suit.
“The warden,” I hear hissed around me. The gray-clad woman observes the girls in a removed way, as though watching us from the top of a guard tower with a rifle in her hands. Her short hair is pulled back in a stiff ponytail, blades of dyed blond fanning from her hairline unnaturally. Her skin is powdery and severely pale.
Nobody knows her actual name, the others tell me, and she only shows her face when something really bad’s happened.
“Last time the warden was here,” Angel mutters once we’re seated with our food, “she was telling us outdoor rec time was canceled because some girl hung herself with a tetherball.”
“And the time before that,” Rashida pipes up, “that girl Roxanne tried to escape by holding on to the underside of one of the buses, and she got smeared all over a speed bump in the parking lot.”
“We could see it from science class,” another girl says. “Guts everywhere.”
The warden steps up to a mounted microphone and clears her throat loudly. The room falls instantly silent.
“Good evening,” the warden says in a clipped voice.
“Good evening,” we repeat.
“I’m here with some wonderful news. After two years of being closed to new applicants, the Bridge Program has opened several spots and will be accepting applications for admission.”
An excited mumbling breaks out among the girls.
The warden clears her throat again. “The competition will be steep,” she says. “Every warden in every juvenile facility in Montana is making a similar announcement today. Nevertheless, each of you is encouraged to apply. Mrs. New will distribute applications to the writing teachers.”
“What’s she talking about?” I ask, turning to Angel.
“It’s this program that gives you a place to live and pays for everything after you’re released. They let you stay as long as you need to finish college and get a job. That’s why spots hardly ever open up.”
“Like a group home?” I ask.
“Like a really nice group home where you never have to worry about anything. Like a group home you’d actually want to live in.”
A dozen hands dart in the air, and the warden spends about five minutes answering questions. Yes, everything is paid for. Yes, even college. Yes, even food. No, not alcohol, and that’s not even remotely funny.
A mousy blond girl with bones like a bird’s and a belly the size of a watermelon raises her hand.
Yes, the warden says, the Bridge Program houses and pays for the girls’ dependents, too, if they have any. The blond girl’s face breaks open in a smile, her hand widening over her ballooned stomach.
“This is so fucked,” Angel whispers.
I turn to look at her. Her face is set in a scowl. “What?” I ask.
“She actually thinks she’ll get in,” Angel says.
I follow Angel’s gaze to the blond girl. Her wide-set eyes are hopeful, and almost every girl in the cafeteria has the same expression. They whisper to one another with cupped hands as the warden answers more questions about entry requirements. And it dawns on me what a horrible trick this actually is, what a cruelty. Most of them won’t make the cut.
“I take it you’re not applying?” I ask, though I know the answer.
She scoffs. “I stand a better chance at the Nobel Prize.”
The warden explains that only girls released or granted parole by their eighteenth birthday will be eligible for the program. Angel will go adult prison after this. For a long time, I’m guessing. And, I’m realizing, probably so will I.
Chapter 35