“What do you want me to say?” I ask. I let my head fall forward to prop it up against my hands, then stop. I’m still forgetting that they’re gone. It’s been how many months and I’m still forgetting. I stare down at the empty spaces.
“They took my hands,” I say. “The police, I mean. They said they’d have them incinerated, do you believe that? Between the Prophet and the law, I’ll have nothing left by the end.”
“What would it matter if your hands were incinerated?”
“Because . . . because they were part of me. Do you know what it’s like to have a piece of your body taken away without your consent?”
He shakes his head.
“Then you don’t get to ask that question.” I shake my head. “I know it’s strange. And kinda gross. But I wish I had them back. They’re mine. There’d be a sense of, I don’t know, fairness.”
He’s leans back on his stool, one arm crossing his chest. “Everybody’s lost something,” he says. “Most of us never get the chance to have it returned.”
I know he’s right, but a small voice insists, they were mine. As much my property as anything ever has been. As long as they’re gone, I don’t see how I can ever stop being so angry at the world I feel like ripping it to ribbons.
Chapter 44
It’s two months until my birthday, two months until they decide if I go free. It’s gotten warm, the part of early summer when, if I were still in the Community, I’d be sun-pink at the cheeks and peeling from the bridge of my nose. Here, I stay inside. I’ve seen those chain-link pens in the yard reserved for exercising, but I don’t think I could ever let myself be locked in a cage. Besides the persistent hum of air conditioners, I’d hardly know it was summer at all.
Today, they’re driving us up into the foothills to do community service, those of us who aren’t considered a flight risk. I had to convince Mrs. New to let me go.
“I’ve had only good behavior for months,” I said.
“You were in solitary for an altercation with Krystal Smith not two weeks ago.”
“That was a . . . misunderstanding. I’ll be good. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Minnow, you know it’s more than that. You’re . . . understandably weakened. And you’ve taken no outdoor rec time all year. I don’t see why this matters to you.”
“The place you’re going,” I say, “it’s not too far from the place I grew up, in the woods. I want to see how it feels, going back. I think—I think it might be important.”
She purses her bright lips. “All right. God help me if anything happens. I’m putting it in the books as reward R & R, not as work detail. You’re not to do anything strenuous, do you understand?”
In the morning, the broken-up voice of a guard announces over the intercom that we should congregate in the cafeteria for a debriefing before we depart. Rashida stares after me longingly when I leave reading class. The cafeteria tables have been folded into giant A shapes and wheeled to the edges of the room, the linoleum floor shiny where a long mop has just swept.
Angel walks into the cafeteria a moment after me. Somehow, she’s been cleared to come, though probably through bribery more than good behavior. I see Tracy enter the room with a couple of other girls. She sees me and gives me a wary smile.
“It’s called gleaning,” Mrs. New explains from the front of the room. “Basically, you’re picking fruit from several acres of wild orchards. Normally private contractors would be hired for this manner of work, but budgets are tight and it remains the state’s responsibility to clear the fruit from this area of the Rattlesnake Valley.”
“Isn’t this child labor?” Angel asks.
“This totally voluntary excursion will last most of the day,” Mrs. New continues.
Mrs. New explains that, in the next couple of months, black bears will trundle down from the mountains, attracted by the smell of ripening fruit trees. It’s a liability, given the number of homes in the area. The bears gorge themselves on fallen apples and plums, and sometimes swipe a Sheltie or Pomeranian on the side, because their guts are vacant. Because they feel like it. There’s always an element of fickleness in murder, isn’t there? That’s what I’ve learned in juvie, among these girls who’ve committed such monstrous crimes. You get the sense that, on that particular day, there was just nothing better to do. That, had something better been playing on TV or had the softball game been scheduled for Wednesday instead of Saturday, someone might not’ve had to die. Crime is never preventable because the mind will always grow bored.
In addition to our everyday neon orange jumpsuits, they give us tan hiking boots and a thick leather belt. Angel helps tie my bootlaces and buckle the belt.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Chaining us to our seats. You never wanna be on a prison bus unless everybody’s nice and restrained.”