That Kellen wouldn’t love her long enough. The years were adding up. Mom thought Wavy would get over it, but she was wrong. Wavy still loved him, but when he got out of prison, would he still love her?
Wavy made her way as best she could, found ways to fit in on her terms. For instance, she didn’t go to her senior prom, but she was the chairperson for the decoration committee. The prom was Valentine’s themed: red and pink, with hearts and hundreds of hand-tucked crepe-paper roses with green sisal stems. Things like that always looked effortless in Wavy’s hands.
She strung elaborate garlands along the edges of the bleachers, and in the corner where prom pictures would be taken. The garlands were pink and red with bits of gold foil, alternating reversed hearts. Everyone assumed they were hearts, until halfway through the prom, when one of the parent chaperones admired the decorations at just the right angle. That year none of the prom pictures could be used in the yearbook. “Obscene,” the school board called them.
Instead of hearts, Wavy had very skillfully alternated between erect penises and curvaceous rumps that narrowed to delicate but well-defined vulvas.
The school board threatened to keep her from graduating, but in the end, Wavy got to walk across the dais in her big boots. She accepted her diploma from the principal’s grudgingly outstretched hand, and walked to the other end of the stage. From up in the stands, home from my first year of college, I watched her kiss Kellen’s ring.
Four years into a ten-year prison sentence, did he feel the same?
13
KELLEN
June 1987
The hearing room was small, the same gray cinder block as my cell. There was a table for the parole board, another for me and my lawyer, and some folding chairs along the wall for witnesses. I had to wear a leg iron, hooked to an eyebolt in the floor, but at least they didn’t cuff me. The room was too warm, close enough quarters I wondered if Wavy would be able to smell me. I’d showered like she might, trimmed my hair, shaved, and tucked my shirt in. Not to impress the board. I didn’t figure there was much I could do to make them like me.
Heading into my fifth year, I was tired. I’d spent four years sitting around, reading, lifting weights, and sleeping. Four years thinking about Wavy, because I didn’t have enough to do with my hands, especially in solitary. Odds on I was gonna do another year before my next hearing. Another year before I might get a chance to see Wavy again.
After my lawyer, the parole board showed up, then Old Man Cutcheon, who I couldn’t hardly believe had come all that way for me after the trouble I’d caused him. Then Brenda Newling walked in. Seeing her looking older, I wondered what Wavy looked like now.
Brenda glared at me like she wanted to burn a hole in me, but it didn’t. Wavy hadn’t come, and if she wasn’t there, I didn’t care what happened. I knew the fight was gonna come up and that was the first thing the parole board mentioned.
“I see you had an altercation with a fellow inmate six months ago. A pretty serious one. The man ended up in the infirmary, and you’ve been in administrative segregation since then? That doesn’t exactly suggest you’re ready for parole. Would you like to tell us about that?”
I didn’t want to, but I had to say something.
“Look, because of my conviction, there’s always some guy wanting to mess with me. He came at me with a shiv.”
“Did you have some personal issue with him?” the woman on the board said.
“I didn’t know him. It’s just because of what I pled to. Some guys, they find that out, they have it in for me.” I had scars to show for two times I let my guard down.
“Inmates who have sexual convictions involving minors are often targeted by other inmates,” my lawyer said. “Mr. Barfoot has worked hard to rehabilitate himself.”
“Can you tell us what you’ve done to prepare yourself for parole?”
“I finished my GED.”
“Also Mr. Barfoot completed the court-mandated program for sex offenders,” my lawyer said.
I didn’t like thinking about that. Three months spending every day in the same room with child molesters and rapists. The whole thing gave me a creeping dread of myself, but I didn’t have to lie in the exit interview. Do you still have sexual fantasies about young girls? they asked. No. I never had. I thought about Wavy a hundred times a day, but Wavy was Wavy, not some young girl.
Then it was Mr. Cutcheon’s turn to talk to the board. It choked me up so that I couldn’t look at him. For reasons I still don’t get, he took a chance on me when nobody else would.