The Tattooed Devil Wears Chucks

The Probation Officer

Jax.

Fifty crunches and my back hits the wooden floor behind me. Excessive, quick, short breaths escape my lips, and I use the soaked cotton tank I'm wearing to clear my face of the sweat. Week two in this town and I'm bored out of my goddamn mind. There's no gym. What kind of place doesn't have a gym? The closest establishment where I can complete my normal workout is a hundred miles away. Not an option when you don't have a car. Legal fees are no joke. My car didn't cover a fifth of them.

It's not the physical appearance that I'm worried about. Keeping myself busy is good for me. It keeps myself out of my own head—a scary place to be. I can't keep using a 100-square-foot room with a queen-sized bed in the middle of it to do this. I'm going to have to take up running, and I hate running. Where the hell am I going to run to in town that's one square mile in the middle of nowhere?

My head jolts upwards when Courtney throws open the door. Ignoring me, she moves to my closet to begin sifting through my clothes hurriedly, muttering under her breath as she does. Shirt after shirt is tossed to her right, causing wire hangers to sound like nails on a chalkboard as they screech across the metal bar. Everything in this damn house is old.

"May I help you with something?" I ask, leaning myself onto my elbows to sit up.

"Where's your Tom Petty shirt?"

"Probably in the hamper."

Two shirts drop to the floor of the closet when she gives them an extra hard toss. "Rolling Stones?"

"I don't know? The washing machine?"

"The Clash?"

"Probably on the damn floor and dirty by now!"

"Ugh!" She stomps. " I hate everything I own! Why are all the good ones in the wash?"

"Well," I lie myself back to the hard floor, still panting from my workout, "they are my shirts. Therefore, I wear them. Then they need to be washed. You know, for hygiene reasons..."

"I'm taking this one!" A black shirt is yanked hard from its hanger, causing it to hit the shelf above the bar and topple to the floor amongst the other shirts that didn't meet Courtney's standards.

"Stop tying my shirts at the waist!" I yell as she exits the room. The door slams behind her. "You're stretching them all out!"

I'm ignored.

I roll to my side, surveying the damage of storm Courtney. A mound of clean clothes fill the closet floor. I should be pissed after hanging all of those yesterday, but I can't be. So, I take a deep breath—a "coping mechanism"—and drop my chin to my chest to roll my neck until it cracks, relieving little tension. My sister loves to shop more than anyone else I know, has her own closet bursting with clothes—many of which still have tags on them—and has multiple dressers filled to the brim. Yet, she has nothing to wear and needs to wear my clothes.

I will never fully understand the mind of a teenage girl.

***

"Court!" I call out, picking up a stack of magazines from the table and tossing them to an open chair. "Have you seen dad's keys?"

A metallic jingle beside my left ear stops my searching. I swipe for the keys, but she draws her arm back faster than my grab. Sighing, and not needing this childish bullshit today, I pick up the magazine stack and place it back to where I found it.

"I'm taking the car today!" She beams proudly. "He said I could."

Once again, I'm seeing my sister with my Doors tee tied near her exposed midriff. I see our talk this morning went well. Unfortunately, that discussion is on the back burner, because I need those keys if I want to make it to my appointment on time.