Ruining His Summer

Chapter One: The Disappearing Act of The Porch

Let’s see. I’ve been in the “juvenile detention center” for about, oh, two years now.

Now, I’m eighteen. My age usually doesn’t matter that much but this time it kind of does matter because if I wasn’t eighteen, then I’d probably be locked up for another year or two.

Eighteen months ago, I was charged with first degree arson. My community lawyer was barely any help at all with shortening my sentence. With good behavior, he told when he sat across from me, I could be out by the time I was eighteen instead of twenty.

But according to my lawyer and the judge, the reason for my four year sentence wasn’t for turning the Valerie into kindling but instead for burning Abe Ronrock in the process. Oh, and endangering the life of Rick Gabriel.

I was also told that it could’ve been worse. That I was lucky it was my first criminal offense and that I was a minor.

But, when I zip up my orange jumpsuit, I don’t feel as lucky as I told.

Tomorrow, my parents are coming to “collect” me and if I come back, they’re going to make sure that I get a good, long sentence that won’t leave any room for good behavior.

Their words, not mine.

“So,” Brooklyn, my cellmate, said as she lay on her stomach on the hard cots we sleep on. “You’re going home tomorrow, right?”

I nodded. “Yup,” I confirmed, not bothering to hide the lack of enthusiasm in my voice. “I get to go home, with my parents, who pressed charges against me.”

Around here, stories like that barely get the bat of an eye. “Tough life, Silvia,” she mumbled, flipping over on her back, staring up at the ceiling. “At least you’re going to be sleeping on a real bed.”

“Tough life, Brooklyn,” I repeated nonchalantly.  A second later, a pillow smacked me in the face. I threw it back at her. “Seriously, Brooklyn.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one complaining about leaving this Orange Jumpsuit Hell,” she grumbled.

“Shut up,” I warned.

Brooklyn, for whiny and annoying as she is, is okay. I certainly could’ve got a worse cellmate.

She’s in for grand theft auto. Translation: she stole her boyfriend’s car for a night and he went ballistic and called the cops on her.

She may think that being here for eight months is total torture but that’s honestly nothing compared to two years. And she’s only seventeen. I could mention that to her the next time she decides to cry over how long she’s been in here, but I always decide against it because it’s only going to make her cry louder and cover my head with a pillow instead.

“So, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?” she asked, and this question is usually the closest inmates ever come to being nice.

I paused. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Probably sleep, and eat actually food for once.”

This couldn’t have been more of a lie. When I get home, I’m going to get my life back. I’m going to get my friends, my job, and Rick all back in one swoop.

But I was going to get Abe back too, but not in the same sense.

I guess it’s not newsworthy that a cop’s son is a snitch, but still. I barely know the guy and then he went and ruined my life. If that didn’t deserve revenge, then I don’t know what is.

But why am I mad at Abe, the guy who supposedly saved my life, for telling but Rick? It may have to do with the fact that if Abe hadn’t said anything, Rick wouldn’t have either. He was too paranoid about people finding out about his drugs.