Pete
I don’t want to be back here. I didn’t miss jail at all last night. Not for a minute. And I don’t plan to be on the wrong side the bars again. Ever. But here I am, back where I never wanted to be. I’m outside the prison but still… I’m wearing jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a tracking bracelet on my ankle. The boys standing in line are still in prison garb. They haven’t been officially released from the youth program yet, but this volunteer program is their first step toward that.
Doors open in front of me, and I step onto the bus, sliding into the front seat, pushing myself close to the window. I put my backpack with my meager belongings in it on the seat next to me, hoping the bus isn’t so crowded that someone has to sit with me.
A young man behind me sits forward in his seat. “You going to the farm, too?” he asks. His breath smells like he’s been eating the ass end out of a mule.
“Dude, sit back,” I grumble. I admit it. I’m a little hungover.
He leans back, and I lay the back of my head against the window and stretch my legs along the length of the seat. But then his nose pops up near the crack between the seat and the window, right by my face. “You’re going to the farm, right?” He breathes heavily right by my ear. And it was two mules. Not just one ass that he ate. Good God, somebody better get him a Tic Tac. I reach into my backpack and pull out a roll of breath mints and pass him one. He pops it into his mouth and smiles.
“Yeah, I’m going to the farm,” I say quietly.
“Me, too. Cool, isn’t it?” He grins. He’s even younger than me. I’d guess he’s eighteen, compared to my twenty-one.
“Yeah, cool,” I mutter.
“What were you in for?”
They know I was in prison? For some reason, I thought I was coming as a mentor of sorts. Not as an ex-con.
“Lie back and get some sleep,” I say, closing my eyes.
I really want to know what the kid was in for, but I would never ask. That would just be rude.
“I killed somebody,” he says. I open my eyes and see that he’s smiling. His eyes are a little maniacal, and they bounce from one place to another.
“Sure you did,” I mutter, but f*ck it all… Now I’m intrigued.
“No, really,” he says. He’s suddenly excited, and he rubs his hands together. “Deader than a doornail.” He holds up his finger like it’s a gun and points it, then makes a pfewww sound with his mouth.
“Mmm hmm,” I hum, closing my eyes again.
“Have you been there before?” he asks. He’s kind of like a puppy. A puppy that can kill people. Maybe a cocker spaniel. Those always were f*cked-up little dogs. My neighbor, Mrs. Connelly, had one, and I used to walk it. That thing would bite you as quickly as it would look at you.
“Where?” I ask.
“The farm,” he says, getting all excited again. I hear him moving in his seat like he can’t sit still.
It’s actually called Cast-A-Way Farms, based on the brochures I saw yesterday. I force my eyes open. “No. Never been.”
“Me, neither. But I know someone who went last year. He said it was nice. Except for the sick kids and the ones who are retarded.”
I f*cking hate that word. “They’re not retarded,” I say. “They’re deaf. And some have MS. And some have autism. And lot of other things that make them special. But they’re not retarded.” I f*cking hate labels. My brother, Logan, the one who is deaf, has been called more names than I can count.
“Oh, okay,” he says. He nods. “Okay.” He repeats himself.
“Don’t use that word again,” I warn.
“Okay,” he says. He nods, his head bobbing like a dashboard dog.
The bus driver gets on the bus, and my parole officer enters, carrying his clipboard. He sits down in the seat opposite me and flips through his paperwork. He’s big and beefy, and he’s packing. He’s dressed in a V-necked shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and khaki pants. He looks over at me, and his eyebrows draw together. “You Reed?” he asks.
I open my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I say. We actually met at the prison, but he must not remember.
“How’d you score this program?” he asks.
I shrug. “No idea.” I have a good idea it had something to do with Mr. Caster, but I don’t know what happened. He acts like this is an honor or something.
My parole officer’s brows pucker again, and he reaches for his clipboard. “You’re the one whose brother is deaf.”
I glare at him. “Yep.”
He nods and sets his clipboard to the side. “There will be a few hearing-impaired kids at the camp. And there’s one boy who has MS and has a tracheostomy tube, so he can’t talk. You’ll be working with him as a translator.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“How long have you been signing?” he asks.
My brother lost his hearing when he was thirteen, and that was ten years ago. “About ten years?” I say. I’m not completely sure. I’ve been signing so long that I don’t even realize I’m doing it most of the time.
He turns so that his knees are facing me. “What were you in for?” he asks quietly.
I nod toward his clipboard. “You already know,” I say. I close my eyes again.
He grabs my foot and shakes it. I jerk my leg back. That’s something one of my brothers would do. “I’d rather you tell me.”
“Possession with intent,” I say quietly. I really don’t want Tic Tac behind me to hear me.
He extends a hand to me. “My name’s Phil,” he says.
I grip his hand in mine. “Pete.”
“You’re not going to be any trouble, are you, Pete?” he asks.
“No, sir,” I reply. No trouble at all. I want to go home when this over.
He nods. “Fair enough. I may need for you to help me with some of the younger kids.” He jerks a thumb toward the back of the bus.
I nod. I’m the oldest one here, aside from Phil.
Phil gets up and sits down across from Tic Tac and goes through the same drill. I see him do it with everyone. There are about ten young men on the bus, all under the age of eighteen, if I had to guess. There’s one younger boy who doesn’t look older than sixteen.
I heave a sigh and close my eyes. I cross my arms over my chest and try to sleep. If I’m correct, we have a few hours to go until we get to Cast-A-Way Farms.