Chapter 4

In the third grade, Seth had killed a hamster. Actually killed it. It had been his turn to take the class pet home for a weekend, and in the middle of the night the hamster—its name was Brutus—had escaped from the cage that Seth had forgotten to lock. Seth, on his way to the bathroom, had stepped on it and crushed it with his bare foot. He'd felt its back break and when the hamster squealed Seth had screamed in shock. He'd been totally inconsolable for a good 36 hours.

Right now, he felt even worse.

He was pretty sure the knot that had settled in his stomach roughly six hours ago would never go away. He couldn't imagine ever being able to eat or sleep again, not with this kind of guilt consuming him.

It wasn't the arrest, or the lectures from three different cops, or having to face his mom while locked in handcuffs, or making her so angry that she refused to speak to him. He'd abandoned his best friend in jail. Seth was going back to his own home and his own bed, and Ryan was even at this moment being locked up in this scary place that Seth didn't even want to imagine. Seth would be grounded, most likely until he was married with kids of his own. And Ryan got to rot in jail. Not that people actually rotted in jail, or even that Ryan was going to jail, exactly, but the semantics didn't matter.

This was all so unfair.

"Mom," Seth began, turning to face his mother in the car.

"I don't want to hear it. Not right now," she said.

Seth lowered his head and studied his hands in his lap. His free hands. When he'd last seen Ryan, his hands had been locked behind his back. And Seth, from across the room, hadn't been able to offer so much as an apology. Waving goodbye to Ryan in a police station in the middle of the night had been the most depressing experience of his life. No competition.

It was getting light by the time his mom pulled up in front of their house. Seth followed her inside, neither of them saying a word. In the entryway she stopped, and seemed to collect herself, and when she turned around to face him Seth realized just how exhausted his mom looked. Her hair was flying around her face from where it had come undone from its ponytail.

"Consider yourself grounded indefinitely until I can come up with a more suitable punishment," she said.

Seth nodded and turned toward the stairs, but paused before he started hiking up to his room.

"Can I say something?"

His mom sighed and gave him a look that told him he'd better make it fast, and it had better be important.

"Look, this was all my fault. It was my idea to go out."

"Was it your idea to drink and trespass on private property?"

"No. Well, yeah. Sort of."

She closed her eyes and swept a hand over her face, pushing the strands of hair off her forehead.

"Go to bed. We'll talk about it later."

"What about Ryan, Mom?"

"What about him?"

Seth felt sick at the flat tone of her voice, and he remembered the way she'd looked at the police station, the way she'd been reluctant to go to Ryan until a cop had asked her if she wanted to say goodbye to him. Even from across the room Seth had been able to tell that she was pissed off while they were talking. Ryan must have felt it too. She'd made no move to touch him—not even a pat on the arm. When she'd returned to Seth's side, she'd been dry-eyed and curt, eager to leave. She'd walked away without so much as a wave or backward glance to Ryan.

"Don't blame him. It's not his fault."

"Seth."

"I know you hate him for what happened, but-"

"I don't hate him," she said. "Why would you say that?"

"You just left him there. You didn't try to help him. You weren't even sad when they took him away."

Seth only realized what he was saying as the words escaped him, but he knew he meant it.

"If it'd been me, if they'd wanted to send me to juvie, would you have let them just take me like that?" Seth asked, taking several steps toward her. "You saw what juvie's like, Mom, but you let him go back there anyway."

"Stop it. Now."

Seth recognized when it was time to shut up, but he was fuming now and it took all his energy to keep his mouth closed and not say anything else he might regret. They stared at each other for a long moment and Seth was very aware of how hard he was breathing.

"Ryan isn't a child. He should have known better, Seth."

"Yeah, well, I should've known better too."

Seth didn't wait for his mom to respond. He turned away from her and headed up the stairs, suddenly feeling very tired. He shut the door behind him once he'd reached his bedroom and kicked his shoes off as he walked toward the bed. He collapsed on top of the covers and bunched the pillow up under his head, and tried hard not to think about where Ryan was at that moment, and when he might see him again. He didn't fall asleep for a long time.

It was a fairly short drive from Newport to Orange so early on a Saturday morning. Ryan wasn't able to sleep, but the rumble of the van was somewhat soothing nonetheless, and he'd managed to push back some of his anxiety by the time they stopped. Outside, the sky was bright and gray. He blinked up at the looming concrete building, painted a deceptively soft orange. He'd been through all this before. Knowing what came next just made it all worse, but he bit back the panic that again threatened to overwhelm him. He took a deep breath and allowed himself to be led inside, flinching only a little when the doors locked behind him with a loud click.

Inside, the lobby might have looked like any other office building if not for the cops milling about or the three other boys who sat, handcuffed, in hard plastic chairs. Ryan was led to an empty chair near the front counter.

"Stay here," the officer said, and went up to the counter. He left a stack of paperwork with a woman there and then left without another word. Ryan slumped forward in his chair, determined not to make eye contact with anyone. He'd been so stupid to think he might never have to go through this again. He had to find his balance again, his control, his dull center where nothing would phase him. He'd need that now.

"Atwood." Ryan looked up to see a man in the doorway wearing the uniform of the guards in juvie, an orange polo and chinos. He scanned the clipboard in his hands and beckoned to Ryan, who got to his feet.

He was led down a short hallway to a small room that contained only an examination table, a cabinet on rollers and a urinal in the corner. The guard removed his handcuffs and told Ryan to take off his shoes and jacket, along with his watch and wrist cuff. Everything but the shoes went in a plastic tub. The guard made a list of all Ryan's personal items and handed it to Ryan for a signature. As he was signing, a nurse in green scrubs entered the room.

"Have a seat on the table," she said. Ryan climbed up, the paper crinkling under him. The nurse took the clipboard from the guard and pulled up a chair next to the examination table.

"First, a few questions," she said. "Have you ever been treated or received counseling for an emotional problem?"

Ryan shook his head.

"Ever been hospitalized for a mental or emotional problem?"

He shook his head again.

"Are you currently on medications or prescription drugs?"

"No."

"Do you ever have thoughts of suicide or experience the desire to harm yourself in any way?"

"No, never," Ryan said. For just a second, he thought of Marissa, but he had to push those thoughts away. He couldn't think about everything he was losing. He took a deep breath and focused on the white cinderblock wall in front him.

The nurse asked more questions about his mental and physical health, his history of drug use and whether he had any tattoos before she seemed satisfied and stood up, handing the clipboard to the guard and snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. She took his temperature and his blood pressure, then tied a length of rubber around his right arm and drew blood. Ryan looked at his feet while the needle went in. After she had taped a bandage into the crook of his elbow, she handed him a cup and told him to give her a urine sample. He hoped the nurse might leave the room, but as he crossed to the urinal she remained in the chair, talking quietly to the guard. Ryan turned his back and clenched his jaw to ward off the embarrassment.

When he was done, the guard told Ryan to put his shoes back on.

"Keep your hands behind your back when we're moving around the unit," he said. "I don't care what anyone does or says to you, you keep them there, all right?"

Ryan nodded and clasped his hands behind him. He wondered if there was a note in his file now that said he was violent. He wondered if anyone could tell how scared he was, because no matter how many times he went through this, it never got easier.

The guard took him back through the front lobby to an adjoining office, where a couple of other boys were lined up in front of a desk. When he reached the front of the line he was fingerprinted, and the guard pulled him behind the desk to stand in front of a white screen.

"Look at the camera," he said, and Ryan lifted his head. The flash was blinding, and he blinked several times to clear the afterimage from his vision. "Now turn to the left." He obeyed, the colors still floating in front of his eyes. He didn't know why he had to go through this again. It had only been six months since he'd last been locked up. It wasn't as though his fingerprints had changed. He thought maybe his face had changed, though he wasn't sure how.

The guard gripped Ryan's elbow lightly and walked him down another hallway, and he felt his heart pounding as he guessed what came next. He tried to fight the panic. Twelve hours ago he had been in his pool house, lounging on a bed and worrying about his girlfriend. He'd been safe and comfortable in a way that was still new to him. But it had been so easy to adjust to that new life, where his security wasn't constantly in question, where he didn't have to worry about anyone but himself. He nearly laughed at himself, now, for thinking he could leave all this behind.

Kirsten hadn't been disappointed in him. She hadn't been angry. She had expected this, and he should have too. He'd set himself up for this fall. It wouldn't happen again. When they stopped before the last door, Ryan set his shoulders, clenched his fists behind his back, and took a deep breath.

The room was bright and small, barely the size of his bed in the pool house. A bench ran along one wall, and the plastic tub that held his jacket and other belongings sat on it, along with a towel and soap and a small bottle of shampoo. Along another wall was a long metal rail that Ryan knew was used to restrain kids who got out of control. Straight ahead of him was an open, tiled room for showers.

"You been here before?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, still facing away.

"Then you know what's going to happen," the guard said. "I'll be checking for contraband, drugs and weapons. If you're hiding anything it's best to tell me now."

Ryan didn't bother to answer. He didn't have anything, but nothing he said would make a difference.

"Turn around and face me," the guard said, and Ryan did as he was told. "Open your mouth."

He looked up at the ceiling as the guard peered into his mouth with a penlight. He wasn't just losing his freedom, he was losing everything. They'd already taken away his jacket and his wrist cuff, the watch the Cohens had given him. They were just possessions, maybe, but he had come to depend on the security of them: the leather bands around each wrist, the soft cotton of the T-shirts Kirsten bought him. But even his body didn't belong to him now.

Ryan licked his lips when the guard was done inspecting his mouth. He swallowed hard and prayed he wouldn't throw up in here. He set his jaw and forced himself to relax. This was only the beginning.

"Run your hands over your head."

Ryan pulled his fingers through his hair, bending his head to let the guard see better. His hair felt slightly greasy. He wondered when he would ever feel clean again.

"Give me your shoes and socks."

The last time he'd been taken to juvie the guard had let him sit while he stripped, but he wasn't given permission this time and he didn't ask. Ryan untied his shoes and kicked them off, then awkwardly bent over to peel off his socks.

"Hand them to me."

Ryan handed them over reluctantly. Kirsten had bought him the boots to replace the battered shoes he'd carried over from Chino. These new boots were no longer shiny, but the leather was still stiff, not quite broken in. The guard slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and studied Ryan's shoes, reaching a hand inside to feel for weapons or drugs. He did the same with his socks, then balled the socks up in the shoes and set them both in the plastic tub.

The floor was cold, and Ryan rubbed one bare foot over the other. The guard gave him a sharp look, and he stopped and stood flat-footed.

"All right. Take off your shirt."

Ryan stripped off his T-shirt and handed it to the guard, who ran it slowly through his fingers. Ryan wanted desperately to cross his arms over his chest, to hunch his shoulders and make himself smaller somehow. He was already shaking from the cold and fear. The guard folded his shirt neatly and set it in the tub.

"Hold your arms out to your sides, fingers apart."

Ryan extended his arms and splayed his fingers so the guard could look between them. He had a sudden and strange memory of playing Snoopy in the eighth grade musical, and his teacher shouting: jazz hands, people! when they danced. He almost smiled at the ridiculousness of that memory.

"Arms up, over your head."

The guard leaned forward, inspecting Ryan's chest and his stomach and under his arms and Ryan was still amused, in a grim sort of way. He might be the only person in the world who would think of musicals while he was being strip searched.

"Take off your pants," the guard said. Ryan closed his eyes, and nothing was funny anymore. He unzipped and unbuttoned his pants, letting them drop to his ankles, and crouched down to pick them up. As he handed them to the guard he noticed how much his hands were shaking. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck was standing on end. He ground his teeth together to stop them from chattering. The guard carefully inspected the seams of his pants, and put his hands in the pockets, before putting them in the tub too.

"Your underwear."

Ryan's mouth went dry and he swallowed hard. His hands were clumsy as he took off his boxers, stumbling a little when he tried to balance on one leg. The guard's attention was focused on the boxers as he examined them, but Ryan felt sick at the exposure. He finally gave in to the cold and wrapped his arms around his chest. His legs and arms and shoulders were so tense that the muscles were beginning to ache.

"Spread your legs apart," the guard said, his attention back on Ryan, who took a deep breath. He wanted to close his eyes again, but that would just leave him more vulnerable, so he stared straight ahead at nothing. The guard knelt down. "How'd you get that bruise on your knee?"

Ryan glanced at his leg.

"I don't remember," he said. The guard wrote something on the clipboard.

"We're almost done," he said. "Go ahead and face the wall."

Ryan obeyed, putting his palms on the wall without being told. The solidity of the wall was kind of comforting. He rested his weight on his arms and sighed.

When he had finished the search, the guard handed him the towel and shower supplies and stayed in the room, watching but not staring, as Ryan showered. The water was warm, but Ryan was still shaking all over, so much that he nearly dropped the plastic shampoo bottle. The shampoo was dark brown and smelled like Lysol, much stronger than the sandalwood-scented one he had in the pool house. He figured it contained some kind of delousing ingredient.

When he had dried off the guard handed him a stack of clothes—white T-shirt, white socks, white underwear, blue jumpsuit, canvas shoes with no laces – and told him to get dressed. All the items of clothing looked pretty shabby, and Ryan tried not to think of how many people had worn them before. He snapped up the jumpsuit and realized he'd finally stopped shaking. He felt numb now. His mind was foggy, his arms and legs felt heavy. He was glad for the change. He was glad to stop shaking.

The guard opened the door and Ryan followed him down the long corridor, keeping his hands behind his back like he was supposed to. Everything was just as he'd remembered it. He'd spent the last six months surrounded by windows, water and sky, but now he saw nothing but cracked and grimy walls. As they walked he became aware of new sounds, heavy doors slamming shut and loud angry voices and an alarm shrilling in the distance. They turned a corner and Ryan saw the barred gate that led to the intake unit. He slowed down, but the guard looked back at him.

"Come on," he said, and grabbed Ryan by the arm. Ryan pulled away automatically, but the guard kept his hold and yanked Ryan back toward him. They stopped at the gate and Ryan's guard nodded at a guard on the other side. The door buzzed open, and Ryan was back in juvie.