The police car is cold. So cold. I can't stop shivering. It makes my stomach hurt even more, and my nose is starting to run. It's loud too—they have the siren on. Cars pull over in front of us, parting like the Red Sea, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry that they thought I was worth putting the siren on for. Am I really that much of a national emergency?

I wish I could wipe my nose, but my hands are still cuffed behind my back. The metal is freezing. It cuts into my wrists, but the pain is just uncomfortable. What really bothers me is that they're on at all.

I tried to tell the cops about Jude, I did. I told them Frank was hitting him, that I jumped in, that he kicked me in the stomach. I even showed them the purple bruise forming on my ribs. For a minute I thought they believed me. But Frank just put on his "upset" face, and told them that he was just trying to restrain me because I was crazy and he was afraid I would hurt him.

Father of the Fucking Year.

"Where are we going?" I ask the cops. The older man just grunts. The young one looks at me.

"Where do you usually go when you commit a crime?"

My heart sinks.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Three months. I have to spend three months at the Chula Vista Juvenile Detention Center. Every day is the same. If you want to survive, you follow the rules. If you don't cause trouble, the staff will like you. And if they like you, and a fight breaks out, the guards just might come save you first.

I'm despicable, I know that. But I also know how to survive.

Keep your head up, so they won't peg you for an easy target. Eyes down, because some of these girls are like dogs. Look them in the eye and you'll need a rabies shot before lunch. Say nothing to anybody.

Ever.

I pick up my tray and walk to one of the metal tables. I perch on the end of the bench—you don't want to get your legs under the table, because if someone comes after you, it'll take longer to pull yourself out. The thin blue shirt chafes against the tender places on my stomach and my arm. These wounds are taking a long time to heal, and that makes me nervous. New wounds are ten times worse when they're on top of old ones. And I know it's just a matter of time.

Lunch is grotesque of course. I read somewhere that prisons spend about a quarter per person for food every meal. I suppose it's not a bad spread for 25 cents. A little tray of water-logged turkey. A 2-inch square of cornbread. And a relatively large section of mixed vegetables. It almost makes me smile. Jude and I hated those so much growing up. We could never afford fresh vegetables, so when the frozen ones were on sale our mother would fill the freezer with those fifty-cent bags of veggies that turned into microwave mush. Jude and I would separate the jumbled assortment by type—a little pile of carrots. A little pile of peas. A little pile of corn. A little pile of onions. When our mom wasn't looking we would trade. I'd give him my carrots for his peas, even though I like the carrots better too. We both ate the corn, because it was our favorite, and we both tried to hide the onions in our napkins, because those are nobody's favorite. I spear a tiny cube of carrot on a tine of my fork. What I wouldn't give to be sharing these with him back home.

"Awww, looks like the fish isn't eating her veggies. Guess you won't be wanting this?" I whip my head around as a solidly built Latina girl with her hair in cornrows swoops her hand into my tray and takes my cornbread. The four girls flanking her start to snicker. I bite my tongue to keep from saying anything and stare at my tray. It isn't worth it.

"What's the matter, fish? We so ugly you can't look at us?" I take my tray and try to stand up, but she's too fast.

"Leave me alone," I say firmly, still not looking at her. At the corner of my eye I'm trying to scan the room, for guard, for exits.

"What'd you say to me?" The girl's face is inches from mine, I can see her fists curling at her sides. I do the only thing I can.

I drop my tray.

It works. Conversation stops. Peas, carrots, onions and corn roll everywhere. Two guards look over. One of them seems to notice that the girl next to me doesn't look exactly friendly, and starts heading our way. The girl leans over and I can feel her hot, sickly-sweet breath on my ear.

"This ain't over," she says softly. Then she backs off and motions to her friends to come with her. They move away as the guard reaches me.

"Everything all right here?" He asks, watching them walk away. I nod, but we both know I'm lying. I look down at the small ocean of steamed vegetables around my shoes as someone hands me a mop and a dustpan.

At least I'm good at cleaning up.