Ali and Chris were in the common room one night, Chris sprawled out on the couch. A guard was nearby, but he was sleeping. Many of the boys from the unit were in media, watching television, Joneing on one another, cackling at whatever was onscreen, debating whether the male actors were real or soft, talking about the girl actors and what they’d do to them if they had the chance. Someone was riffing on an actress, twisting her name, predictably, into something obscene, and Ben Braswell was laughing. Also laughing, in baritone, was Scott, the big guard.
“You high?” said Ali, putting the book he was reading down on the floor beside the ripped fake-leather chair where he sat.
“Nah,” said Chris. “Just chillin.”
“You look like you’re high.”
“I’m not.”
“ ’Cause you need to stop doin that shit.”
“I been stopped,” said Chris.
“You know they gonna make you drop a urine. And you got that level meeting comin up. Ben does, too.”
“I haven’t given Ben any weed,” said Chris. “Not for a while.”
“That’s good. Ben needs to drop a positive so he can get out this piece. Just like you do.”
“Ben gets out,” said Chris, “he’s just gonna steal a car again and come right back in. That’s who he is.”
“Ben wants y’all to think that. He tells everyone how he was born to hot-wire, how he loves to get behind the wheel of a vehicle, how he can’t stop himself, all that. Truth is, it’s a crime he can do where he doesn’t have to hurt no one. All he wants is to get his self put back inside these walls.”
“Why would he want that?”
“Because this is the only place where he feels right. I’m not talkin about that three-hots-and-a-cot bullshit you hear all the time. You notice nobody ever comes to visit him? I mean, we all got some one, right? Ben got nobody. His crackhead mother died young and then he got moved to foster homes, and everywhere he lived was shit. In here, at least he got friends. In the classroom, he listens, even though he doesn’t understand half the stuff the teachers be sayin, and you know he can’t read. The fact that anyone notices that boy or calls him by his name is good to him. Bad as it is, this here is his home.”
“He can’t stay, though.”
“No,” said Ali. “Neither can you. Won’t be long before I’m out, too.”
“You’re always saying how I don’t belong here-”
“You don’t.”
“What about you? How’d someone smart like you fuck up so bad?”
“Which time?” said Ali.
“I hear you,” said Chris, thinking on his many mistakes, how he’d piled them on top of one another without consideration or even a glancing thought.
“The last time, though,” said Ali, shaking his head, “with my uncle? That’s what got me put away.”
“Talkin about the armed-robbery thing.”
“Yeah. My mom’s half brother, he ain’t but five years older than me. He’s ignorant and weak, I see it now, but me bein a dumb-ass kid, I looked up to him at the time. He was more like a father to me than an uncle. I’m sayin, when he put his eyes on me, I wanted him to see a man. So when he asked me to come along with him, and told me I had to hold the gun and do the thing, on account of I didn’t know how to drive the car, I did it. You think I’m smart and maybe I am. But I wasn’t smart that day.”
“So now you got yourself a Pine Ridge education. You learned.”
“Not the way they wanted, though. They tryin to break us down to nothing, so we can get reborn. But all their commands and speeches don’t mean shit to me. I learned on my own. I’m not what they think I am and I’m not gonna be what they expect me to be. Once I’m out, I’m not coming back, but not because of anything they did to me in here. I’m gonna be right because I want to be.” Ali jabbed a finger at his own chest. “For me.”
“Nuff ’a that high-and-mighty talk,” said the guard, who had awakened. “You boys need to get to bed.”
Later, in his cell, Chris lay atop his scratchy wool blanket with his forearm covering his eyes. The unit grew dead quiet as one by one the boys fell asleep. Chris was not tired. His head was full of contemplation and, for once, regret. He sat up on the edge of his cot.
Chris stood and went to the wall where he’d taped Taylor Dugan’s drawing. He looked at his image, shirtless, eyebrow arched, mouth in a bold smile, his hand holding a beer, and it did not make him feel proud or amused.
Bad Chris. He was not sure who he was, but he was certain that he was no longer the boy in the drawing. Nor did he wish to be.
Chris peeled the paper off the wall, ripped it apart, and dropped the pieces in the trash. He went back to bed and fell asleep.
NINE
On a cool, cloudy Saturday in May, a three-on-three basketball game was in progress on the asphalt court out in the middle of Pine Ridge’s muddy field. Chris Flynn, Ali Carter, and Ben Braswell were in maroon, up against Calvin Cooke, Milton “the Monster” Dickerson, and Lamar Brooks, all wearing gray. Lawrence Newhouse stood out of bounds, as did a boy named Clarence Wheeler, wearing navy blue. They had called next and would choose one from the losers of this game to round out their team. A rotund guard, Mr. Green, stood on a weedy patch of dirt, observing, a two-way radio in hand.
Chris had the ball up top. He was being covered by Lamar Brooks, a quiet boy who had no offense but whose darting hands were quick. Lamar was trying to slap the ball away, but Chris had turned his hip and was protecting the pill. Down below, Ben had boxed out Milton, a kid in on multiple drug charges, who was Ben’s size. Ben had his hand up and was calling for the ball.
Out beyond the imaginary three stood Ali, loosely matched with Calvin Cooke, the Langdon Park boy who had lately been mugging and shoulder-brushing him in the auditorium and cafeteria. Cooke wore his hair in small twists and had flat eyes and a smile of pain. He was in on a firearm conviction, having beaten a murder charge in court. The prosecution’s witness, too frightened to testify, had muted up on the stand.
Chris faked a chest pass to Ali, then bounced one around Lamar and in to Ben, who caught it, turned, and hooked it up. On a normal hoop it would have dropped, but this iron granted no favors, and the ball bounced off the back of the rim. Ben threw his ass out on Milton, got his own rebound, and passed it to Ali. Ali was the shortest man on the court but had the greatest vertical leap. He went up, way over the outstretched hand of Calvin, and put one through the chains.
“All right,” said Chris.
“You gonna play defense on that retard?” said Calvin to Milton. “Or you gonna let him pick apart your candy ass?”
“Wasn’t my man made that bucket,” said Milton.
“Mini Me lucky,” said Calvin.
Chris walked the ball to the top of the key and looked at Lamar.
“Checked,” said Lamar.
Chris bounced the ball over to Ali. Chris clapped, and Ali tossed it back. Lamar was three feet away, playing him loose, so Chris went up and gunned it. From out here, he knew it had to be all net or a kiss off the backboard. It felt right as it left his fingers, and the chains danced.
“Splash,” said Ben.
“Luck,” said Calvin. “None ’a these bitches can play.”
“Six-nothin,” said Ali, and Ben grinned.
Mr. Green’s radio crackled. He listened to its message and his face told the boys that it was urgent. He said, “Copy that,” and turned to the inmates. “Ya’ll play on. I got an emergency situation I got to attend to. I’m gonna be right back, hear?”
The boys watched the overweight guard jog laboriously across the field toward one of the unit buildings. They could see heightened activity there. Guards streaming in, a guard posted at the door. It meant that there had been
