Paris: The Memoir(29)

“Senator Merkley,” I said, “thank you so much for your support. We need to fine-tune the private referrals piece of this. As it’s written, the focus is on children who come through the foster-care and juvenile-justice pipelines.”

I straightened my shoulders, flexing my angel wings.

“I understand the need to advocate for kids in foster care,” I said, “but I can tell you from personal experience: A lot of kids come into this system from loving homes. Wealthy homes. Their parents are deceived and screwed over. Transparency is their only hope. I won’t leave those kids behind.”

Rebecca wrapped the call, and I buzzed off to church on my scooter.

I can do anything in heels.





8

A girl with a bland expression and mousy hair took me to a room with four bunk beds. I don’t remember her name, so I’ll just call her Blanda.

“This is you,” Blanda said cheerfully, indicating a top bunk with a yellowed pillow and blanket. “I’m over on that side. Sometimes there’s four in here, but right now, it’s just us. I’m your big sister!”

“No,” I said. “You’re not. I have a sister. It’s not you.”

I crawled up into the bunk and curled into a ball, wishing the ceiling would fall down on this bitch.

“Yeah,” she said, “I read in your profile you have a little sister. Little brothers. I’m an only child. But now I have you, little sister!”

“Please stop talking.”

“This is all for your own good. I read in your profile how you were, like, totally kicked out of every school in the world and, like, doing drugs and sleeping around.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “That’s not true.”

“Now’s not the time to run your anger, Paris. Wait for Rap tonight, and then take care of your feelings.”

I covered my head with my arms, thinking, What does that even mean?

“I need to talk to my mom,” I said. “I need to call my mom right now.”

“Maybe in a couple weeks. That’s a privilege you’ll have to earn,” said Blanda. She handed me a thick binder. “Here’s everything about what to do and what not do, a glossary of terms you need to memorize, and all the stuff you’ll need to work on in each of the Propheets.”

“Whatever.”

“You can’t stay up there. I’m supposed to show you around and get you familiar with the rules.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I’m not staying.”

“Don’t say that!” Blanda whispered, wide-eyed and urgent. “You’ll get us both in trouble. If you try to run, they’ll bring you back, and then you’ll be sorry. If you don’t work the program and stay in agreement, you’ll end up going to Ascent. Or even Provo. Trust me, you do not want to get sent to Provo. We just want to help you, Paris. We just want you to know yourself and nurture the child within you, your little you. You’ll be amazed how fast the next two years fly by.”

“Two years?” I dropped down from the bunk so I could look into her face and see if she was fucking with me. “Two years?”

“You’ll graduate when you turn eighteen, and by then, you won’t even want to leave. A lot of the team leaders and counselors are graduates. They’re required to work the program right alongside us.”

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Two years plus a little. It went by like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I wish it could be longer. I’m kind of dreading turning eighteen. C’mon. We’ve got a lot of information to cover. Starting with the basics: This is your drawer.”

She pulled a wooden drawer open. There were underwear and socks in it, but they weren’t mine.

“Before breakfast, they inspect drawers, beds, floor, everything in the room. If it’s not within agreement, you get written up or put on bans. Bans is like, you can’t talk to anyone, and no one can talk to you, or like, if you’re on boy bans, you can’t look at or talk to boys, and they can’t look at or talk to you.”

Walking around the mountainside in my socks, I tried to step over the slushy patches and autumn snowdrifts. I saw kids hauling rocks, digging holes, and stacking cinder blocks to make a retaining wall. There was a tennis court with no net, a horse barn with no horses, and a storeroom with cleaning products stacked on shelves. Blanda showed me the kitchen where kids were opening cans, the laundry room where someone else was folding towels. She showed me a cement shower room where there were several shower heads on the wall and drains in the floor, but no dividers or curtains. Two girls were on their hands and knees, scrubbing.

“Don’t look at them,” Blanda whispered. “They’re on bans.”

All the while, she chattered away, reeling off a long list of bizarre rules.

No swearing, singing, humming, or throat clearing.

No dancing, skipping, or spinning.

No touching, hugging, kissing, or holding hands.

No crossing your legs. No shuffling your feet.

No whistling.

No breathing too loud or smacking your lips while eating.

No talking about music, sports, television shows, movies, news events, your parents, your siblings, your friends, your clothes, your room, your school, or anything else about home.