My Name Is Venus Black(3)
By this point, Inez is actually crying and pleading with me to talk to her. I’m not used to seeing her this way, and it makes me uncomfortable. It’s like I have more power than she does. And in a way, it’s true. Here I’ve gone and done the worst thing in my life and she can’t even ground me.
No wonder she’s so upset.
After a while, she stops crying and begins staring at me in this weird way. When she gathers her purse off the floor, I think she’s getting ready to leave and I’m so relieved because it takes a lot of work not to talk to somebody.
Instead, she leans forward in her chair and whispers to me like it’s a secret question, “Venus, are you even a little bit sorry for what you did?”
When I don’t answer, she gets this frozen look on her face and makes a strange little gasping sound. Then she stumbles from the room like she’s drunk or blind.
Or like she can’t wait to get away from me.
* * *
—
LEO WAKES UP in a bed that is not his bed. The bedspread is the wrong color of green. Where is his blue bedspread? He can’t stop seeing last night. His mother is crying. She makes him get in a strange truck with the lady called Shirley. He knows Shirley, but this time she has pink plastic things all over her head.
Soon the woman called Shirley comes into the room where Leo is, only now she looks different. The plastic things are gone and her hair is curly and the wrong yellow.
“Good morning, Leo!” she says too loud. “Remember me? From when I came to your house and babysat you.”
“I want my mom,” Leo says.
“Remember? She had an emergency and asked me to watch you for a while.”
Leo doesn’t know the word emergency. He ignores the lady and her talking until she asks if he needs the bathroom. He does. After he is done, he washes his hands like he’s been taught. The towel is the wrong color. Shirley is waiting for him when he comes out.
He goes back to the room with the bed. So does the curly lady.
Leo asks, “Where is Venus? Where is my mom?”
He might have what his mother calls “a big tantrum.” He had a big tantrum last night.
“I’m sorry, Leo,” the lady says. “You will see your mom soon. She’s going to stay here for a while, too. She’ll sleep right out there in the living room on the couch. She’s not here now, but she will be. And, look, she gave me some of your favorite things. See?” She points to the floor by the bed. Leo sees some of his toys. “Your mom even brought your blanket,” she adds, holding out his purple blanket. He needs it to ride in a car or when he wants to be in his closet.
He takes the blanket, sits on the bed, and rocks while the lady keeps talking. He blocks out her voice. He puts his head between his knees because he hears the scary sounds from last night. The fire trucks hurt his ears. So many people were yelling and there were red feelings everywhere.
My cell has white cement walls, a plain metal cot, and a small wooden cupboard for clothes. Obviously, someone—a cop, or Inez?—has raided my dresser at home and picked out a small wardrobe for me. Seeing a bra and undies in the mix makes me angry. The thought of someone pawing through my drawers.
When I look for my shoes, I can only find a pair of ugly white sneakers with Velcro, like my little brother, Leo, wears, since he can’t tie his shoes. They’re the right size, so I put them on.
We’re also given a notepad and a few pencils without erasers. I don’t know why. Do they think I might want to write home like I’m away at summer camp?
It turns out they let you leave your cell during the day and hang out in what they call the common area, where there are couches, tables, and a TV. I plan to just stay in my room, though. I already know I don’t want to make any friends in here.
But instead of sitting in my room all day, all of a sudden it’s like I’m this important person with lots of meetings to attend. Everyone wants to talk to me—including a geezer guy with enormous nostrils who is my lawyer, a woman doctor named Barbara, and a young-looking caseworker who asks me to call him Officer Andy.
They all act the same. Just like the police, they start out really friendly, asking about my boring life as if I’m the most fascinating person on earth. But when they start to ask about that night, I throw a white sheet over my brain so I can’t see a thing. I’m like a child wearing a ghost costume with no holes cut out for eyes. “I can’t remember,” I tell them. And it’s true.
After that, they stop being so nice.
On the morning of day three, I’m taken down a hall to a small courtroom where my lawyer, Mr. Dutton, makes me plead not guilty, even though I don’t deny what they say I did. When the judge announces the charges, I have to stifle a nervous laugh. My lawyer glares at me, nostrils flaring.
But how can I help it if none of this seems real? A few days ago, I was hanging out by my school locker, gossiping about boys with my girlfriends. My biggest worry was how to talk Inez into buying me a new pair of Jordache jeans. Now I’m locked up with junior criminals, I’ve been labeled a violent offender, and my biggest worry is getting beat up.
No wonder the only time I don’t feel like I’m dreaming is when I’m asleep.
And yet at night, when I do finally fall asleep, I get jolted awake by nightmares that leave my nightie and sheets soaked through with sweat. The bed’s thin mattress has a plastic cover, probably in case I pee the bed, which of course I would never. But this is like my entire body is wetting itself.