The Black Kids(94)

“There’s not that much to tell,” I’ll say. I’ll want to say more, and you’ll look disappointed but nod like you understand.

“Will you visit me? During your breaks from school, I mean?” you’ll say.

“Of course,” I’ll say. I’ll mean it when I say it, but after that first time I visit it’ll get harder and harder. I’ll tell you all about school and how I’m not sure what I want to major in but I’m leaning toward biochem, and how I’m thinking about rushing but I don’t know how I feel about sororities, even if they are the black ones. You’ll sit there and listen and nod and say, “Maybe I should’ve done that…” And I’m not sure which part of that you’re referring to, but maybe all of it.

That night you’ll sleep soundly. You won’t thrash at all. In the dark of early dawn, I’ll lean my ear to your mouth to make sure you’re still breathing. I’ll feel your life in small gusts against my cheek.

The morning we take you in will be chillier than usual. The fog will feel like it’s suffocating everything. You’ll sit between her legs as Mom braids your hair into two French braids and fastens them with little colored bands still hidden in the back of drawers from our childhood. You’ll pull on an old sweater and jeans with some sneakers.

“You’re wearing that?” I’ll say.

“It’s not a fashion show, Ash.” You laugh, although there’s no real joy behind it. “Besides, I’m not going to get to keep any of it with me.”

Harrison will pace back and forth as we eat breakfast. He’ll drive everyone crazy by doting on you excessively—is your breakfast too hot, too cold, does your coffee have enough creamer, enough sugar, do you need anything else, anything at all—until you finally grab his hands, lean your forehead against his, and say, “Enough, love.”

All of us will pile into Mom’s car except for Lucia, who will kiss you on both your cheeks and hug you tight like someone who doesn’t know when she might get to see you again. She will whisper something in your ear, but none of us will hear it. We’ll just see you squeeze her harder and not let go, until Mom tells you, “It’s time, Josephine.”

“Escucha a tus padres,” Lucia will say to you as she takes her thumbs and wipes away your tears.

“Let Ash drive,” you’ll say. “She needs the practice, right?”

“I have my license already, remember?”

“So what? Practice makes perfect.”

I’ll carefully take each curve down the hills and onto the freeway. I’ll be so nervous I almost miss the entrance to the 10, and Daddy will yell, “No! Your left! Get to your left!” but you’ll say, “Dad, she’s got it.”

Before that I’ll have the radio on, KIIS, which you used to love to talk shit about, but today we’ll both sing along to “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips until I almost hit somebody merging right and Dad turns it off and we both go, “Oh, come on!”

“Ashley needs to concentrate,” he’ll say. “She’s about to get us all killed.”

You’ll stick your face out the window like a dog, feeling the wind on your skin, and your curls will bounce and stretch in the breeze into and out of your face and your mouth and plaster to your forehead.

Several times, I’ll catch Harrison staring at you as if to memorize every pore on your face.

We’ll have to circle the structure two times before we find a spot.

“Geez! Are this many people going to jail?” I’ll say, and you’ll start to laugh. It’ll be obvious that I’m trying to make Mom laugh because her lip is quivering, because you can see the rainstorms brewing on her face and in her head, and I’ll try to find the sunshine.

“Mom, don’t,” you’ll say. “Don’t. For me. Please.”

“Look! I didn’t get us all killed!” I’ll say as I finally pull into the space.

We’ll march in a solemn procession toward the building. You’ll link arms with Mom and Harrison and Dad, and I’ll straggle behind. Downtown, the sun will beam down on the tops of our heads. Dad will throw his arm over my shoulder and it’ll feel a little comforting, but mostly I’ll notice the weight of his sad bearing me down.

You’ll stop steps away from the entrance. We’ll see all kinds of people enter, but we’ll notice how many of them are black, how many of them are brown. We’ll feel it circle around us as a family, this shared, unspoken thing. A man will nod his head at Daddy, and they will understand each other for a moment, as the man walks inside with somebody he loves.

“I think maybe… I don’t want you to come inside,” you’ll say to us, and our parents will stand there stunned.

“But, Josephine…” Mom trails off and doesn’t fight it much, because I don’t think she wants to go inside either. She doesn’t want to see what happens next.

In the end, it’s Harrison who will go inside with you to see you off. When he comes back outside to us, his red eyes puffy and his cheeks tearstained, he’ll say, “She’s all set.”

And that’s the last thing any of us will say for a while that day.

Inside, you will be stripped and searched and showered. You will be given a set of clothing, underwear, socks, white sneakers. You will be given an inmate number.