Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(86)

Working on it. That can mean so many things. One being, using drug money. But he’s got to do whatever it takes to get out of here, so I won’t judge him, especially since I did the same to help my Ma.

He looks so small in his orange uniform, like he’s drowning in his own clothes. It’s all rumpled too. I remember Pa, and how he wore his uniform like it was a second skin almost. The white plastered to his bulky arms.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore, just wanted to see you, catch up…” He looks around. We are the only people in here—other than the guards—despite there being other booths. “I just wanted to tell you that despite everything, I love you, always will.”

My heart hammers away like no tomorrow. I’m breathless and a little shocked. A huge part of me wants Dre to love me, but that same part of me didn’t think he still did.

“What do you want to talk about?” I force out, trying to look unbothered, but I’m convinced he can hear my heartbeat.

He shrugs, eyes cutting through me. “Anything.”

Anything?

I almost want to tell him about Aces, but I don’t think we have enough time for that.

“Why’s your uniform orange?” I ask instead. He looks down at it.

“All newbies wear them, different colors for your crime. It all depends.”

I nod, looking in between his eyebrows now. Faking eye contact.

“What does white mean?”

Dre’s eyebrows shoot up. “White?”

I nod. “Mm.”

“Those are the death row guys,” he says, and it’s like several shots bang in my direction, shooting me all in the same place, puncturing my vitals. I’m silent for a few moments, trying to find a response to that.

“Death row, are you sure?”

Dre’s face scrunches up. “You’re crying.”

I wipe my eyes, shaking my head. “That can’t be right.”

Dre is silent as I try to process what his words mean. Is Pa on death row?

How long does someone stay on death row before…? I’ve wasted so many years, listening to Ma, not visiting him, doing what he wanted. I was so angry at him when he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore that I didn’t even try. God, how long does he have left? How can we stop it?

“You okay?” Dre asks. I nod.

“Just get sad thinking about that.”

“I get it, it’s s—” His voice disappears as the line disconnects. He stares at the phone in his hands. The look on his face is devastating.

Two guards come up behind him, tall, muscular, and cold-looking. One taps his shoulder, and Dre stands.

The look he gives me before he disappears, like my dad did, makes me think he’s about to cry; it’s so pained, and lost.

I know if I was in this situation, I’d have my ma, my brothers … Terrell.

But Dre has no one. No ma who cares what’s happening to him, no pa.

I don’t know how long I sit here for, but the guards don’t tell me to leave.

I just let myself drift, aching as I think about Dre and how it hurts to see him here, where they beat him for being a boy who likes boys.

This world isn’t ideal.

This world, our world, the one with houses as crooked as the people in them. Broken people, broken by the way the world works. No jobs, no money; sell drugs, get money. That’s what this world is, that’s how it works.

I don’t want it to be like that for me. I don’t want to stay here.

And I don’t want Dre in here either. He has no one. His world is a lonely and miserable one.

After some time, when my cheeks feel stiff and the tears have dried up, I push myself out of the chair, not thinking as I walk up to the entrance and over to reception.

There’s a woman behind the desk, the same woman who signed me in earlier. She has deep-brown skin, red braids, and thick glasses, and sits behind a glass that separates us. I wipe my face and knock on the glass, which makes her look up sharply.

“Yes?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. She looks a little annoyed, like I interrupted something important.

“S-sorry, I … I wanted to know if I could find out about an inmate here? It’s m-my dad. I just wanted to know if he still accepts visitors? Whether I could see him today … or at some point this week or something,” I say, voice cracking. I feel tears well up again. I desperately try to push away the overwhelming need to cry, but it’s difficult.

She pauses, looking a bit more sympathetic now. “I’ll see what I can find, okay? What’s his name?”

I wipe my eyes. “Thank you. His name is Malcolm Richards,” I say, watching her write on a piece of paper.

“Could you write down some information here to help me find him quicker? His date of birth, the year he came in…” She slides the paper under the glass and I nod, even though I don’t know many details about him. He was practically a stranger to me. A stranger I’ve made into a father in my mind.

I feel bad going against what Ma said, wanting to see him anyway, but she lied to me and I don’t know how much time I have left to speak to him, to stop this. A part of me has always hoped that one day Pa would come back and be the person I always painted him as being, and they can’t take that away. I won’t let them.

I only know the year they put him in here, not the exact date, which isn’t so helpful, but at least I know his birthday. July 4, like mine.