I grunt. “Who doesn’t?”
We’re a few miles from June Lake, but I’m not headed into school today. I have my monthly probation check-in where my social worker will review my grades, my behavior, any legal issues (new or outstanding) and determine if there needs to be an adjustment to my case.
Once we park, we sign in and avoid eye contact with the other people waiting in the small, uncomfortable waiting room. The kid across from me plays a game on his phone. There’s a monitor strapped around his ankle and I say a prayer of thanks those days are over. I had one for the first thirty days of my probation and it sucked. His mother, or guardian, or whoever is with him just looks exhausted.
I hate coming here. I hate feeling out of control of my life. At home I can pretend, but these meeting set me on edge. I don’t like the scrutiny into my life or into Sierra’s abilities. She bites her nail next to me. I know it stresses her out, too. There’s not a day that passes that I don’t feel like a dick for putting her through all this.
Mr. Jameson comes to the waiting room and calls me and Sierra back to his office.
“Dex,” he says, giving me a firm handshake. Jameson is in his late twenties. He’s not my first caseworker. They shuffle every eight months or so, which is a drag because I have to rehash everything with the new worker. This guy though, it’s obvious he’s here to make a difference. Everything from his hipster beard and goofy ties to the fact that when he sits down his pants ride up to reveal his socks. They’re always artsy. Superhero shields, artist renderings, snarky phrases. It’s his “thing” or something—how he tries to be relatable. I don’t think it works.
“How’s school?”
“It’s going well,” I say, sitting in the same seat I always do. Sierra takes the one next to me, under the inspirational poster that’s peeling at the edges. Even though I feel bad about it, I like having my sister here. Not only is she my biggest supporter, Jameson thinks she’s pretty, and that definitely eases him up on me at times.
“I got your early grades from the system and it seems like you’re keeping up so far.”
I nod. “Yep. I’m trying.”
He glances up from the brown file on his desk at Sierra. “How are things at home? The shop?”
“The shop is running smoothly. Dexter has no problem handling both school work and his job at the coffee shop. The other boys pitch in when necessary.”
“And everyone is getting along?” There’s been long concern about all four of us living with Sierra, too much testosterone I guess, but she manages us.
“No problems with that. They’re more like brothers than anything else.”
“Good, good.” He skims down my file. “No fights or arrests.” He holds up his fist for me to bump. I play along. “I feel like things are going really well and if you keep it up, the committee will lift that probation in December.”
“And if they don’t?” Sierra asks, even though she knows the answer.
“If there are no new arrests or issues, they should lift it. If for some reason they feel like you need continued supervision, it will last until the end of the school year. They don’t get longer than that. If you’re arrested
again—”
“Then I’m headed to prison,” I cut in. “Got it.”
He shuts the file on the desk and leans back in his seat. “I know you’re tired of this. I get it. You’re one of my better clients—you’re easy. You just have to keep that temper in check.”
“I am. I promise.”
That wasn’t a lie. I had no desire to get in a fight. Not anymore.
“Let’s review your conditions and you can sign it and get you out of here.” He reopens the file to the front page. It’s the same sheet I’ve had to sign after each meeting. A long list of rules. Things like:
Must Attend School
No Drinking or Drugs
Must Submit to Testing at Probation Officer’s Request
No Affiliating with other criminals, people on probation or of questionable behavior.
No Fighting
No Arrests
11 p.m. Curfew