“Twenty-six.”
This awards me with a satisfied nod. Ha. My neighbor thinks I’m redeemable.
Think again, old man.
I came here with plenty of holes in my shoes and plenty of nothing in my belly. Life felt like I was sipping it through a narrow straw. I always gasped for more.
I have the whole sob story written in its predictability all over my resume. Bad school, bad neighborhood, bad family.
My only moment of deep breath was when I smashed a vase into Nathaniel Vela Senior’s head. Between working as a janitor at the local mall and trying to stop my father from beating the shit out of my mother, there wasn’t much room for chasing opportunities or grabbing life by the throat.
San Dimas was an upgrade, as far as I could see.
But I’m not like them, the young inmates.
Hungry and angry and boiling with barely restrained ire. I’m at peace with where I am. Hell, it’s probably exactly where I should be.
“Plenty of jobs for you when you get out.”
I throw him a condescending smirk and wipe my utensils with the sleeve of my orange uniform.
But Frank is not the type to be deterred by silence. He nudges me and laughs, spitting crumbs of minced meat on the table. His good eye is dry and rarely blinks. Probably for a good reason, ‘round here.
“You still writing poetry, Nathaniel?” He hoots, choking on his food. I used to write under his oak tree as a kid. His place was quiet, mine—chaotic.
I don’t indulge him.
“Might wanna keep your little hobby for yourself here. You’re too pretty to walk those halls without guard escort as it is.”
Taking a slow sip of my water, I stare ahead.
“Don’t worry, boy. I got your back.”
I’m not worried. Because in order to be worried, you need to care.
And I don’t.
Peaceful, yet completely apathetic.
That was my state of mind before I got here.
And that’s how I will most likely leave.
I’m running my bloody finger over the wall—for the third time since I got here—when he arrives with his Guy Fawkes mask and a brown paper bag. I sit straight and watch him intently. Nate. It’s difficult to admit that he’s my sunray in the rain, but that’s exactly what he is. Weird, freaky, elusive. . .and comforting all the same.
“Soap, shampoo, Tampax, couple of clean shirts. . .”—he starts listing what he brought for me as he takes the items out of the bag, placing them in a neat row on the small wooden table, not even sparing me a glance—“. . .two bottles of water, three bags of chips, chalk so you’ll stop smearing blood all over the walls, I’d like my deposit back, believe it or not, a stress ball, a book. . .”
“What book?” I cut into his words, lolling my bloody finger inside my mouth, sucking it clean. His head twists. He wasn’t ready for my question.
“Something I had upstairs.”
I jump on my feet and pace toward him. The eyes behind the mask remain blank. He doesn’t scan my body. He doesn’t find me attractive, or if he does, he’s extremely good at hiding it. My heart dives down with disappointment. It’s going to be difficult to seduce him into making an epic mistake that’d grant me my freedom. Taking the stress ball from his hand and squeezing it fast and hard makes me feel instantly better, like I’m pumping some of the storm out of my body. It’s been overflowing for days.
“Dreams from Bunker Hill?” I pick up the coffee-stained paperback with my free hand, brushing his tattooed knuckles, and not by accident. Each finger is inked with a cartoonish doodle. Ink was either drunk or is extremely untalented to have given him these horrible tats. My shoulder purposely bumps into his chest. He takes a step back, staring at me like I grew a pair of wings and a third green eye.
“I read it when I was fifteen.” My tone is lenient. Nostalgic.
“Sucks for you. I’m not a library.”
“You know what this is?” I brush the wrinkled spine of the book, still warm from its owner’s touch. He folds his arms over his massive chest, staring at me through the mask. “This is you telling me that’s why you called yourself Beat. Admit it. You want to talk to me, you want me to listen.” I lick my lips, clutching onto the novel like I can squeeze Beat’s heart’s desires and secrets with it.
“You seem to know a lot about a nameless man in a mask you hang out with a few minutes a day,” he grunts.
“Have dinner with me here.”
“No,” he says. “Your fifteen minutes of shitting, showering and washing your clothes have officially started. Move it.”
Reluctantly, I drag my feet upstairs with my new toiletries in tow and watch as he pads into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.