Penelope Douglas - Until You

“Prison?” I blurted out sarcastically.

And to my surprise, he smiled like he’d just trumped me.

Shit.

“West Point,” he answered.

I pinched my eyebrows together. “Yeah, right.” I shook my head. “Senators’ kids and Eagle Scouts? That’s not me.”

What was he thinking? West Point was a military college. The best of the best went there and spent years building up their high school resumes to get accepted. I’d never get into West Point even if I was interested.

“That’s not you?” he questioned. “Really? I didn’t think you worried about fitting in. Everyone else has to fit you, right?”

Motherf… I sucked in a breath and looked away. This guy knew how to shut me up.

“You need a goal and a plan, Jared.” He leaned on the island straight into my space, so I’d have no choice but to pay attention. “If you have no hope for the future or passion for what’s to come, then that’s not something I can instill in you. The best thing I can do for you is push you in a direction and keep you busy. You’re going to clean up your grades, attend every class, get a job, and…” —he hesitated— “go visit your father once a week.”

“What?” Where the hell did that come from?

“Well, I told Judge Keiser that you wouldn’t go for the counseling, so this was your only other option. You’re required to have one visit a week for a solid year—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?” I interrupted, the tightness in my muscles so tense that I started sweating. There was no fucking way I could do it!

I opened my mouth. “Absolutely—”

“This is the ‘get up’ part, Jared!” he yelled, cutting me off. “You don’t agree to one of your options then it’s off to juvie…or jail. This isn’t the first time you’ve been in trouble. The judge wants to make an impression on you. Go sit in a jail, every Saturday, and see—not what got your father in there—but what being in there has no doubt done to him.” He shook his head at me. “Jail does two things, Jared. It weakens you or kills you, and neither is good.”

My eyes stung. “But—”

“You won’t do your brother any good if you’re sent away.” And he walked out of the kitchen and the front door, having made his point.

What the hell just happened?

I gripped the edge of the gray marble countertop, wanting to rip it out of the wall and tear the whole world up in the process.

Fuck.

I struggled to inhale, my ribs aching with every stretch.

I couldn’t visit that cocksucker every week! There was no way!

Maybe I should just tell Mr. Brandt about everything. Everything.

There had to be another solution.

Pushing off the counter and out of my seat, I ran up to Tate’s room, crawled out of the double doors, and through the tree to my own bedroom.

Fuck him. Fuck them all.

I switched on my iPod to Apocalyptica’s I Don’t Care and crashed onto my own bed, breathing in and out until the hole in my gut stopped burning.

God, I missed her.

The reality disgusted me, but it was true. When I hated Tate, my world got small. I didn’t see all the other shit: my mom, my dad, or my brother in foster care. If I only just had her here again, I wouldn’t be such a jumble of fucking breathing fits and outbursts.

It was stupid as hell, I know. Like she should be around just for me to push whichever way I wanted.

But I needed her. I needed to see her.

I reached out to grab the handle on my bedside drawer where I kept the pictures of us as kids, but I pulled back. No. I wasn’t going to look at them. It was bad enough that I kept them. Throwing them away or destroying them had been impossible. Her hold on me was absolute.

And I was fucking done.

Fine.

Let them think I played their game. My brother was the most important thing, and Mr. Brandt was right. I wasn’t any good to him in jail.

But I wasn’t going to any fucking counselor.

I exhaled and sat up.

Scumbag father it was then.

I slapped on some dark washed jeans, a white T-shirt, and gelled my hair for probably the first time in a week.

Walking down my stairs and out the front door, I found Tate’s dad in his garage removing stuff from his old Chevy Nova. Tate and I used to help him do little jobs on the car years ago, but it was always drivable.

He looked like he was clearing out the trunk and any personal stuff from inside.

“I need to replace the spark plugs on my car,” I told him. “And then I’m going to Fairfax’s Garage for a job. I’ll grab some clothes on my way back and be inside in time for dinner.”

“By six,” he specified, offering me a half smile.

I slipped on my sunglasses and turned to leave but stopped and spun back around.

“You won’t tell Tate about any of this, right?” I checked. “Getting arrested, my family, me staying here?”

He looked at me like I’d just told him that broccoli was purple. “Why would I do that?”

Good enough.

Not twenty-four hours later I stood in front of another cop, getting patted down, only this time I wasn’t in trouble.

According to Mr. Brandt’s judge friend, I didn’t have to start the visitations for a few weeks. They wanted my mother’s approval first, but I had no interest in waiting. The sooner I started, the sooner I’d be done.

“Through those doors, you’ll find lockers where you can put your keys and phone. Get rid of that wallet chain, too, kid.”

I eyed the Neo-Nazi-looking corrections officer like he could take his orders and shove them up his ass. He was bald, white-like-he’d-never-seen-the-sun, and as fat as a dozen Krispy Kremes a day will do to you. I wanted my shit on me, because I fully expected to turn around and walk out of here the moment I laid eyes on the sick bastard that was my father.

My father . My stomached turned at those words.

“How does this work?” I asked, reluctantly. “Will he be like in a cage, and we talk through some air holes or are there phones we use?”

Asking questions wasn’t my style. I either figured it out for myself, or I shut up and fumbled along. But the idea of seeing the twisted fuck made my muscles tense. I wanted to know exactly what I was walking into. Looking like a helpless kid to this cop was nothing if I could walk in there like a man in front of my father.

“Cages with air holes?” the Nazi-with-a-badge teased. “Watching a little Prison Break lately?”

Fucker.

He looked like he was trying to hold back a smile as he buzzed me through the double doors. “Thomas Trent isn’t here for murder or rape. No additional security needed, kid.”

No, of course not. It’s not like he was dangerous. Not at all.

Tipping my chin up, I walked calmly though the doors. “The name’s Jared,” I corrected him in an even voice. “Not ‘kid.’”

The visitation room—if that was what it was even called—boasted a high-school-like common area. Benches, tables, and snack machines filled most of the room, and windows along the south wall brought in enough light, but not too much.

It was Saturday, and the room was packed. Women held children in their arms, while the husbands, boyfriends, and significant others smiled and chatted. Mothers hugged sons, and kids shied away from the fathers that they didn’t know.

It was all happily horrible.

Scanning the room, I wasn’t sure if my father was already in here, or if I was supposed to sit down and wait for them to announce him. I wanted to dart my gaze everywhere at once. I didn’t like him knowing my position when I didn’t know his. My mouth was dry, and my heart pounded in my ears, but I forced myself to slow down and do what I always do.