Page 31 of Burn

I’d expected a cell; something like in the movies. I was shown to a small, white room with a door and everything. The room was furnished with a desk, chair, and bunk beds. The guard looked down at his clipboard before looking back at me and saying, “Lady Luck’s on your side. You’re on your own here for the time being.”

That was about the only time any luck was on my side. Since that first day, I’ve worked hard to keep myself out of trouble. Seems every fucking guy in this place was waiting for fresh blood to pick a fight with. They antagonize and bait me at every opportunity. One guy flipped my coffee into my lap the first morning. Another spit directly onto my lunch that same day. By the end of the first week, my nerves are shot, and I consider mass murder, but I tragically have no access to weapons.

On Friday evening, I regard my soup spoon. I study it, front and back, trying to work out if I could use it to scoop out the eyes of the guys who will not leave me the fuck alone. I’m so deep in my murderous fantasy that when a body slides in next to me, I start and rear my fist back, spoon clenched tightly in it. The guy leans away from me, a broad smile on his face.

“Whoa, buddy!” he exclaims. “I didn’t think you were violent after watching you tolerate the first week of hazing with such grace.” His laugh is loud and hearty, and I shake myself, setting my spoon on my tray. “Damn, man. Never been so scared of a plastic fuckin’ spoon.”

I huff out the breath I’d been holding, and when his smile doesn’t falter, I relax just a little.

“Sorry,” I say, “It’s been an intense few days.”

He shovels a mouthful of what the center calls meatloaf into his mouth, pushing it to the side of his cheek. “Yeah, the first week is rough,” he pauses, looking thoughtful. “Actually, it’s always rough. This place is brutal.”

I shift to face him. He looks to be around my age, with dark hair cropped close to his scalp. He has a shadow of what was once a black eye on the left side of his face and a scar through his right brow. When he shovels another bite of food into his mouth, I glance at his hands. His knuckles are scarred and calloused. A sure sign that this guy is a fighter. A dark, thicksnake tattoo wraps from his wrist up under the sleeve of his shirt. My gaze flicks around the room, at the rows of tables not that dissimilar from the long tables in my school cafeteria. A few eyes are set on us, but most guys are absorbed in their little pods.

“I’m Nash,” he says, offering his hand. I look at it, then back to his face. He laughs again, putting his mouthful of dinner on display. “I don’t bite. Well, I don’t bite other guys, and only if requested, ya feel?”

I can’t help but smile. I shift and take his hand.

“Adrian. Nice to meet you, man.” I say, still unsure of the situation.

He drops my hand and returns to his food, spooning bite after bite into his mouth. When his meatloaf is gone, he looks at mine, completely untouched.

“You gonna eat that?” He doesn’t wait for me to reply, leaning over to scoop it onto his plate. “The food is shit, but eventually, you’ll be hungry enough to eat it.”

This fucking guy is unbelievable.

“So, what’d ya do?” he asks through a mouthful ofmyfucking meatloaf.

I reach across the table with my spoon, scooping up the meatloaf. “I was going to eat that,” I spit.

He scoffs, “Liar. You’ve been pushing the food around your plate all week. I’m sick of watching you throw out good food when I’m fuckin’ hungry.”

I laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks. I laugh hard enough that most of the eyes in the room shift to focus on us. Hard enough that Nash freezes for a minute before also dissolving into laughter. When I finally stop, I’m winded and wipe a tear from my eye. I fucking needed to laugh.

“Thanks, man. I can’t tell you how much I needed that,” I tell him.

We finish dinner in silence. He eats his food and half of mine. He reaches across and snags bites when he thinks I’m not paying attention. I let him. When the guards flick the lights, letting us know dinner is over, he stands and grabs our trays.

“Come on,” he calls over his shoulder, “We have an hour before bed. I’ll show you how I stay sane here.”

He doesn’t wait for me to follow, so I stand and jog after him. When I catch up, he heads down the hall toward the yard. He ducks into a door, emerging with two hockey sticks and a bag of pucks. He must see the shock on my face because he laughs again and says, “Yeah, you look like a hockey player. The gear options are limited, but we can shoot the puck around.”

He hands me a stick, and I roll it in my hands, feeling the familiar weight. I haven’t held a stick in months. I was kicked off the team after the fight, and with court, my parents put me on their version of house arrest. Dad had said it was to keep me out of trouble, but I think it was to keep me close by because they knew I would be gone for a while. Nash pushes the door open, and we exit into the chilled evening air. It’s dusk, and the sun has bathed the yard in a golden light. At the far end, I spot a ragged old net. It’s tattered and busted. Its holes are so vast that I know it won’t stop a puck. Fuck, it probably wouldn’t stop a soccer ball.

I don’t care. My heart soars with excitement.

For the next hour, we pass the puck back and forth. When we burn through every puck, we walk behind the net and silently collect them before returning to the game. A voice booms over the loudspeaker, alerting us that lights out is in ten minutes, and Nash nods toward the building and says, “You’repretty good, man. I hope you’ll do this again with me. Most guys stick to basketball, but I’ve never been any good at that.”

We walk back the way we came, dropping the sticks and pucks in the equipment closet and continuing toward the dorms. When he pauses outside of one, I also stop and turn to face him.

“Well,” he says, “This is me. Nice to meet you, Adrian. See ya tomorrow.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for me to reply. He pushes the door to his room open. Inside, I catch a glimpse of another guy seated at the desk. The walls are covered in posters of girls in bikinis and supercars. The door clicks closed, and I slowly walk away, laughing to myself, passing other guys moving about the halls. No one says anything. For the first time since my arrival, I feel okay. Normal. I guess I didn’t realize how much I missed human interaction outside of being fucked with.

My room feels so sterile when I enter it. Nash’s room was vibrant due to the posters on the walls. I make a mental note to ask him where he got them — it would be nice to have something to look at. Cars, girls, fuck, anything. I’m collecting my toothbrush when the locks click, reminding me where I am. I’m not in a dorm. This is jail, and I was so lost daydreaming that I missed my opportunity to get ready for bed. I strip down to boxers and look around the bare room again. Night is when I feel the worst. Alone, with nothing to occupy my hands or mind. Tonight is no different. The sheets on the bed are scratchy as I crawl in.

Tonight, though, instead of losing myself in my thoughts about the fight, about Claire crying and bleeding, I drift off to sleep almost immediately. Instead of dreaming of my mom’s expression as I was led away, I dream of hockey.

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