Page 149 of Switch!
“I need to look up a recent news story,” I tell her, “but I don’t have a subscription to read it online.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Mrs. Burton says. “Do you know the date it was published?”
“It’s this one,” Trixie says, holding up her phone.
“Oh.” Mrs. Burton appears flustered. “I remember reading about that. I can show you the article, but I promise you there’s more to the story. Travis was a nice boy. He wouldn’t do something so…” She shakes her head and walks us over to a computer. She has the article up in less than a minute. “There you go. Just keep in mind that you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”
“Thank you,” I say, attempting to imbue the words with extra meaning, because I’m grateful she remembers me and has faith in my character. Mrs. Burton nods and walks away. I sit down to read the details. The article paints a gruesome picture:
Travis Anderson, a senior at East Cheyenne High School, is accused of spiking his stepfather’s drink with sleeping medication before attacking him violently. The combination of pills and alcohol could have proved lethal, according to a medical professional the Wyoming Journal consulted with, although it is uncertain if this was Anderson’s intent. When the older man, Raymond Weaver, lost consciousness, an anonymous source reports that Travis physically assaulted him. A neighbor at the scene during the arrest stated, “The kid was covered in so much blood when they brought him out that I thought he was the victim.” The eyewitness described the graphic nature of the scene. “It’s only when the paramedic rolled the other guy out that I started to wonder. Dude looked like he was dead. I couldn’t tell who he was, to be honest. That’s how messed up his face was.” Another neighbor, who called in the incident, said, “All I heard was someone screaming like they were being murdered. After I got hold of the police, I locked the door and stayed inside. I have my children to think of.”
The article goes on, mentioning how Raymond was taken to the hospital in critical condition, and that Travis was being held for further questioning. They also report that my mother couldn’t be reached for a comment, despite numerous attempts to contact her. I’m glad. The article lacks integrity. Raymond was never my stepfather, and they failed to mention what a creep he is. Had they dug into his past, I’m sure they would have found something.
“This is bad,” Trixie says from next to me.
She’s still reading. I’ve seen enough.
“It’s bullshit,” I tell her. “We won’t find out the truth until we talk to him. Tomorrow. We’ll ask Caleb what happened. Then we’ll see.”
— — —
Laramie County Youth Detention Center is a squat one-story building just outside of Cheyenne, where the only other sign of life is a distant ranch. The smooth stone walls are punctuated by slivers of windows which look like the kind used by archers to fire arrows out of medieval castles. I despise the place already, alternating between guilt and anger that Caleb ended up there.
“No arguments if this doesn’t work,” I say after we’ve parked. I’ve been a grump all morning, waiting impatiently for visiting hours to begin. This moment is all I’ve thought about as the seconds tick by. I’ve kept myself occupied by trawling the detention center’s website while considering different strategies.
Trixie has been exceptionally patient with me. Jesse too. I’ll find a way of thanking them later. Now that we’re actually here, I’m nervous that I’ll be denied entry.
“Have your ID out when you return this,” says the officer at the reception window. She shoves a clipboard toward us.
We sit on a plastic seat near the wall. I answer each question truthfully with the exception of one small lie. The form wants to know my relationship to the juvenile. I claim to be his uncle. Jesse is a bit young to be that, but I’m hoping it will go unnoticed. With identification involved, we can’t pretend that Trixie is adopted into the family, so we put her down as Caleb’s girlfriend.
When we hand the clipboard back to the officer, her eyes move over it with disinterest. “Immediate family only,” she says, looking at Trixie. Then her gaze shifts to me. “You’re on his approved contacts list?”
I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
She signs the form and stamps it. “Down the hall. Wait there. Visitors are buzzed in every twenty minutes.”
She pushes a button, a loud electrical snarl coming from a nearby door.
“I guess I’ll wait in the car,” Trixie says.
“Sorry,” I reply. Then I hurry toward the large metal door and slip inside. A hallway made of painted concrete bricks stretches out before me. At the end of this is a waiting room. A handful of people are waiting there in the same kind of uncomfortable seats. I join them, hoping the staff isn’t checking Caleb’s approved contacts list. We read about that online, but I thought it only referred to phone calls and letters. I don’t want Jesse to get in trouble for lying to law enforcement. Then again, how many people attempt to sneak in to see incarcerated juveniles? Other teenagers, girlfriends and boyfriends most likely, but an adult like Jesse probably won’t be scrutinized as much.
I hope.
My palms grow sweaty, my leg bouncing nervously, until we’re finally buzzed in. A small room with three doors is beyond. An officer escorts us through one of them to what looks like the most depressing cafeteria imaginable. Round tables with seats attached by metal arms fill the space, each like an abstract sculpture of an octopus. There’s no indication of where to sit. The other visitors are all choosing tables, so I do too. Five minutes later, another door buzzes open and an officer walks in with three young people in tow. Each wears light blue scrubs with a white long-sleeve shirt beneath, probably to ward off the cold. Their feet are covered in thick socks and ugly rubbery clogs.
I don’t recognize myself. Not at first. The black hair that I used to tuck behind my ears has been cut short, buzzed on the sides and brushed forward on top. My glasses are missing too. I look like I’ve put on weight. None of this feels like an improvement to me. Funny, considering how desperate I once was to be muscular and handsome. Now I’d rather be my geeky awkward self again.
Caleb—I have to think of him that way, it’s too confusing otherwise—is looking around with a blank expression, so I raise my hand to get his attention. He studies me a moment before furrowing his brow and sauntering over. He sits slowly, like he might change his mind on the way down.
“Hi,” I say. “I know this is weird, but you can trust me.”
Caleb’s eyes narrow. “You aren’t his uncle.”
I stare at him while considering these words. He feels so familiar, and yet so strange. There’s something about the way he carries himself, the upright posture and confident demeanor, that isn’t like me at all. He reminds me of someone I used to fear. “Who’s uncle?” I ask.
“My uncle,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “It’s been a long day. You’re not my Uncle Rick, so who are you?”
