Toxic Bad Boy(7)

Merry fucking Christmas.

The day had started out pleasant enough. My parents showed up this morning for Christmas visitation, a special version of regular visitation. Mom and Dad were here when they’d opened the door to families at eight o’clock this morning and didn’t leave until they marched us prisoners off to lunch at noon. We were limited as to what we were allowed in juvie, but the presents I’d unwrapped included books, magazines and a quilt from my grandma in Florida. It had palm trees, coconuts and flamingos on it. Ian had called it my fruity blankie when I brought it into our cell after lunch. Of course, he was quick to snatch out of my hands the Mickey Mouse quilt my grandma and her quilting bee had made especially for him.

I was glad my family had thought of him. He’d acted uncaring at breakfast when most of us were excited to see our families, but I’d noticed he paid close attention when a guard announced who had family members waiting in the visiting room. When his name wasn’t called, he’d gotten real quiet. As we were led away, I’d turned back to see him dumping the contents of his tray in the trash and slamming it down on a stack of other used ones. Even from across the cafeteria, I’d cringed at the harshness of the sound.

A few months ago I never would’ve thought I’d be concerned for Ian’s feelings. Life was strange. Perhaps Ian’s hurt caused him to take on four guys at once. Pity for him had me jumping in with Ricky to defend him.

Waiting patiently in solitary, my cell door clicked open and, trained to respond, I immediately stood up to be escorted by a guard to the infirmary. Ricky was taken at the same time as me and I gave him a nod as I scanned him for injuries. Or lack thereof, as the case was. Slick punk didn’t have a mark or streak of blood anywhere on him. H was the cleanest fighter I’d ever seen, with not even a tear in his clothing. If I hadn’t seen him in action, I would’ve thought he’d stayed on the sidelines.

Ricky grinned smugly at my perusal. “Your nose isn’t looking too good, white boy.” At six-foot-three, muscular and only fifteen years old, Ricky was a big guy. His opponent had been brave not to run in the opposite direction.

I probed at my tender nose and shrugged. “At least it isn’t broken. Could be worse, did you see Ian? He had two guys beating on him.”

Ricky grimaced, running a hand over short black hair. “I hope they took him to get checked first.”

Ian’s dad was a bastard. The more I thought about it, I was positive Ian started the fight because of his anger over his dad not visiting. Even if it was expected, it couldn’t get any easier to accept that your parent didn’t give a damn about you.

The nurse practitioner on duty made quick work of getting us in and out of there. Like I’d told Ricky, my nose wasn’t broken. After asking Ricky a couple questions, Nathan Brothers N.P. sent him back with a guard to his solitary cell.

I was returned to my cell five minutes after Ricky and the guard informed me I’d be there till tomorrow when the warden arrived in the morning. Whatever, at least I’d get privacy for one night from Ian and everyone else. Maybe I’d get in fights more often if alone time was the reward.

Alone in my solitude, I thought of Gianna.

Always her.

Our dinner was brought to us an hour later and I devoured it. Fighting always made me hungry. When I got out of this place, the freedom to eat when I wanted would feel like Christmas every day. My mom had given me one of those big plastic candy canes filled with chocolate candy and I thought about how I would’ve laughed at her and rolled my eyes last Christmas. This year, it was my favorite gift.

I’d been slightly embarrassed, but I’d given my mom and dad each one of my paintings as a present. One was of Ian in profile, lying on his top bunk, throwing a ball up at the ceiling. The ball was mid-motion and he had both his hands above him, waiting to catch it on its way back down. The other was of a prison guard yelling down in the face of a scrawny twelve-year-old inmate. The boy wore a defiant expression but fear was obvious in his eyes. I probably should have painted something nicer for them. Like a bowl of fruit or a sunflower. Nice wasn’t my style, but I couldn’t imagine my parents hanging my artwork over the fireplace.

My mom hadn’t seen anything I’d created in a while and her eyes had gone wide with evident pride in my work. She’d mentioned wanting to show them to the director of an art gallery she sometimes submitted to, but she probably had a case of mom goggles. Everything I painted was wonderful because she gave birth to me. Perhaps I’d force myself to paint a puppy for her birthday. My dad had never been into the art thing, or puppies for that matter, so I knew he could have cared less what I painted him. With him, it was the thought which counted.