Warden Davis calls it interdisciplinary treatment for emotionally troubled youth.

Fancy words that don’t change the fact that the doors around us lock. Or that Jemma looks like she graduated college last year. Or that school is a small room with a secured desk for the teacher, sixteen of us, all at different levels, and fewer books than people.

When I arrived, once I was told what to expect, Jemma was the first person to sit down with me. She looked like she’d stepped right out of my former neighborhood, with her plaid pencil skirt and blue button-up, bow and all. She said it would be an intake conversation, but it took several hours and involved various multiple-choice questions, much like the psychological evaluation in detention. One of those “figure out what’s wrong with you” assessments. Next, she and the guards observed me for three days to get insights into any problems I might have with adapting to my environment or with socializing.

Then Jemma created a personalized treatment plan. She wanted to work with me on what she calls my authority issues, my gender identity issues, and my commitment issues.

“To put it bluntly,” she said one of those first days, “the board is aware that you are a status offender, and your assignment here is suboptimal. So we’re willing to do what we can to help you with your needs.”

I didn’t think I had issues. Or needs beyond what we all have. Home. Purpose. Someone who listens. But if it means more time away from the others, I can’t say I mind.

But I’m still locked up here. And I don’t know Jemma well enough yet to know that she won’t betray me too.

I push myself back in the chair. “I fell.”

Right at the same moment, Jemma’s computer dings. She glances at the screen and freezes. She clenches her hands to fists. Her glasses slide down her nose again. For the longest moment, she doesn’t say anything at all. Then she sighs and leans back in her chair. “Okay, well, in that case, let’s talk about your last couple of days.”

And she doesn’t push, and she doesn’t try again.

I admittedly don’t know her that well, and maybe I’m not used to this—to any of this—yet, but that seems odd.

Jemma folds her arms, listens, and doesn’t take notes. Instead, she keeps glancing back at her computer. I don’t know if she’s angry at me for not trusting her or if she wants me to say anything else. But I can’t. She must understand that.

When our allotted time is up, she passes me a chocolate from a small stash she keeps behind her desk. I wince when I put it in my mouth, and while my bruised cheek throbs, it tastes better than anything I’ve had here in the last couple of weeks. Perhaps it’s a peace offering.

But she doesn’t meet my eye when I get up and leave.

Three

Grace

Every time I think I’m better than this, I prove to myself that I’m not. I haven’t learned a thing. I still let my anger take hold of me. The same thoughts keep running through my head over and over again.