Chapter Text
“You get one phone call.”
Adam’s phone is slapped roughly into his hand as he steps up to the sergeant’s desk. He’s a grizzled older man with a salt and pepper buzz cut. His blue eyes are cold as he looks at Adam. “One. Phone call.” He repeats, voice stony.
Adam takes his phone and walks back to his bunk. He shares an open room with twenty-seven other boys. Each of them have their own level of a bunk bed and a locker to hang their clothes. Each bed is made with a scratchy gray blanket, the edges tucked tightly under the mattress. Those who already have their cells passed back to them sit on their bunks or huddle next to their lockers, smiling and talking to the person on the other end of the line. He knows some of them are happily talking to their girlfriends. Some have called back to their mum or dad. All of them are excited about whoever they are calling. The energy in the room buzzes pleasantly.
Adam sits on his bottom bunk - he blackened the last occupant's eye to get it - and turns on his phone. The screen lights up. He waits. He thumbs in the lock pin and waits a bit more. He ignores the sinking feeling in his chest. The icon at the bottom, signifying his text messages, stays the same. No messages appear. No one has messaged him. He’s been here for just over three weeks and not a single person-
He pushes down the feeling of helpless loneliness. He has one phone call. He might as well not waste it.
He taps open his contacts. He toys with the idea of calling his mum, but it’s late afternoon and his dad will probably be there, too. His stomach churns at the thought of listening to his dad berate him about the “less than excellent” report cards his class sergeant has sent home. His sergeant, a thin, cruel man with a voice like a foghorn, had made it perfectly clear that the cards were very detailed. Every single thing he had done - particularly every single wrong thing he had done - had been written up and sent back to his father. Adam doubted his father was thrilled.
So he scrolls. He scrolls to the bottom of his contacts list, then back to the top. There are a lot of names. A lot of numbers that would connect him to someone whose face he probably couldn’t even picture. His eyes snag on a name. He hesitates. His thumb hovers for just a moment.
It’s a bad idea. It’s a bad idea that’s been knocking around his head since he stepped into the commander’s car. He’s been run ragged every single day, worked to the bone, given bruises in places he didn't know he could bruise, but he can’t shake the idea. It just won’t go away. He knows it’s a bad idea. She won’t even answer, and if she does she certainly won’t give him what he wants.
What he wants.
What he wants is impossible. What he wants is a fever dream locked in a dusty music storage room, engraved onto a desk in the science lab, held captive by a single, fleeting glance as he stepped into a car. What he wants is caged up, chained down by years of lashing out. Destroyed by learned violence and misdirected rage.
What he wants doesn’t stand a chance. The facts stack up against him. Three stolen moments do not equal forgiveness.
Adam taps on her name and brings the phone up to his ear. He listens to it ring. His heart pounds. It rings for what feels like an infinite amount of time. He almost gives up, almost lets go of the hope fluttering in his chest. He doesn’t want to hope anyway. Hope has never been kind to him before.
“What do you want, Adam?”
He releases a breath. Relief washes over him. A familiar voice. A kind voice. She’s exasperated with him, sure, but she isn’t yelling. She isn’t degrading him. She can’t raise a hand against him.
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, wait!” he says quickly. He'd let the silence sit for too long. “Please don’t hang up.” He hates himself for the pleading in his voice.
She sighs. “What do you want, Adam?” she asks again.
He bites his lip and hunches over. The hand not holding his phone clenches into a white-knuckled fist on his thigh. “I need a favor.”
Her silence says more than words. Anxiety sparks in his chest. This is so stupid. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I need you to mail me Eric Effiong’s address.”
He can almost see her blinking in confusion. His nerves break. “Never mind. This was stupid,” he pulls the phone away to hang up, his eyes stinging with a pain he refuses to acknowledge. His chest aches.
“No, wait!” she yelps and he hesitates. He brings the phone back up to his ear. “Why do you want Eric’s address?”
“None of your fucking business,” he growls loud enough that he draws the gaze of students standing closest to him. He lowers his voice. “Why isn’t important. Aimee, please.”
“Well,” she says slowly. “I don’t know Eric’s address, but I suppose I could ask Maeve.”
“Yes!” he agrees eagerly. The tiny flame of hope flickers back to life in his chest. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“I can text it to you by tomorrow, probably,” she says.
“Ah, no,” he replies. Another boy taps him on the shoulder. He glances up.
“Sarge says two minutes,” the boy says.
“You have to mail it to me,” Adam rushes on. “Do you have a pen?”
“Oh,” Aimee says. He listens to her rustle through her things, his anxiety mounting. “Hold on, I'll find one.”
Please, please, please. He thinks as he chews on his lower lip. Please hurry.
There is a frenzied energy in his chest he can’t explain. Maybe he doesn’t want to explain it. He’s never made the best decisions. He’s always been impulsive and angry and mean. This feels like walking into an active minefield with size eighteen feet. He wants. Something inside of him, something small that he’s stuffed away for so long, lights like a struck match. Hot and bright, singing his fingertips. He wants to keep it lit, feel it’s warmth. He wants.
“One minute!” The sergeant yells. The boys around him begin to say their goodbyes. A few drift past him to line up and turn in their phones.
“All right,” Aimee says, her voice muffled. “Where am I posting it to?”
Adam rattles off the address, voice breathless. His heart hammers in his chest.
“Groff!” The sergeant shouts from behind him. “Times up!”
“What was the street?” Aimee asks.
Frustration wells up inside of him, a tidal wave he can’t force down. His free hand claws into the rough fabric of his pants as he grits out the street name again.
Please, please, please.
“Groff!” He hears footsteps behind him. They are ominous. Loud. They pound on the cheap linoleum flooring. He wants to run.
Aimee begins to repeat the address and Adam tries to focus on what she’s saying. Adrenaline throbs through his veins. He can hear the sergeant getting closer. He can feel the man’s anger. Cold fear slithers up his spine. Sweat breaks out on the back on his neck.
“Yes!” he replies when Aimee finishes. “Yes, thank you. Bye, Aimee!” he pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up just as a thick hand lands on his shoulder. Fingers dig into his flesh. He turns his head and looks up. The sergeant glares down at him with livid eyes.
“Times up,” he snarls and then shoves. His phone flies out of his hands. Adam lands on his hands and knees. He grits his teeth, clenches his eyes shut. His fingers twist into knuckles against the cold floor. He breathes in and looks up. The sergeant looms over him. “Push-ups,” he says. “Go until I tell you to stop.”
Adam moves into plank position, but pauses when a meaty hand grips his jaw and forces him to look up. The sergeant has a cruel smirk on his face. He wags the phone in Adam’s face. “You’ve lost your phone privileges for the month,” he releases Adam’s jaw. “And this will be going in your report card.”
~~~
Aimee meets Maeve at the old bathrooms before classes start the next morning. Maeve has been there for a while already. Two cigarette butts smoke at her feet.
"Morning, pet,” Maeve says, offering Aimee a tight smile.
“Good morning,” Aimee replies, settling next to her and lighting up one of her own. She takes a drag. “The strangest thing happened to me last night.”
Maeve hums in response, her eyes distant. “Yeah?”
“Adam called me,” Aimee watches her friend closely. There is a pause as Maeve’s eyes widen a fraction. The corners of her mouth tense.
“Oh?” is all she says.
“Mhm,” Aimee says, taking another drag before blowing out slowly. She watches the smoke drift in the air. “He wants to know Eric Effiong’s address.”
This gets an actual response out of Maeve. She turns towards Aimee, eyebrow raised. “Eric Effiong’s address?” she asks, as if she might not have heard correctly. “What would he want that for?”
Aimee shrugs. “I’m not sure. He wouldn’t tell me why. Do you have it?”
“You aren’t actually going to give him Eric’s address?” she asks incredulously. She stubs out her cigarette against the wall.
“Well, yes?” Aimee asks, tilting her head to the side. “He seemed so sad on the phone. He was being yelled at while we were talking. It seemed like he really needs it.”
Maeve is already shaking her head. “Aimee, that’s a terrible idea. Adam has been bullying Eric for years.”
Aimee nods thoughtfully. “I suppose. There was just something in the way he said it though. He even said please.”
Maeve scoffs and rolls her eyes.
“Maybe he just wants to apologize for all the things he did?”
Maeve snorts, standing up. “Adam Groff? Apologize? Yeah right,” she shakes her head again. “Let it go, Aimee. Adam Groff is not a nice guy.”
Aimee frowns.
Maeve smiles and offers a hand. “You should get to class. I have to go to work.”
Sadly, Aimee takes Maeve’s hand and stands. “I’ll come by after school. You can tell me all about your day!” she offers a bright smile.
Maeve nods. The smile on her face slips.
~~~