“We’ve got a lot to get through this morning,” the judge says. “Let’s move this along. Young lady, are you aware of the charges against you? Do you understand you’re here for arraignment? That means you get to make a plea.”
“Give me one minute, Your Honor,” the man says.
The judge waves a hand, agreeing, but clearly not happy about it.
The man to my right quickly whispers a bunch of legal stuff I don’t understand. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around what happened. “You’ll plead not guilty,” he says. They’re the only words I comprehend.
I shake my head. “But I can’t. I’m guilty.”
“I’ve read your file. Well, I’ve skimmed it. You want to plead not guilty. Trust me, I’m your lawyer now.”
“I can’t afford you. Did my mom hire you?”
“I’m a public defender. I represent people who can’t pay for an attorney.”
“Mr. Craddick?” the judge says impatiently.
My lawyer leans close. “Tell him you understand the charges and plead not guilty. Do it now. He’s not going to wait forever.”
“I understand the charges,” I say.
“How do you plead?” the judge asks.
I glance at Mr. Craddick. He nods. “N-not g-guilty.”
I close my eyes. Now I’m not only a criminal but a liar, too.
The judge, Mr. Craddick, and the lady at the next table have a discussion about bail—more legal jargon I tune out. The judge says stuff to me, and I nod like I’m listening. I should tell him I’ve changed my mind. That I’m guilty. That I deserve whatever they want to do to me. Does Texas have an electric chair?
Mr. Craddick leaves, and I’m taken back to the holding room. An hour later, after being shackled to the floor of the van and driven back to jail, I’m in yet another room, being handed the clothes I wore last night when I came in. They’re damp.
“You can change in there,” the lady says, motioning to a door.
Why do they want me to put my clothes back on? I stare at her blankly.
“Honey, you’re being released on bail. You know this, right?”
“I’m being released?”
“They didn’t explain it to you?”
I shake my head. They might have, but I can’t remember.
She rolls her eyes. “I sure am gettin’ sick and tired of doing everyone else’s job. You get to go home until your trial. My advice is to get yourself a good lawyer.”
“They gave me one.”
She laughs. “Honey, if you think some public defender fresh out of law school gives a shit about what happens to you, you can call me the Queen of England, ’cause you livin’ in fantasy land.”
I enter a dirty bathroom. I’m happy to get out of the jumpsuit, but putting on my clothes is a reminder of what I’ve done.
The guard takes me out of the cell area and through the front of the building. “Now go, and try not to ever come back. You’re too young to throw your life away.”
She retreats into the building, leaving me on the sidewalk. I look left and right. Nobody is here for me. She told me I could go home, but I know I can’t. I don’t even have my phone. It must have fallen out of my pocket last night.
There’s a convenience store on the corner, and I tell the guy behind the counter that my phone is dead and ask if I can use his. He pulls a landline from behind the counter, and I dial Angelina’s number.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Where are you?”
“They let me go. I’m at a store by the jail. Can you pick me up?”
“I can’t.” She pauses. “They told me not to talk to you.”
“Who told you?”
“My parents. Their lawyer. The police.”
“Why not?”
Someone talks to her in the background. “I’m really sorry, Devyn. I have to go. You’d better not call back.”
The line goes dead. I call Dane, and he tells me the same thing. When I call Billy, he hangs up on me. What is happening? I hand the phone back to the cashier and go to the door. “You aren’t even going to buy anything?” he shouts after me.
I don’t answer him. I sit on a nearby bench. I have no money. No phone. And, apparently no friends.
I have nothing. And it’s still more than I deserve.
I wake in a sweat. I have nightmares all the time, but they usually aren’t so detailed. I change my shirt and try to go back to sleep, knowing I won’t. I reach for my phone, turn on the flashlight, and point it to the ceiling. I used to count dirty ceiling tiles when I couldn’t sleep, but this ceiling is smooth, nothing like the one I stared at for 730 days. I put down the phone and get out of bed. I’ll count stars instead.
I’ve counted hundreds, maybe thousands, when Aaron climbs out the window.
“Don’t you ever sleep?” I ask.
“Don’t you?” He sits on the blanket next to me. “Want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Why you don’t sleep.”
“No.”
“Then how about you tell me what happened earlier. Why’d you freak out at Maddox’s?”
“I’d rather not talk about that either.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
I take his hand. “I don’t want to talk at all.” I put it on my breast.
“Devyn,” he says like he’s my third-grade teacher scolding me. “This won’t make it go away.”
I push him down and straddle him. “You’re wrong. It will.”
“For a few minutes maybe.”
“Maybe that’s all I need.” I lean down and kiss him. He stiff lips me. “Don’t you want this?”
“Jesus, Dev, of course I want this. Last night was incredible. It was perfect. You’re perfect.”
I roll off him. “Don’t say that.”
“Okay, you’re not perfect. Neither am I. No one is. But it’s damn clear to me that we’re perfect together.” He pulls me against him. “What happened to you is in the past. Believe me when I say I know what I’m talking about.”
I shake my head. “You couldn’t possibly know.”
“Do you deny that we’re perfect together?”
“We’ve only known each other a few weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter. I asked you a question. Do you want to be with me, Devyn?”
I put a hand on his chest. “I was trying to. You pushed me away.”
“I wasn’t talking about sex. I mean, yeah, I want to have sex. Lots and lots of it. But I want to be with you and only you.”
“As in you want to be my boyfriend?”
“If you’ll let me.”
“I’ve never had one before.”
He seems stunned. “How is that even possible?”
“Back in high school, there was a guy, but it wasn’t anything really. Since then, well, there just haven’t been many opportunities.”
“Then what—” He stops talking suddenly. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. What’s your answer?”