***
Jackson, who’d never been in trouble before, made bail and swore that he’d try to get Ashton out of there.
Ashton had told him not to bother. He already had a record anyway, and there was no way he was getting out. He was shackled again and led to the van that would take him to the center. He kept his head up despite the fear and worry nagging at him.
He landed at the Bedford, a notoriously bad juvenile detention hall. Intake was hellish, and by the time he was in a uniform and being led down the tiered walks that led to the cells, he already knew he was in for some hard time.
He’d do it, but he would be damned if he would do it lying down.
His cell was in the center, in full view of the other tiers. All the doors were open just then. The school hours were over, and young boys and older teens sat around on their bunks, watching him with wary eyes.
His roommate was a small and skinny guy with a nervous habit of ducking low and not meeting Ashton’s eye. The first five minutes in that cell told Ashton he’d find no ally in his bunkmate.
He was right. He’d barely unrolled the thin mattress and sheets across the steel ledge that served as a bed frame before three dudes walked in.
Ashton recognized one of them immediately – a guy from the block who ran weed and dope for Gerald’s dad. He called himself Speedy for a lot of reasons, and the twitch in his jaw told its own tale. He was sixteen and already drying out and doing time. In other words, he was one bad dude, and he was loyal to both Gerald and his dad.
And news traveled fast.
“Get out,” Speedy said to Ashton’s new roommate.
The guy didn’t even bother saying a word. He just bolted. Speedy and his buddies crammed into the cell.
Speedy said, “I hear you got my boy jammed up and locked down.”
Jammed up meaning arrested; locked down meaning in jail.
Ashton was exhausted. His whole body hurt from the earlier beating, and naturally, nobody had considered sending him to a doctor.
He didn’t answer. He ran at Speedy full force. His shoulder hit Speedy, and they went flying back out of the cell. What happened next would make sure Ashton was left alone for the rest of his stay there, but it would also end with him in the infirmary for two months.
Ashton used his legs like pistons. He shouted, “You want to die? Is that what you’re saying? Then let’s do it! Hell, I’ll kill myself to take you out!”
Speedy tried to grab the rail, but Ashton hoisted a knee into the other boy’s groin, and then he backed off just to run forward again. His hands grabbed Speedy’s uniform shirt, and momentum carried them forward. Ashton dug deep, knowing what he was doing was stupid and that he really might die for his troubles but also knowing that if he got lucky and didn’t die, he’d have a much easier time.
He was all in, because he had no choice.
“What are you doing?” Speedy’s shouts were frantic now as their bodies met the rail, and Speedy grabbed at it, fear showing on his face.
His buddies had melted away. Clearly, they had not planned on Ashton being a psycho, and they sure hadn’t planned on getting involved in what could potentially turn into death.
Ashton answered with a grim, “Testing your loyalty. You ready to die for Gerald? Because if you come at me, you’d better be.”
He shoved hard again, his feet digging into the cold concrete and they went over the railing, tumbling toward the floor three stories below them.
Speedy screamed all the way down.
They hit the floor below, bones meeting concrete. Ashton’s fall was slightly broken by Speedy’s thin body, but the shock reverberated through him so hard his teeth met together and the taste of blood filled his mouth. An awful snapping sound boomed across the common room that they had fallen into. Pain shot up through Ashton’s body, and blackness wavered on the edges of his vision.
Speedy, pinned and hurt below Ashton, screamed, “No, man! I got nothing for Gerald! Nothing, man!”
It wasn’t done yet. As soon as they healed up, Speedy might rethink that, unless he had something to remind him why he shouldn’t.
Summoning up all his fading strength, Ashton lifted his head and drove his skull into Speedy’s face, hearing the satisfying crunch of bones and seeing blood before finally passing out.
When he woke, he was in the infirmary. A doctor stood over him, and Ashton’s wrists were neatly cuffed to the bed rails. The doctor said, “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You came close to killing that boy.”
That boy was a speed junkie and a dealer known to carry guns and pistol whip anyone who got in his way. Ashton didn’t bother saying so. The doctor would go home to his nice house and wash his hands and face and pretend that his day was just a long series of patients who weren’t already hardened criminals. The speech was probably just one more way he managed to live with himself.
The doctor added, “I hear they’re tacking more time onto your sentence, too.”
Well, so what? At least in there he would have one guarantee: he wouldn’t have to pack up and move again until he was eighteen.