Pushing Send (11 page)

Skylar

Claire is trying to help me? My ass, not after the way she treated me.

chapter seven

The Jury…

Monday night, I lie in bed while Mom lies next to me, rubbing my head. She knows I can’t sleep, and I know she can’t, either. Lana was buried today, but I didn’t go because my parents told me I couldn’t. For five minutes, I argued that I needed to. She was my friend. But then I stopped being irrational. I knew what would happen if went. I would be shunned by the people who loved Lana, people like Pax.

Tuesday, I am too exhausted to think. When I wake up to the smell of eggs, I know there is no way they will let me stay home. I heard them talk about it last night when they thought I was asleep. If I don’t go, people will talk even more, assume even worse things. She also said the lawyer advised that I go to school.

The ride to school is deathly quiet, but Mom holds my hand the entire time.

I pull down my sunglasses as I get out of the car and walk through the crowds or, rather, around them since no one is moving for me. I feel judgment already, and it doesn’t feel good, not at all.

In first period, I sit next to an empty chair, trying to contain my emotions. I miss her. I miss my friend. I miss the laughs, the smiles, the online role-playing, the riding our bikes. I miss the girl who, even though she got angry at me sometimes, was my first real friend. Now she’s gone.

When the bell rings, I am called to the office. Walking in, I see two police officers. I look at the principal, and he shakes his head.

“Will you please call my mother? I don’t feel good. I want to go home.”

“Miss Asher, I am Officer Dunlee. Officer Mann and I need to ask you to come with us.”

I look at the men, whose badges say State Troopers. One tall, one short, both very, very scary.

“Where? Why?” As shock takes hold, I shake my head and begin walking toward the door, concentrating on my aching feet.

I see the hallway full of my peers and classmates, and I walk toward them quickly as I pull my phone from my pocket and attempt to send a message.

One of the officers grabs my elbow, and my immediate reaction is to pull away. When I do, he jacks both my arms behind my back, and my phone falls to the ground.

“Take her away,” I hear someone yell.

“Justice for Lana,” another voice yells.

I see Bee running toward me, and then she grabs my phone off the floor.

“Push send, Bee. Please,” I plead as they push me toward the doors of the school. “Message my mom!”

“The phone, hand it over,” I hear the officer say behind me. “Now, Miss, or you’ll be coming with us, too.”

I hear the hallway erupt in clapping, whooping, howling, and chanting over and over, saying, “Justice for Lana. Justice for Lana. Justice for Lana.”

They shove me in the back of a New York State Trooper patrol car, the door shutting behind me.

The officers get in the car, and Mann, the tall one, looks back, then shakes his head. “You’re lucky you’re not in cuffs.”

“I didn’t do anything. Is this even legal? Where are you taking me?” I cry out.

He doesn’t answer as his partner starts the car and drives out of the parking lot.

As we drive down Main Street, I see Mrs. Jamison’s car parked on the side of the road. It is obvious she knew about this. I look out the window as we pass, and she glares at me with an ice-cold expression that chills me to the bone.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have a right…”

I cover my ears with my hands. I don’t want this to be real. I want it to be a bad dream. I want to wake up in my apartment in Buffalo to the smell of pancakes. I want to be anywhere but here.

When the patrol car shuts off, I open my eyes to see I am at the police station.

Officer Mann opens the door, “Let’s go.”

“I want to call my parents. I have the right to a phone call. I—”

“Your parents have been called and should be here soon. Now, let’s go.”

“Why did you read me my rights? Am I being arrested? Is this legal?”

He doesn’t answer me as they lead me into the station, to a room in the back.

I look at the window and know from what I have seen on television that I am being watched. I sit at a table until I can’t sit anymore. Then I pace back and forth in the tiny room for what feels like an eternity until the door finally opens, and my parents, both of them, walk in.

I run up to them, and they both embrace me. Unable to hold back, I sob, unable to catch my breath, and cry harder.

My mom shakes in my arms, trembling as she sways very slightly back and forth, stroking my hair and whispering, “Shhh” over and over again.

My dad’s hand rests on my shoulder, the other arm around my mother. In this moment, I realize the man I have perceived as the weakest person in my life is literally trying to hold his family together.

I have to be stronger. I have to let them see I am strong because, if not, he will fall apart again, and if she doesn’t have me to take care of, she will, too. I can feel it.

Life as I know it is changing. A horrible storm has come.

I pull back and look up at them. “Tell me what is going on.”

Mom’s body shakes as she takes in a deep breath. I glance at Dad, who momentarily closes his eyes. When they open, he clears his throat.

“Hads, we are gonna get you the best lawyer we can find. You just have to understand, this does not define you. This—”

“Dad”—I wipe my eyes—“what is ‘this’?”

“You are being charged with manslaughter.”

I immediately feel my body go cold as perspiration covers my face, and the muscles in my body jolt and cramp.

“Hadley,” Mom gasps. “Oh, God, what is happening?”

“Just need to sit.”

The door opens, and Officer Mann comes in. The air in this room is suddenly heavy, stale, and stagnate. I sit in the chair my father pushes up behind me and gasp for breaths that will not come.

“She’s hyperventilating,” the officer yells out the door.

“Breathe,” Dad says.

“No! No! I don’t want to.” I try to catch my breath, but it can’t be caught. I want to run, but my body aches as my muscles continue to cramp.

Another officer runs in with a paper bag.

“Breathe,” he starts.

“No! No! I—” I pause as my head gets dizzy.

“Please, Hadley,” my mom pleads as she snatches the bag from his hand and holds it to my mouth. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, then another and another.

“She needs a doctor,” I hear my mother.

“We don’t have one here, but the youth—”

“Then we take her to a hospital,” Dad demands.

“She’s hyperventilating. She’s fine. There is a nursing staff at Tryon. We will make sure they know—”

“She has a right to a trial.”

“She will have one.”

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Mom snaps.

“They never do.” He rolls his eyes and looks at me. “Can you breathe?”

I don’t answer him.

“I asked you a question. Can you breathe?”

“Do I have to?” I snap at him.

“Hadley,” Mom tries to quiet me.

“He’s being rude,” I snap, glaring at him.

“And this is why she will be in there a long, long time.” He shakes his head.

“That is
not
necessary. You are an adult; she is a child!” My mom yells at him.

“She’s fifteen, old enough to have a phone,” he says snidely, “old enough to post a video that led to the death—”

“In the span of a lifetime, she is a child,” Mom says as her eyes fill with tears.

“Well, I guess you should have thought about that before buying her a phone and giving her a loaded weapon.”

“I didn’t push send,” I say defensively.

He shakes his head and looks toward the door as it opens, and a red-haired, plump woman officer in a grey uniform walks in.

“OCFS transport is here.”

“We can take her,” Mom pleads.

“No, ma’am, you can’t,” the woman says, then looks at me. “Hadley, I am going to put shackles on your ankles, cuffs on your—”

“Is that necessary?” My father’s voice vibrates from his chest. “She isn’t a threat to you or—”

The woman guard looks down at the paperwork in her hand. “Disobeyed school staff, resisted arrest, suicidal—”

“She did not; she is not.” Mom trembles again as she looks at the police officer. “Tell me what we can do. Tell me what—”

“Nothing at all,” Officer Mann says with no emotion.

“She didn’t do anything. She didn’t—” Mom begins.

“Would you like to be held for interfering with—” he argues.

“That is enough!” my father snaps at him. “She is concerned for our daughter, her well-being, the false allegations—”

“We could charge you, too,” he warns Dad.

“Mom”—I walk over to her—“I need you to be strong for me. I need both of you to find a way to stop this. I need you to come pick me up from wherever it is they are taking me as soon as…” I stop as my voice betrays my confidence, and I strangle back a sob.

“Okay, sweetheart, okay.” She hugs me tightly again. “I love you. I believe in you.”

“We both do, Hads.” The emotions in my father’s voice are felt deeply. He’s just coming back to us, and now I am going away.

“Dad, I need you, too, okay?” I cry. “I need you to—”

“It’s time to go,” the female guard interrupts.

“Do you have no heart?” my mother snaps at her.

“It’s time for you both to leave. You can get the information you need from the officer at the front desk.”

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be!” she cries.

My father’s jaw tightens as he looks at me. “Anything it takes.” I nod. “Always, Hads. Don’t you forget that, sweet girl.”

I nod again before the guard steps between me and my parents. She is now a wall, one keeping me away from the people I need the most right now.

chapter eight

The sentence…

Four hours and forty-five minutes—that is how long it takes to get from Blue Valley to Jamestown, New York in a big, green van, handcuffed and shackled with the plump, red haired, woman guard who tells me she is a YDA, or Youth Division Assistant, for the New York State Office of Children and Family Services.

The man riding shotgun remained silent. He was a large, African-American man who, I assume, doesn’t have a chance to speak. I also assume, for the fifteen minutes she is quiet every hour—after a forty minute rant about how poor choices are a habit that will be broken inside the walls of Tryon, a maximum security facility that houses three hundred of New York state’s most dangerous and corrupt youth offenders—he must be grateful to not have her voice assaulting his ears.

The ride isn’t straight through. We make stops to pick up other girls who are considered criminals like me. There is one African American girl we pick up in Auburn who whispers the entire ride as she rocks back and forth in her seat. I only catch a few of her whispers, most sounding like prayers. She is tiny and has long extensions in her hair. When she looks up at me just the one time, her eyes, which are light in comparison to her skin, show emotions that send sadness through me. Her tear-stained face probably mirrors mine, but the emotion in that one look makes me want to comfort the girl Red, the female guard, calls Seanna.

The next girl is Latina and scary as hell. She comes out of the police station kicking and screaming threats. They don’t have to cuff and shackle her; she is already in restraints. Lucia makes an unforgettable first impression on me. When the door opens, and they have to pick her up and put her in, her kicking feet collide with the side of my face. That is the only time I hear the male guard say a word.

“You good?”

I nod, telling him yes, but it hurt like hell.

“Stupid, white-ass bitch,” she spits as she tries to lunge at me. “Probably a baby raper. That’s what you white bitches do. You sure as hell ain’t out gang-banging or fighting for your next meal.”

“Well, welcome home, Lucia,” Red says sarcastically to her, giving me the impression this is not Lucia’s first time in trouble.

“Fuck you,” she says and spits at her through the metal cage separating us from them.