Page 2 of Someone Like Me
I nod. A.J. first met my sister six years ago on a visiting day when his son was here at the same time. Since then, A.J. has asked about her almost as much as Annie’s asked after him.
“She’ll be happy,” he says, nodding with approval. Then his eyes lock on mine like he’s been seeing through my mask for weeks. “And everythin’ else will work out alright.”
I don’t care what he did. A.J. doesn’t belong here. A lot of guys don’t. He’s been inside since 1997. Last year he graduated from the Bible college old Warden Cain and the New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary started decades ago, and now A.J. is an ordained minister. An ordained minister who will die in prison.
A.J. and I have talked about a lot — almost everything — but one of the things I’ve never come out and said is that it’s crazy I’m getting out when he never will. If you ask me, it should be the other way around.
See, when A.J. was twenty-one years old, he got into a bar fight with this piece of shit. Piece of Shit started the fight, and A.J. finished it by breaking a bottle over his head. And that’s how you can just be minding your own business one minute, nursing your Bacardi and Coke, and doing life without parole the next.
This is not the way A.J. tells the story. It’s how I tell it. A.J. tells a story of a young man who took his gift of life for granted. Who needed to let God into his heart. Who needed to bow to love and forgiveness instead of hate and revenge.
But he didn’t step into the bar that night intending to hurt anybody. He walked in there an innocent man. And he didn’t ask Piece of Shit to hassle him, either. He was law abiding until that asshole touched him.
I cannot say the same for me.
Nothing that led me here was innocent. I’m guilty. One hundred percent. If I weren’t guilty, I wouldn’t be here. And Anthony would still be alive.
But I’m here. And he’s not.
CHAPTER TWO
EVIE
“Evie!” Tori shouts from the bottom of the stairs. “Where’s my Jazz Fest T-shirt?”
I press my pencil into the seam of my open book and push myself off the bed.The Yamas & Niyamaswill just have to wait.
“It’s not in your closet?” I ask, calling down from my bedroom door. I can’t see my sister from here, but she can hear me better this way.
She makes a noise in her throat, like a little cough. “If it were in my closet, why would I be askingyou?”
Any answer I give will only piss her off more, so I head downstairs. “I’ll help you look for it.”
She’s standing there with her arms crossed over her pajamas, the beginnings of a sneer curling her lip. “Did you take it without asking me?”
“No,” I say gently. “But maybe I washed it with my things.” I move past her, heading toward the direction of the laundry room, and she whirls on her heel to follow me.
“Well, did you or didn’t you?” Her voice drips acid.
Tori is in a bad mood. If I’m being honest, Tori has been in a bad mood for about three years. Only it’s gotten worse over the last month. For that, I blame Jason Watney.
“I washed and dried a load yesterday morning, but I haven’t folded it yet.”
She follows hard on my heels. “If you shrunk my shirt, I’m going to be so pissed,” she seethes.
I seal my lips together, declining to point out that she’s always pissed. Instead, I force the slightest constriction in my throat and inhale through my nose, taking a barely audibleujjayibreath. I feel the balancing and calming effects of the yogic breathing almost immediately. My shoulders drop away from my ears, and I challenge myself to feel the wood floor beneath my bare feet as I make my way to the laundry room.
Tori’s glower seems to burn through the back of my slouchy tank as I dig in the basket, but I concentrate on my breath, the crisp smell of Meyer’s geranium fabric softener, and the brush of fabrics against the skin of my hands. I spot the electric blue T-shirt and pluck it from the pile.
I attempt to shake it out to assess any damage, but Tori yanks it from my grip. “Give it here.” Her jaw is clenched, and she doesn’t even meet my gaze as she drapes the shirt over her front and smoothes it out.
It doesn’t look like it shrunk at all, but I’m leaving nothing to chance. “I’ll buy you a new one if—”
“That’s not the point,” she snaps, shooting me a scowl.
The look she gives me is so bitter and violent, I want to look away, back away, and leave her alone, but I don’t. I have one guess as to whythiselectric blue Jazz Fest T-shirt is the only one she wants.
Jason Watney.
