Page 37 of Jar of Hearts
“I can’t believe you took the guy’s digits.” Kaiser didn’t sound happy. “Your dad will kill you. He’s like, so old.”
“Shut up, Kai,” Geo said, cross. She didn’t expect him to be happy about it, for different reasons than Angela, but the least the both of them could do was not shit all over it. Things like this didn’t happen to her every day, and she wanted to enjoy it a little. “I’m not telling my dad.”
Angela sighed. “Fine, whatever. He’s hot, you lucky bitch. We’d better figure out what we’re going to wear tomorrow night. You’re coming with us, right, Kai?”
“Bite me,” he said.
As it turned out, her outfit hadn’t mattered. Geo had spent the following night in the back room of the G-Spot, making out with Calvin on an old green sofa that smelled of beer and pizza. It was the first time she’d ever French-kissed a guy, the first time she’d ever sucked someone’s tongue. They hadn’t gone all the way because Geo was still a virgin and nowhere near ready for that, but she’d let his hands go wherever they wanted. Down her shirt and into her bra. Up her skirt and inside her panties. He’d given her the first orgasm she’d ever had with another person, and she came hard, looking directly into his eyes. She didn’t know it could feel like that.
Afterward, he’d laced his fingers through hers, and whispered, “This is crazy. I’m so into you, it hurts.”
That first night with Calvin was the first and last time the relationship felt beautiful. The first and last time it didn’t feel complicated. The first and last time that Geo’s heart and mind were pure. If she could somehow isolate that one night and remember it all by itself, it might actually be a happy memory. After all, Calvin James was her first love.
But it doesn’t work that way. The past is always with you, whetheryou choose to think about it or not, whether you take responsibility for it or not. You carry the past with you because it transforms you. You can try to bury it and pretend it never happened, but that doesn’t work. Geo knows that from experience.
Because buried things can, and do, come back.
14
1,826 days. That’s how long Geo has been inside Hazelwood. And she would have been free hours ago, except for one small glitch.
The prison is currently on lockdown.
Yolanda Carter, the skinny black inmate also known as Boney, was stabbed in the shower this morning. She was found by a guard during count, and had probably been in the shower for at least an hour already, with inmates coming and going as they got ready for the day. But of course nobody said anything. That’s how things work in prison. Nobody wants to be the “bitch who snitched.”
Geo didn’t see what happened, but according to the rumors—which move faster than lightning in prison—Boney’s death was a scene from a horror movie. The shower, timed to shut off after eight minutes, hadn’t rinsed much away, and the inmate-slash-drug dealer had been found crumpled on the tiled floor dressed in nothing but her shower shoes, covered in her own blood. When Geo heard the news, she wasn’t surprised, especially considering her conversation with the woman the day before. Boney had been moving in on Ella Frank’s turf for a while now, and not only here in Hellwood, but on the outside, too. That’s why Boney had to go. You didn’t threaten a woman’s family. And you sure as shitneverthreatened a woman’s children. Maybe if Boney had given birth to a child, she would have understood that. But she didn’t, and now she’s dead. Everybody knowsit was Ella, even the guards, who’ve been questioning her all morning. Whether they can prove it, however, is a different story.
An alarm bell sounds, signifying the end of the lockdown. Geo swings her legs over the edge of the bed, a sudden sense of urgency flooding over her. It doesn’t take long to organize her things. She doesn’t have much to take with her other than a small notebook filled with numbers, a thin stack of birthday and Christmas cards, and a packet of unopened letters written on blue stationery and tied with string. The cards are from her father, and she stuffs them into the cheap duffel bag they’ve given her. Her dad isn’t much of a writer, signing almost all of them with a simpleChin up, kiddo! Love, Dad, but it doesn’t feel right to throw them away.
The letters give her pause. They’re not from her father, and she’s only read the first one. For the hundredth time, she debates throwing them into the trash, but even now, she can’t bring herself to do it. She stuffs them into the bag with the cards and the notebook. She’s already given her cell phone to Ella, the third one she’s owned since she’s been here. Ella will resell it, probably for three times what it retails for on the outside. And she’ll have no shortage of potential buyers.
Everything else, Geo will leave with Cat. This includes her TV, books, cosmetics, and two blankets she’ll no longer be needing. There’s still no word on whether her friend’s application for compassionate parole has been approved, which is frustrating and makes Geo think she’ll have to try to attack it a different way once she’s on the outside.
She was only five when her mother died of cancer, and there was nothing she could do for her then. Not this time. Not again.
“Thought once the bell sounded, you’d Speedy Gonzales right outta here,” a dry voice says, and she turns.
It’s Cat, smiling at her from the doorway. Geo frowns, even though the other woman looks a lot better today. The color has returned to her face and her eyes are brighter, though it’s clear from the way she’s leaning against the door frame that the older woman is exhausted.
“What are you still doing here?” Geo asks, cross. “You’re supposed to be at your appointment.”
“You think you were gonna leave without saying good-bye?”
“We said our good-byes last night. Cat, these appointments are important.”
“So maybe I want to say good-bye again.” Cat moves past Geo and sits down on the bed. She pats the spot beside her. “It’s just a follow-up. It can wait till tomorrow.”
Geo stifles a sigh and takes a seat on the mattress beside her friend. Cat takes her hand, squeezing her palm.
“In case my parole doesn’t go through, I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” Cat says.
“Your parole will go through.” Geo knows where this conversation is going, and she doesn’t want to have it. She’s not ready. She will never be ready.
Cat sighs. She technically has three years left to go on her sentence, and Geo understands that optimism can be a dangerous thing in here. Optimism can make the minutes feel like days, and three years feel like thirty. But her friend is getting out, come hell or high water. Cat Bonaducci will not die in this shithole, if it’s the last thing Geo does.
“You need to stay positive—” she says, but Cat cuts her off.
“Shush. Don’t interrupt an old woman when she’s speaking. That’s rude.”
