“Always.”

We talked for the remaining time we had together. April promised that she would come to visit me again as soon as she could, assuming her parents would bring her across town and assuming I would still be in juvenile. I went back to the cell area where I was by myself, apparently I picked the weekend to fight with my dad when everyone else was a perfect angel or had killed some old man and had not been caught. Which was great because I didn’t really want to answer the “why ya here” question.

On Monday, I was still there. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t care really. It wasn’t like I had anything to call my own at home anymore. I was pretty sure Dad had barked-or maybe wheezed-the order to complete what he started: removing everything from my room that held meaning to me.
All of my clothes: burn them-assuming they couldn’t be sold.
My notebooks; burn them.
The earrings, bracelets, the destroyed pendant? Toss it into the burning barrel.
Yep, everything could be cleansed by fire.

It wasn’t until Tuesday morning that my mother, reluctantly, I will add, posted bail for me. We drove home in absolute silence, not even the radio, and during the entire drive no tears were shed, no questions were asked and no “your father” this or “we felt” that. A part of me kind of wanted to be grilled so that all of the feelings they made me bottle up would come gushing out like mentos and Diet Coke.

My room was bare; with the exception of the wooden door and the window , it looked just like juvie, so I guess I was in a familiar environment.

My dresser of clothes, gone. There jeans, shirts, shirts but all of them were the hand-me-downs from my brother and of the kid who once lived into he room with him. I didn’t even have a mirror, probably because they feared I’d shatter it and make a shank or something.

They were probably right.

I walked into the closet and saw that it too was bare—except for the back corner where the wall didn’t seem to fit. This was where I hid the suit and a few pieces of underwear.
They had this battle, but not the war.

At dinner, it was once again the silent treatment. My father didn’t look my way once, but I looked at him to see he had quite the shiner on his cheek. Yeah, I wanted to smile at my handiwork and I think Mike Tyson would have been proud, I knew April would.

Mom made a few faces like she was uncomfortable and maybe she wanted to say something then but it was like the family took a vow of silence under duress, or maybe to make me feel under duress. I mean, if this was how it was going to be they should have left me juvie.

“You came ‘this close’ to me letting you rot in jail!”
I didn’t reply to dad as he stood in the doorway of my room. I really wanted to slam the door in his face but figured it would just erupt into daddy-daughter brawl : the sequel.
“We got rid of all that girl crap.”
Funny, since he was married to and had a daughter that he called it ‘crap’.
“You’re going to school tomorrow and you will wear the appropriate clothes for. A. Boy”
Yeah, he had to emphasize that for the studio audience, my brother, who standing behind him.
“Stop acting like a fag,” he said.
I wanted to flip him off and ask them both about John but instead I refused to look at him or give him any satisfaction.
“Go to bed!” Dad yelled as he turned around and walked away.
I quietly closed the door but my brother forced the it open. He welded a pair of scissors.