Unlike You

Four

"You what!?" I scream. If they think I'm going to some support group, they are dearly mistaken.

"It's a support group for girls and boys just like you who have gotten out of juvenile detention. I think-"

"You think what? That it will fix me? Well, here's a little heads up. I. Will. Never. Be fixed," I state before storming away from the table. I barge into my room, slamming the door behind me.

What the hell is wrong with them? My best friend died which ended up with me in a juvenile detention center for a year. What do they think a support group will fix about that?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I sit in my bed for about an hour until I hear a soft knock on my door.

"Go away!" I call.

The door creaks open anyway and I see Myra's head pop in. My eyebrows stitch together in confusion as she steps further into my room. She has gotten taller. She was a foot shorter than me before I left, now, she can't be less than six inches below me.

"Hey," she says softly.

"Hey, kid. What's up?" I ask, patting the bed next to me. She sits down beside me, not meeting my eyes.

"Can you go to the support group?" she asks.

"You don't get it, kid. I did what I thought was right, and they caught me. I deserved to go to that place. I don't need some support group to tell me that," I explain.

"But you don't seem happy anymore, Ser. I want you to be happy. I overheard mom and dad's conversation and they said that a bunch of kids your age go daily and they live normal lives. Can you do it? For me?" She lifts her eyes to mine and all I see in them is desperation.

"Fine," I sigh. "But if I don't like it, I'm out."

A smile spreads across her face as she embraces me in a giant hug. I laugh as I wrap my arms around her small body.

This is probably the greatest hug I've ever received.

~*~

My mom told me to wear something acceptable, so I choose a pair of jean shorts that reach like, three inches above my mid-thighs, a black tank top, and a white crop top from Target.

My mom rolls her eyes at my outfit choice as we step into the car.

"You can't say anything because I have had to wear an orange jumpsuit for an entire year. I think I should enjoy the freedom."

Mom shrugs in response before starting the car. We drive down the road in silence, my mom focused on the road, while I attempt to remember everything around me. My mom told me before we left that the support group is held in the auditorium of some high school on the other side of town every other day, including Saturdays and Sundays. Sounds like torture, but what can you do?

I watch the many stores pass by like corner convenience stores, small chain pizza restaurants, a few nail and hair salons, and a gas station here and there. I recognize most of them, some better than others. I watch as people walk on the the sidewalks, eyeing our car suspiciously. I wouldn't blame them. I would stare too if a seventeen year old delinquent were to drive by me.

I look away from their menacing stares and gaze down at my shorts. I start to wonder if my parents stopped visiting after the town started to know my name. It's not impossible. Everyone knows what happened last year. Not one person doesn't know.

Slight anger starts to bubble inside my stomach as we pull into the parking lot of the school. My eyes lift to the school where I see a large sign with Elton Smith High School printed in large, blue letters.