The Center

Chapter 7 - to escape the necessity of choice."

Once when I was about ten-years old, a neighborhood boy tried to pull down my pants. I ended up smacking the crap out of him. I am never the victim. Never overwhelmed. But here? I have no power. No call to my uncle can undo the humiliation of a cavity search.

I don't say anything as I pull on someone else's underwear. I don't say anything as I button a khaki shirt that matches the khaki pants I'm wearing. Not even the Velcro tennis shoes can inspire fighting words. One thought and one thought only gets me through.

Make the call.

Make the call.

Make the freaking call and get out of this place.

The female guard who wore the gloves comes in and escorts me to an old-fashioned phone booth. "Dial zero, the operator will place your call."

I close the accordion style door and sit down. I pull my feet up onto the small wooden seat and hug my knees. There's probably a camera hiding in the corner. I'm sure they watch me. With the glass door closed, I feel less vulnerable knowing I'm physically alone.

The phone isn't antique, maybe fifty years old. A square metal box with the receiver hanging in the center. I pick up the handset. It is large and strangely more comfortable than my rectangular cell phone. I tuck it next to my ear and press the cold metal zero.

"Hi, Courtney, who do you want to call?" A male voice asks.

I wonder for less than a second how they knew it was me on the phone. The cameras might not be in the booth, but I'm still being watched. "My Uncle John."

"Which number?"

My heart stops. I don't know his number. I don't know anyone's number. I have contacts in my cell phone, not memorized numbers. I hang up the phone. Frustration and anger and powerlessness overwhelm me.

It's all too much. This place has beaten me. They have all my stuff.

All of it.

They have my phone. My clothes. My dignity. I tighten my arms around my legs. Before I can dive into a deep sob, the phone shouts out a shrill ring. I stare at it and jump when it rings a second time. I don't want to touch it, but it continues to ring. It's not like I have a choice. It's not like I have any choices anymore. Rowena was right. They can do anything to me they want. I'm a prisoner. Deflated and tired, I pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"You okay?"

A stupid question. The stupidest. But I don't tell the operator that, instead I simply say, "I don't have my uncle's phone number memorized."

"Don't worry about that." His laugh flips a switch in me. Arrogant jerk. "We have a list. I wanted to know which number, meaning, home, cell or office." My sadness turns to anger.

"Why didn't you say that?"

"Sorry."

I feel the upper hand return. "His cell phone." I drop my feet on the ground. "Call his cell phone."

"You've got it." His chipper voice makes me want to climb through the phone and strangle him, but he stands between me and freedom. After a couple of clicks, the internal ringing of my uncle's phone sounds warm in my ear. Strange, I know, but it fills me with hope. It is the first familiar thing I've heard since I arrived.

It reminds me of civilization and school and home.

"Hello?" It's him. I can hardly believe it.

"Uncle John." His name trips over the tears in my throat. I swallow. Don't be a cry-baby. I exhale and say more clearly, "You've got to get me out of here."

"Courtney?"

"Yes. Come get me." I swallow again.

"What's wrong?" The concern in his voice moves the tears to the brim of my eyes.

"It's awful. Thisplace is awful." The words stick. I can't tell him what they just did to me. Ican never tell anyone about that.

"Come on, Court, it can't be that bad."

"It is," I plea, "I promise. Please. This place is horrible."

"But I was just there in January. I took a full tour."

No way. "You did?" He doesn't know. He can't know. He's the one person in my life who loves me. He's the only person who can save me.

"I wouldn't let your mom send you there without seeing it for myself."

"They must not have told you about the Tasers."

"For the lottery kids? Don't tell me they put one on you."

"You know about the lottery kids?" My stomach hurts. I rub my belly hoping his admissions don't trigger another puking episode.

"Sure." I can see his face in my mind. His relaxed smile. His arm draped over the chair. "Courtney, the Tasers help those kids behave."

"You know they have real criminals here?"

"Don't be a snob." His tone is parental and condescending. No fun-uncle attitude. "There are kids in the system that can really benefit from the structure and discipline The Center offers."

"But not me. I'm not one of those."

"I know. But, if it wasn't The Center, it would have been detention or jail."

At some level I know he's right. I pick at a sticker on the phone's frame. "Do you know about the cameras?"

"Yes."

"Even in the bathroom?" This is horrible. Somehow this whole conversation is worse than anything I've experienced so far. I shouldn't feel betrayed by him, but I do. I feel overwhelmingly betrayed.

"Courtney, you could be in a much worse place. The Center isn't heaven, but it certainly isn't hell."

He doesn't know. He can't know. There's no way he was strip searched on his tour.

"Give it a try. Besides, I have some good news for you."

I don't say anything.

"I'm sending you a visitor."

I don't want a visit. I want out. And while his words run from his mouth to my ears, I realize that not even Uncle John cares enough about me to set me free. He is happy I'm here. He believes in this place. There isn't a person in the world who will come and rescue me.

While my uncle is in mid-sentence, I hang up slowly. I don't have anything more to say to him. Not even good-bye. I have to find a way to get out of this place all by myself. Escape. Maybe I could hide in the Snowcat and slip through the electric fence. Dodge the cameras. I might freeze my bottom off, but all other options have expired.