BLACKBiiRDS

6 | J E T T

M A R C H  1 7 | T H U R S D A Y

Jett and her mother turned onto Nana Vivian's cemented driveway later that evening. 

After tugging the truck's gear shift into park, she and Yolanda gathered their purses, paperwork from court, and their leftover Chinese from lunch. Yolanda headed inside while Jett hung back to text Chrissy another: "thanks. love you" before rounding the truck to go inside. The 2000 Toyota Tacoma was a gift from her boss at the Quarter, Mr. Billy, so Jett refrained from complaining about its creaky doors and inability to get over fifty miles per hour without vibrating ominously and whining in protest. It always managed to get her to and from her destinations safely (thus far) so she'd swallow her ungratefulness for now.

The front door shut as Jett kicked off her four-inch pumps and padded to her room. Her Nana Vivian's one-floor suburban bungalow was silent besides the murmur of the TV coming from the back den, which Jett hadn't realized yet as odd. Yolanda must've decided to catch her evening crime shows in there instead of her room. Since they'd been adjourned from court, her mother had been noticeably quiet, letting Jett and Chrissy enjoy themselves without inserting herself unless directly asked something. She knew it was the Judge's words that were bothering her, but she wasn't about to take her mother's side on this one.

Jett turned the corner at the end of the short hall into her bedroom, thankful for the cool wooden floor against her bare feet, and took down her messy bun. The extra thirty minutes of wand curling her hair that morning wasn't a complete waste of time, the thick tresses still held some curl definition as they tumbled down, warming her neck and shoulders. After unzipping her dress and tossing it onto her already overflowing laundry basket, Jett quickly changed into her comfy cotton shorts and favorite wool sweater.

She was proud of the day she'd just had. To say that her days thus far, all one thousand, sixty-two of them to be exact, had been mundane and excruciatingly predictable was an offensive understatement. Being on probation had been punishment enough for the damage she done to the girl in the cafeteria that fateful day three years ago. Living with her mother and sickly grandmother only added to the depressive oppression.

Ms. Teigan bringing up her violations in court today pricked her nerves. She'd always been an uptight, anal little thing that criticized a lot that Jett did. Her first violation—missing curfew by three minutes two weeks into her sentence—had set such a high standard for her limitations, Jett's anxieties about jeopardizing her freedom any further had been a constant cause of mental exhaustion.

But that was the past. 

And thank freaking God, Jett thought as she lightly straightened up her room before grabbing her leftovers. The end was near and the countdown was front and center in her brain. Just two months and three weeks.

It was only six-thirty, but Jett decided to spend the remainder of her evening in her room, enjoying her half-eaten Honey Walnut Shrimp and fried rice, while game-planning the next two months of probation. That had been her therapy, along with dancing and teaching at the recreational center; journaling out every single detail of her life while serving her time. From the dark moments of near insanity that stretched for weeks, to her students' various reactions and feedback whenever she taught a new routine.

Every minuscule detail was important to her.

Budgeting her money had transformed from a necessity into a true pleasure. Knowing exactly how much she was making each week and then knowing exactly how she would spend it kept her focused and driven. There was no extra room for distractions. Only saving, paying bills, and an occasional treat to new sneakers or eating out.