Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 7: Commissary Candybars

After breakfast is finished and I've scraped the rest of the questionable orange mush into the trash (Shiv insisted it was peaches but I would have guessed carrot), Garda Girdle comes to collect me to show me to the commissary.

"A 'Miller' put money into your account this morning," she says, as we approach yet another steel barred door. Out of politeness, I almost move to hold it open for her, but one arch of her finely-penciled eyebrows reminds me my hands aren't allowed to leave my waistband.

"Mike Miller?"

It annoys me that I sound so impressed. (Really, it's the least he could do for me, after I took the fall for us both!) But seeing the commissary's rows of chips, cookies, toothpaste, and sanitary products, I can't help but be touched by the gesture. I reach for a tube of deodorant, tearing up a bit at the thought of how normal it makes me feel just to hold it.

The commissary isn't well stocked. There are only blue Powerades, no reds; only two options of tampons – heavy flow or super; and any food that doesn't come in a foil bag (Doritos, Ramen, Hostess cakes) looks expired. A bowl of oranges, half-rotting, sits next to the register. The whole room smells strongly of artificial lemons, thanks to the hand sanitizer the commissary's guard is liberally applying.

Girdle wrinkles her nose at me, shoots me a warning look, and stalks behind the register.

"Kristina Kelly finally got out," she says to the commissary guard in a stage whisper loud enough for me to hear. "Surprised she went easily, would have expected her to pick a fight on her last day, get time added! I had her pegged for a lifer, liked being a big fish in a small prison cell, you know? She was one of the top girls in here–"

Girdle glares at me and I drop the deodorant stick I'm holding, shoving my hands back into the waistbands of my pants, reflexively – it's quickly becoming a habit. I've only been here a few hours and I'm scared to cross her already.

As if contaminated just by the sight of me, the commissary guard scowls and applies another large pump of hand sanitizer.

As if contaminated by the sight of me... I'm a human being!

Defiantly, I pull my hands out of my waistband and stretch, splaying my fingers over my head, pretending like I'm yawning. I make eye contact with Girdle the whole time. Then I bend to pick the deodorant can off the floor.

I'm not a caged animal, I remind myself – no matter how jail might make me feel. Despite the fact that I walk by her heels in the hallway, and put my hands in my pants when she asks, I'm not some dog that Garda Girdle can train. I'll follow the rules in the hallway, in the common areas – but in my own cell, and at the commissary, and anywhere else where I'm afforded a scrap of human decency, I'm going to make my own decisions. I stare down Girdle sweetly, trying to look equal parts innocent and assertive.

Cave-girl brain... Shiv's voice swims in my memory. You need to have something to hold onto in here, some hit of dopamine. The Gardas won't break me, I decide. And if I decide I want to talk to Steak, Grifta won't be able to stop me...

Should my dopamine-delivery boy be Steak? Or Mike? Maybe his kindness – the deodorant, or whatever else I choose to buy with the money – can sustain me until my arraignment... At least someone still cares about me in the outside world... It's a touching thought, and I hold onto it tightly.

I pick out a pack of floss, some Doritos, and a chocolate bar, telling myself I won't need to make the money last because I'll be out of here as soon as I see my judge. (Shiv has to be right, doesn't she? Stealing a couple of fireworks, after the window to sell them has passed, can hardly be considered a felony. Technically illegal, sure, but nothing to be locked away for – like a California rolling stop or opening your parents mail when you suspect it's a Christmas present for yourself.)

"Ready to check out?" Garda Girdle asks.

The commissary guard rings up the chips, chocolate, and floss.

"Thank you–" As I reach for them, Girdle puts a manicured hand in my way. She hovers over the Doritos, then slides them across the counter to me, slowly. I stuff them into my waistband. Like she's dealing cards, Garda Girdle passes me the floss next. I take it, and wait for the chocolate. Girdle hesitates, picks it up, and says, "Well, hands in your waistband then."

She eats my candy bar on the walk back.