Page 62 of Rush
The smell takes me back before I can stop it.
Concrete and sweat and the metallic tang of blood.
Juvie.
I set down the wrench and close my eyes, but that makes it worse because now I can see it.
I'm thirteen years old and the intake officer is processing me like I'm cargo.
"Strip, hands on the wall."
I do what he says because I don't have a choice. The cavity search is humiliating but I don't cry.
Crying is weakness. I learned that on day one.
They give me an orange jumpsuit and rubber shoes that don't fit right, then they walk me through a series of locked doors.
Each one clangs shut behind me and the sound echoes.
The smell hits me first—sweat and bleach and something else I can't name yet.
Fear, I'll learn later. It's fear.
They put me in a cell with another kid. He's maybe fifteen and doesn't look at me when I walk in.
"Top bunk's yours," he says.
I climb up and lie down. The mattress is thin and it smells like piss.
Welcome to juvie.
The first week I keep my head down and my mouth shut. I watch and I learn.
The kid in my cell is named Marcus and he runs things on our block. Everyone defers to him.
He's built like he's been lifting since he was ten, and he's got dead eyes that don't blink enough.
"You stay out of my way and we're good," he tells me on day three.
"Okay."
"You got commissary money?"
"No."
"Then you're gonna have a problem."
He's right. Within a week, everyone knows I don't have money for commissary.
Marcus decides I owe him anyway.
I'm in the showers when he corners me, two other guys with him for backup.
"You owe me," he says.
"I don't have anything."
"Then you're gonna work it off."
