Somewhere Between Luck and Trust. Emilie Richards
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of reasons, some of them as mundane as curfews or zits. Dawson took anger to a new level, or at least he seemed to. To look at him, anyone would think the boy’s fury was about to boil over into something destructive. Today no one who walked through school doors anywhere had forgotten the lessons of Columbine.
Georgia knew better than to be taken in by appearances. She believed, backed up by psychological testing and the careful monitoring of his teachers, that Dawson was only a threat to himself. Not that the boy was suicidal. There was no hint of that. He was simply determined to destroy any possible hope for a satisfying future.
Dawson’s IQ was in the genius range. He read voraciously and could, if it suited him, quote long passages from Sartre and Camus, as well as Bob Dylan and entire episodes of South Park. When he wasn’t harvesting hay or feeding chickens, he was teaching himself Latin or Chinese for fun. His parents were pleasant, churchgoing people who wanted the best for him, but so far nobody had been able to get through to him. Dawson sabotaged every effort. He refused to turn in papers or homework. He never completed projects. If a test seemed silly, he turned in a blank page. He was determined to ruin his life.
The skateboarding was an excellent example.
“How did you get in?” Georgia asked.
“The way I always do.” He paused, and when she didn’t respond, he elaborated. “Through the front door.”
“Our fault, then. But what are you doing here so early?”
“You know us farmer types. Up with the roosters.”
“There are no roosters in this hallway.”
“I figured if I got here early, my father couldn’t find anything else for me to do at home.”
That, she suspected, was the truth.
“So you came complete with skateboard?” she asked.
He shrugged again.
She held out her hand. “No skateboards at BCAS.”
“The rules here get dumber and dumber.”
“Don’t hang yourself on this one.”
“Who am I hurting, anyway?”
“Dawson, it’s clear to everybody at this school that you try to deflect your bad behavior by arguing. I won’t play that game, and neither will your teachers. Hand me the skateboard.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to store it for you until the end of next week, when you can petition me to get it back.”
“Are you fu—” He caught himself. “Are you kidding me?”
“Pay attention. I don’t kid.”
She watched him debate with himself. She imagined the colorful conversation inside his head. The boy was rapidly going through all the alternatives and consequences, and he wouldn’t miss a one.
Scowling, he held out the board.
“Here’s an alternate solution,” she said when the skateboard, scuffed and well used, was tucked under her arm. “Tony, the custodian, is mopping the kitchen. I’m sure the lunchroom could use a good mopping, too. Ask him to bring out another mop, and the two of you can finish the job together.”
“If I wanted to do stupid chores, I would have stayed home.”
“If you want to get your skateboard back a couple of days earlier, you’ll make the effort. Otherwise I’ll escort you outside now, where you can wait until the doors open officially.”
“It’s cold out there.” He was wearing a thin flannel shirt. If he had a jacket, he’d left it in the pickup he drove to school.
“Then I’d factor that into my decision,” she said.
“You don’t like me, do you?”
“What have you shown me that I could like?” She asked the question without rancor.
“Don’t they pay you for that?”
“They pay me to educate you.”
“I—”
She held up her hand. She’d let Dawson engage her when she shouldn’t have. The boy was a master, but she was back on track.
“We’re done here,” she said. “Make your decision.”
Muttering, he started toward the hallway that bisected this one and led to the kitchen. She considered following to be sure he arrived at his destination, but she decided when she saw Tony later in the day, she would ask him.
Hopefully when he was emptying her trash.
The clock overhead claimed it wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m. She’d had two confrontations, and the day ahead of her promised more. But her day wouldn’t be as difficult as Samantha’s, or for that matter, the young woman Cristy’s, who would be leaving the North Carolina Correctional Institution for Women after eight months. She wondered what Cristy was thinking now. She wondered what Samantha had seen in Cristy that had convinced her that living at the Goddess House would be the right thing to help the girl heal.
She wondered if Cristy Haviland felt any remorse for walking out of a jewelry store in Yancey County with a diamond engagement ring concealed in her shopping bag. Had giving birth to a son in prison, a son quickly taken away from her, helped her see that the straight and narrow might be a better path through life?
Were the women who laughingly referred to themselves as the anonymous goddesses about to make their first real mistake?
She turned back toward her office. The day was going to be a long one, with a long weekend ahead. All she could do was put one foot in front of the other and hope for the best.
Chapter Two
SAMANTHA FERGUSON WAS sorry the prison hadn’t transferred Cristy to a facility closer to Asheville before her release. Even though she’d had to leave home early, she hadn’t minded the drive to and from Raleigh to pick the girl up. With the help of a travel mug of dark coffee and CDs of Beyoncé and Tim McGraw, she’d made good time.
Unfortunately, by now Cristy would already be exhausted and edgy, and a shorter trip to the Goddess House would have been preferable. Undoubtedly the world was going to seem like a very different place after the months of incarceration, and the young woman would be on emotional and mental overload. In the next weeks she would need rest, good food and good company if she asked for it.
Most of all she would need a chance to begin reassembling the tragic jigsaw puzzle of her life.
A friend on staff at NCCIW had briefed Samantha on today’s procedure. Early rising, breakfast and good luck wishes from the other prisoners in her quad, then transfer to the area where she would be strip-searched before she was allowed to shower and change into the clothing she had arrived in eight months before. She would complete paperwork, take the bag with her belongings and wait outside with one of the officers while Sam pulled around to pick her up.
Finally, after one last stop at the booth where the gate officer would remove the final barrier, Cristy would be free. Her sentence served. Her debt to the good people of North Carolina paid in full.
Her future a question mark.
Samantha had arrived fifteen minutes ago. She had popped the trunk of her car and allowed a hyperactive German shepherd a quick sniff inside, opened the rear doors to show there was nothing on the seat, then waited while a cursory search had been conducted in the front. Now a guard in an official blue uniform motioned for her to get back in to enter the grounds. She knew the routine better than most, because she had helped conduct classes here in the fall.
“She’ll be waiting,” he told her. “They say she’s all set.”
She thanked him and got in her car, pulling it up in front of the gate