Juvie by Steve Watkins

occasionally whispering in, Wanda and Nell opposite from me at the far end of the table. The only ones not saying anything are the little Hispanic girl and me.
    Officer C. Miller’s eyes droop shut, though she still stands in the same spot against the wall that she’s been at since we came in. Mr. Pettigrew sits at his desk nearby, his meaty hands working a cell phone or something else with a keypad and a tiny screen.
    Bad Gina’s large friend raps on the table in front of her, then raises her hand.
    Mr. Pettigrew looks up.
    “Permission to use the bathroom,” the girl says in a much higher voice than I expect.
    Mr. Pettigrew nods. C. Miller opens her eyes and nods, too, and Bad Gina’s large friend crosses the room to a small door I didn’t realize was even there next to the crowded bookcases.
    Bad Gina raises her hand next.
    “Permission to change seats by the new girl.”
    “What for?” Mr. Pettigrew asks. All the other girls lift their heads to watch the exchange.
    “She asked me to help her with something in her workbook.”
    Mr. Pettigrew and C. Miller do their nodding thing again, and Bad Gina slides into the seat next to mine.
    “So,” she says with a broad, toothy smile. “What did you need help with?” She grabs my workbook. “Oh, yeah. Here we go. This one is about the American flag. So what it says you do, to hang it the right way, is you send a million American soldiers to Iraq, stomp their Iraq asses, and then you get to hang up the American flag. So the right answer here is D, none of the above.”
    “Got it,” I say, taking the workbook back. “Thanks for your help.”
    She flashes another smile with her blindingly white teeth. The light actually seems to reflect off them. I feel like I need sunglasses to look at her.
    She leans in closer and the smile vanishes. “I know you saw who took the spork last night. It was one of the Jellies, wasn’t it? Wanda Jelly. I know it was. Either that bitch or that bitch’s friend. But it had to be her. She was the closest.”
    “I didn’t see anybody take anything,” I lie. I’m not about to get in the middle of whatever is going on between Bad Gina and the Jelly Sisters — any more than I already have, that is. “I just saw it when we were on the floor. Probably it just fell.”
    “Then how did it end up ten feet away under the bookshelf?” she asks, somehow managing to sound sweet and vaguely threatening at the same time.
    C. Miller stirs from the wall where she’s been sleeping standing up — or that’s how it appears. “Problem over there?” she asks.
    Bad Gina’s blinding smile returns. “Sorry. Were we being too loud? We were just excited because the new girl figured out this problem in her workbook.”
    C. Miller relaxes against the wall again. “Just keep it down. You know the rules.”
    “Yes, sir,” Bad Gina says. I’m surprised C. Miller doesn’t get mad about Bad Gina calling her “sir.” Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to call all the guards, male or female. Maybe it’s just the way Bad Gina says it that makes it OK.
    She slides my workbook back in front of her on the table and points at nothing in particular so it will look as if we’ve moved on to another problem. “So?” she says. “How did it end up there?”
    “Are we still talking about the spork?” I ask.
    “Yes, we’re still talking about the spork,” she says evenly, as if it takes some effort to keep the threatening tone out of her voice.
    “I don’t know,” I say, lying again. “Maybe you dropped it. Maybe it accidentally got kicked there. I don’t know. I wasn’t on spork duty.”
    Bad Gina glances at me sharply, just for a second, eyes like knives, but then softens just as quickly. She laughs softly, too. “You weren’t on spork duty. That’s a good one.”
    It really isn’t a good one. It’s dumb. But I definitely prefer Bad Gina’s smile, and her laugh, to that other look she has — the knife eyes.
    She lays a warm hand on my