Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
X changes the subject, telling me about some of the guys we used to play football with who he’s been in touch with on Facebook. The diner is filling up, and my mind doesn’t stay on Kyle Healey and Jackson White and whatever the hell they’re doing now.
“All right, Colin, get to the point, would you?”
“What?”
“Come on, man, you’re taking time off from the shop and being all secretive about it, and you call me up, ask me to meet you for breakfast—which you never do—and now you’re zoning out. You got something to get off your chest, just say it, ’cause your… whatever is making me nervous.”
He gestures to the table in front of me where I’ve forced everything—sugar packets, condiments, jelly pods, napkins, crumbs, and cutlery—into a tight grid pattern. I clear my throat and try to force myself to mess it up, but X waves me off.
“You okay, bro?”
I nod, but now that we’re here, I don’t even know exactly what I want to ask him.
“Um. You don’t—do you know anyone who’s been in prison?”
“You in trouble, C?” Xavier’s immediately on guard, leaning in to me, his expression fierce. I relax a little. This is the guy who’s known me since we were freshmen in high school, the guy who’s always had my back.
“Nah,” I say. “Just, like, do you think… do you think someone who’s been in jail is… super fucked up?”
X looks confused. “Well, yeah, in some ways, because prison is terrible. But I don’t think only fucked-up people end up in prison if that’s what you mean.” He sounds like he’s measuring his words carefully.
“Fuck, I don’t know what I mean. I just, um—” I can’t tell Rafe’s personal business, even if it is to Xavier.
“Does this have something to do with these kids you’re teaching about cars?”
“Kind of.”
“Ah, look, C. It’s cool if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on. But, can I just—” He leans in, sounding almost apologetic. “Look, man, you’re… white.”
I laugh. “You only noticing that now?”
“Just, you know, you hear prison and maybe you think, yeah, the person did something wrong. But folks go to jail every day for the shit that white guys get away with. Like, remember, that cop caught you and Brian smoking weed in the park and let you off with a warning? My ass would’ve been in deep shit. For real. So, do I think people who’ve spent time inside are necessarily criminals? No way.
“Angela’s stepbrother served six years in Georgia for hot-wiring a car and driving it around the block. Only, right before he got it back, he got stopped because one of the taillights was out. He freaked and the cops thought he seemed suspicious so they pulled him out of the car and searched it. There was an unlicensed gun in the glove compartment and he had an ounce of weed on him. He was charged with grand theft auto, possession of an unlicensed firearm—even though it wasn’t his—and possession with the intent to distribute. It was total bull. Dude should’ve gotten a misdemeanor for joyriding and they never should’ve searched shit.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Angela was so pissed because he didn’t call her for advice and got some shitty public defender instead. She said if she’d gotten him a real lawyer, they could’ve gotten that time way down. Anyway. I mean, as for what can happen to people in prison… yeah, I think it’s pretty fucking grim, man.”
“Yeah.”
“So, if one of these kids is in trouble or something… I don’t know, maybe Angela could help? At least help hook them up with a criminal lawyer.” I always forget what kind of lawyer Angela is. Something with building permits, maybe?
“Nah, it’s not like that, but thanks, man. Yeah, I’ve just been thinking about it, I guess.”
“Yeah, okay, C.” X looks suspicious, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.
“Hey,” I say. “Thanks, man. Thanks for meeting me.”
“I’m glad you called, bro. You should come to the house sometime. Come for dinner or to hang out. Watch a game?”
“Aw, man. I just—Angela hates me. You don’t have to pretend she doesn’t. It’s awkward, you know?”
X sighs and rubs his temples. “She doesn’t hate you. But… you’re never serious in front of her. You don’t act like you do with me. You act like you do at the bar. So, she thinks you’re a player and she doesn’t like when I go out with you because she… you know.”
I snort. “Seriously? That’s what she thinks? That we’re, like, picking up women?”
X chuckles. “I know. I tried to tell her you’re not into it, but, hell.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean, not into it?”
X freezes and tries to cover it up by rubbing his nose. “Oh. Well, you know, just like, that you aren’t like that.” He laughs but it sounds forced.