know how to shut her mouth, so someone sliced her face open with a razor. What would you do if that happened to you?”
“I’d cut her back,” I said. “As long as the one who sliced my face was walking around with her face sliced open, too, I would wear my scar. I wouldn’t complain,” I said honestly, then shrugged my shoulders like I do when I don’t have nothing else to say.
“You stupid, stupid little girl.” She said it softly but it was heartfelt. I didn’t let Lina see that she hurted my feelings, but she did. I hated to be put down. I hated for anyone to play me like I’m dumb. I hated that I could tell that she really believed that I was stupid. I hated that I liked Lina a lot, and she either couldn’t tell or didn’t care. I hated that now Lina thought I was fighting cause I was a stuck-up, little, stupid bitch, and not because I was defending myself. I’m ten. Lina is either fifteen or sixteen. She is in the beige-tan jail jumper. Why was she coming so hard for me?
Tears bubbled up, then streamed down my face. She got up and came back with a tissue. It was the second time, on our second day of meeting, that she wiped my tears for me, while I was red, my wristcontrolled on a short chain, ankles cuffed to the chair. After she did that, I was feeling hate and love towards her, and I was confused.
“Don’t you know that when you are pretty, everybody expects you to be stupid?” Lina asked me.
She was seated back close to me, pretending to be tutoring me in math. Her question repeated in my mind: Don’t you know that when you’re pretty everyone expects you to be stupid? I sat thinking. Lina is saying that she thinks I’m pretty. That mixed my feelings up for her even more.
“A girl should never be stupid unless she is pretending to be stupid to save her own life,” Lina said.
“I’m not stupid,” I said confidently.
“How does a stupid person know that she’s stupid?” Lina asked me.
I didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” Lina said, as if I had actually answered her question.
“Exactly what?” I asked.
“If you are stupid, you would be too stupid to know it,” she said without smiling or laughing. I still didn’t say nothing.
“When you meet someone who is on your side, start off by introducing yourself. That’s what smart people do,” Lina said.
“That’s not really smart—if I am just meeting someone, how would I know if they are on my side or not? Why would I tell them my name?” I asked, and I meant it. I was looking at Lina, waiting for her to answer.
“I meant . . .,” Lina started to say. “Whatever! I introduced myself to you. I told you I was Lina, number 2, the Diamond Needles. You knew then that I was on your side.”
“Okay. I’m Porsche L. Santiaga. I’m ten. I like music. I like to dance. I don’t like to fight. I don’t start fights with anyone. But I will fight anybody who starts a fight with me, even if I don’t think I can win. I’m pretty. Lina, you’re pretty, too, so you know how it is. These ugly bitches got us surrounded. ”
We both laughed. I exhaled a lot, and then felt easier with Butterscotch Lina, who I had thought had no smile.
“I like your haircut,” I said to Lina suddenly. “Did you cut it yourself?” I asked.
“No, we have a salon in Building A. My girl JinJah cut it. She’s Diamond Needle, number 9,” Lina said.
“She has a jail job?” I asked, all surprised.
“All Diamond Needles got a hustle. The hair hustle is the biggest payday. But chica, I get mines done for free. Me and JinJah in the same clique. So we take care of each other.” Lina put her fingers in her hair, stroking through the soft black-black half curls, stopping at her neck where it was still silky but cut low and clean.
“And these aren’t ‘jail jobs.’ You young, but don’t forget. We’re in prison, not jail. We’re convicted, not on trial. We’re on lockdown, viewed as violent and a threat to society.”
I knew all of that,
“I’d cut her back,” I said. “As long as the one who sliced my face was walking around with her face sliced open, too, I would wear my scar. I wouldn’t complain,” I said honestly, then shrugged my shoulders like I do when I don’t have nothing else to say.
“You stupid, stupid little girl.” She said it softly but it was heartfelt. I didn’t let Lina see that she hurted my feelings, but she did. I hated to be put down. I hated for anyone to play me like I’m dumb. I hated that I could tell that she really believed that I was stupid. I hated that I liked Lina a lot, and she either couldn’t tell or didn’t care. I hated that now Lina thought I was fighting cause I was a stuck-up, little, stupid bitch, and not because I was defending myself. I’m ten. Lina is either fifteen or sixteen. She is in the beige-tan jail jumper. Why was she coming so hard for me?
Tears bubbled up, then streamed down my face. She got up and came back with a tissue. It was the second time, on our second day of meeting, that she wiped my tears for me, while I was red, my wristcontrolled on a short chain, ankles cuffed to the chair. After she did that, I was feeling hate and love towards her, and I was confused.
“Don’t you know that when you are pretty, everybody expects you to be stupid?” Lina asked me.
She was seated back close to me, pretending to be tutoring me in math. Her question repeated in my mind: Don’t you know that when you’re pretty everyone expects you to be stupid? I sat thinking. Lina is saying that she thinks I’m pretty. That mixed my feelings up for her even more.
“A girl should never be stupid unless she is pretending to be stupid to save her own life,” Lina said.
“I’m not stupid,” I said confidently.
“How does a stupid person know that she’s stupid?” Lina asked me.
I didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” Lina said, as if I had actually answered her question.
“Exactly what?” I asked.
“If you are stupid, you would be too stupid to know it,” she said without smiling or laughing. I still didn’t say nothing.
“When you meet someone who is on your side, start off by introducing yourself. That’s what smart people do,” Lina said.
“That’s not really smart—if I am just meeting someone, how would I know if they are on my side or not? Why would I tell them my name?” I asked, and I meant it. I was looking at Lina, waiting for her to answer.
“I meant . . .,” Lina started to say. “Whatever! I introduced myself to you. I told you I was Lina, number 2, the Diamond Needles. You knew then that I was on your side.”
“Okay. I’m Porsche L. Santiaga. I’m ten. I like music. I like to dance. I don’t like to fight. I don’t start fights with anyone. But I will fight anybody who starts a fight with me, even if I don’t think I can win. I’m pretty. Lina, you’re pretty, too, so you know how it is. These ugly bitches got us surrounded. ”
We both laughed. I exhaled a lot, and then felt easier with Butterscotch Lina, who I had thought had no smile.
“I like your haircut,” I said to Lina suddenly. “Did you cut it yourself?” I asked.
“No, we have a salon in Building A. My girl JinJah cut it. She’s Diamond Needle, number 9,” Lina said.
“She has a jail job?” I asked, all surprised.
“All Diamond Needles got a hustle. The hair hustle is the biggest payday. But chica, I get mines done for free. Me and JinJah in the same clique. So we take care of each other.” Lina put her fingers in her hair, stroking through the soft black-black half curls, stopping at her neck where it was still silky but cut low and clean.
“And these aren’t ‘jail jobs.’ You young, but don’t forget. We’re in prison, not jail. We’re convicted, not on trial. We’re on lockdown, viewed as violent and a threat to society.”
I knew all of that,
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