3WW CXCVIII

The words this week were bait, jump, and victim. Here's my take.
I love fiction.

I run this place.

Sure, in the brochure, Galton’s Academy for Troubled Youth seems to be quite the peaceful institution. Rolling green hills, serene walkways…dude, it looks like something out of a retirement home advertisement. You know, those vibrant sunsets and the golf courses and the old people swimming in Olympic pools even though their arthritis should’ve incapacitated them by now? That’s my school. Complete with the old people and pools.

But that‘s about where the truth ends. The administrators and teachers only think they have control over us because we let them. If they think we’re reforming ourselves into little, compliant robots fit for society, they’ll be much more apt to turn the other cheek when one of us comes doesn’t show up for class, or something petty like that. As long as we don’t do something stupid, and allow ourselves to get caught, we’re okay.

And of all us little troublemakers, I’m the one people should really be afraid of. And I’m not saying that because I like to brag; bragging is for people who can’t back their crap up. You know why I got sent here? I didn’t kill anybody, let’s get that straight. I ain’t no killer. Nah, armed robbery. I took my dad’s .45 caliber and headed out to my step-mom’s bank. I held up the place---nobody expected the kid in a suit, talking professional-like. Cops weren’t called or nothing. I struck a deal beforehand, they give me a thirty minute head start, and I’d but the weapon away. I tell you, those tellers. They’re crooked.

Today was an interesting day. See, us Galton kids don’t get to leave, even in the summer. We’re here all year ‘round, and it sucks. It sucks a lot. Mostly because the kids here are here for petty crap, like punching a teacher in the face or something equally stupid. So, there we were, me and my boys. Dan, Grant, and Timothy. They were probably the only people here who weren’t just angst-y teens inspired by that emo band My Chemical One-Night-Stand or some stupid crap like that. So, I chose to befriend them rather than make their lives a living hell. Because, really, we weren’t bad kids. Misguided, yes. Desperate? Completely. But bad? No.

I needed the money, but I’m not even old enough to apply for a job. I’m just thirteen. Why did I need it? My mom had cancer. Leukemia. And her insurance sucked, so she couldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t get enough cash money, but any little bit would help. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t care about dime bags, or coke or the newest crap Apple came out with. I wanted my mom to live. I loved her. Only her. But I did the wrong thing. And now I’m stuck here on court orders. I couldn’t go to her funeral.

Dan…he’s messed up in the head. Comes from a bad hood; it makes Compton look like the O.C. He saw his parents and baby sister shot. Apparently Dan’s dad dealt in the drug scene, but he didn’t do anything outright illegal. Just covered the dealer’s tracks for him. And some junkie somehow found his dad…took them all out. Dan managed to escape and get out of that hood. He was tossed around foster homes, until he did something really stupid. He didn’t just spread around a bomb threat, he actually planted one in his freshman year. Now he’s here.

Grant probably had the best childhood of us. I think he just got mixed up--wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. He lived in a preppy suburb, and was the all-American…the kind of kid that crapped his pants if I came around. He went to a bonfire party one night, they were doing lots of drugs. Nothing crazy, mostly weed and cocaine. His older brother made him carry a dime bag in his pocket for later. Grant didn’t want it. But when the party got busted, he got taken in for possession, ended up here. I think something’s gonna go down when Grant gets out. He’s an angry kid.

Timothy. What can I say about this kid? The oldest of us at seventeen, and quite possibly the least deserving to be here. Dan, Grant, and I did the crimes we were accused of. Timothy insists he’s innocent. In fact, he almost got off. The Juvenile Court prosecutor said so…that they couldn’t make a case. He was accused of assaulting some dumb chick. Timothy swears to God he’s only seen her once--at a graduation party. He doesn’t know where this came from. I’m thinking it’s ‘cause the chick needed a scapegoat for her…activities. Because the evidence against him was circumstantial at best, but the girl’s dad was a regular patron of the court system, donating and all kinds of fancy crap, Timothy got sent here. At least he won’t have to register.

“Dude. Jeremy. I think we got one,” Grant grins, shaking my shoulder to get my attention.

Out of boredom, we’d taken to targeting a kid, possibly beating the crap out of him. It all depended on our mood. Today’s no different. And the kid, our intended victim, looked perfect for a beat down. Five feet seven inches, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.

“What’s he in for?” I ask, scoping our potential victim. He tends to keep to himself--already a bad sign.

Timothy shrugs. “He like beat the living daylights out of his mother and twin sister.”

My eyes narrow. Maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t have a mother anymore, but it strikes me as particularly…evil. He deserves what he’s about to get. I catcall him, telling him he’s a bloody coward for beating on his mother and sister, among other things that ain’t fitting of nobody to say. I challenge him to jump for the bait.

He does. Punches me square in the jaw. The four of us gang up.

He’s as good as done.