At number five stood a young girl with long, blond hair and an innocent-looking face. She had an anxious, deer-caught-in-the-headlights way about her.
“Hi,” she nearly whispered, “I’m Julie. I guess you are moving into my house.”
“Yeah, they said number five,” I replied.
Julie, I thought to myself, was the one called “Say Snitch.” I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think it was the best thing to be her roommate, or cellie (another new word of the prison vocabulary I would learn). Her hands fidgeted nervously and her voice quivered.
“I think something is coming down in the dorm today,” she said.
“Like what?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I just have a bad feeling,” she replied. “You wouldn’t believe how scary it is in here. I’m so glad I get out in four months. What about you? How much time did you get?”
“Five years I guess, but I’m not sure ’cause the judge said five to fifteen,” I told her.
“Oh my God,” she said. “You poor thing… Uh, oh c’mon, it’s time to line up to go to chow.”
In the chow hall, I was the last in a line of over a hundred women. Julie asked me to sit with her and I declined, remembering those accusing voices calling her “Say Snitch.” My eyes dared not meet anyone’s and the whole lower half of my body was shaking under the table. I sat alone and tried to be invisible. No one talked to me, but I sensed hundreds of eyes watching every move I made. The stench of sweaty convicts’ bodies and unidentifiable food odors hung in the air. Nothing felt like it fit. Looking at the food nauseated me.
After count and lunch, I pulled weeds again, wondering about my dorm mates. I thought of the tension that Julie mentioned. Perhaps she was right. Something was coming down. Shit! Maybe they’re after me. My mind rioted. I pulled weeds faster.
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