The Lost Boy

…” he said, rubbing his forehead.
    “David, ” Rudy said in a reassuring voice as he held my shoulders, “I know I bark at you quite a bit, and you may think I’m an ogre. But I do care about you; otherwise I would have shipped you out of here a long time ago. You’re in some mighty hot water, and there’s not a thing I can do. That’s why I’m so upset. But no matter what happens, I want you to know that we care for you.” He stopped for a moment to rub his eye. He stared down at me and massaged the tops of my shoulders. “I’m sorry, son, but it’s out of my hands. Tomorrow I have to take you to Hillcrest.” Tears began to trickle down Rudy’s face.

7 – Mother’s Love
    As Rudy Catanze drove me to San Mateo County Juvenile Hall, I nearly blacked out from hyperventilation. The upper part of my chest felt as if a giant rubber band were tied around it. Even as Rudy gave me his last-minute advice, I couldn’t concentrate because I was so terrified of what would happen to me next. The night before, Larry Jr had been very descriptive about what the bigger, older boys did to the young, soft, puny kids – the “fresh meat.” I felt so degraded as I stripped in front of the counselor during my in-processing, spread my butt cheeks before I showered, then put on the stale-smelling “county clothes.”
    I shuddered when the thick oak door to my cell slammed shut behind me. It took me less than a minute to examine my new environment. The walls were composed of dirty white cinder blocks. The cell had a faded, waxed cement floor. I stuffed my wet towel, change of underwear and socks in the tiny shelf. I sat on the foot of the wall-mounted bed and felt an urgent need to go to the bathroom – when I noticed there was no toilet in the cell. After I covered my head with the black wool blanket, the invisible bands around my chest began to loosen. Moments later I drifted off to sleep.
    The first time the door to my cell opened for afternoon recreation time, I walked down the hall as if I were walking on eggshells. The other kids seemed more like giant, walking tree stumps than they did teenagers. In my first few days I developed a plan for survival. I would fade into the background so as not to draw attention and, for once, keep my alligator-sized mouth clamped shut. During my initial week at Hillcrest, six frenzied fights broke out in front of me, three of them over whose turn it was to play pool. I bumped into a few walls as I spent a lot of time with my head bent down for fear of making eye contact, and I stayed the farthest away from the pool table.
    I breathed a little easier when I was transferred from the new-detainee section, the A-Wing, to the upstairs C-Wing section that housed the smaller, more hyperactive kids. I learned that the new wing’s set of directives were less strict. I didn’t feel the need to scurry to my cell, the way I had whenever the staff from the A-Wing turned their backs as the kids were sent to their rooms. The counselors in C-Wing seemed more open, more out-going when dealing with the kids. I felt safe.
    One afternoon I was unexpectedly called from the recreation room. Moments later I discovered I had a visitor. As the counselor instructed me on the visiting procedures, my stomach tightened from excitement. Up until that moment, I did not know I could be seen by anyone, so I wondered who had come all the way to Hillcrest to visit me.
    As I burst through the small door, visions of Ms Gold and Lilian filled my head. A second later my body became limp. Behind the tiny desk, Father sat with his chair against the wall. Besides Mother, Father was the last person I wanted to see while I stayed at juvenile hall.
    My hands trembled as I reached for a chair.
    “So, David, ” Father said in an emotionless tone. “How are you?”
    “Fine, sir, ” I replied, as I tried to avoid Father’s gaze.
    “Well … you’ve grown some. How long has it been?”
    “About a year, sir.”
    My eyes inched up Father’s body. I tried to remember the last time I truly looked at him.
Was it when I lived at The House?
I asked myself. Leaning on the small table in front of me, Father seemed so thin. His face and neck were dark red and leathered. His once finely combed hair was now an oily gray. He coughed every few seconds. His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and fumbled for a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and tapped it on the table before lighting it. After a few drags, his hands