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319 pages, Hardcover
First published March 24, 2015
On this night, the first Saturday of that now-infamous August, there were forty-one girls locked up in the Aurora Hills Secure Juvenile Detention Center in the far northern reaches of the state, which meant we were one shy of full capacity. We weren't yet forty-two.
As I watched, a gust of wind blew what appeared to be a bundle of loose twigs and leaves across the grimy floor. It looked like no one had cleaned the floor in years.
I didn't think, not consciously, about what I did next. I started down the stairs, straight for the intruder. She was connected to this, somehow. She'd made this happen. I reached flat ground and went running. I sped up so much that I couldn't get my feet to stop and almost rammed into her, and I wanted her to fall, wanted her flat on her back doing some explaining.
Except there was no her.
I rammed through air.
We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn't see how close we were to the end.
We were gasoline rushing for a lit match. We bared our teeth. Balled fists.
When a dancer finds herself onstage, before an audience, and comes upon that dreaded moment that can happen even to the best of us, when her mind empties of her choreography in a flood of panic, there are three different reactions she can have. In each one, she’s like a wild animal in the headlights, but the question is, which animal will she be tonight?
Maybe, long ago, we used to be good. Maybe all little girls are good in the beginning.
I knew that just because people on the outside were free and clean, it didn’t mean they were the good ones.
Not one of us was truly innocent, not when we were made to stand in the light, our bits and cavities and cavity fillings exposed.
We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn't make heads or tails of the darkness, so we couldn't see how close we were to the end.
They say nothing, do nothing. I can hear them all breathe.
~Thank you Algonquin Books for sending me this copy!~
"We kept forgetting, and we also couldn't let go."
“We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn't see how close we were to the end.”
Home is where the heart is, and where the hell is, and where the hate is, and where the hopelessness is. Which made Aurora Hills pretty much like home.
When people decide there's ugliness inside you, they'll be looking to find it on your face.
People can't move on until the finger is pointed, and the gavel's come down. This is called closure, and it's also called justice, and they are not always the same thing.
I knew that just because people on the outside were free and clean, it didn't mean they were the good ones. They were the worst kind of liars. They were total assholes. They were traitors. They were bitches. They were snitches. They were cowards. They claimed they had your best interests at heart, but really they were in it for themselves. They said what they wanted about us. They threw us under buses, and then they walk away. Not everything said about us by those on the outside was the truth, not even close.
Not one of us was truly innocent, not when we were made to stand in the light, our bits and cavities and cavity fillings exposed. When we faced this truth inside ourselves, it somehow felt more ugly than the day we witnessed the judge say "guilty" and heard the coatroom cheer.
Maybe, long ago, we all used to be good. maybe all little girls are good in the beginning. … But something happened to us between then and now. Something threw sand in our eyes, ground it in, and we couldn't get it out. We still can't.
We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn’t make heads or tails of the darkness, so we couldn’t see how close we were to the end.
We went wild that hot night. We howled; we raged; we screamed. We were girls – some of us fourteen and fifteen; some sixteen, seventeen – but when the locks came undone, the doors of our cells gaping open and no one to shove us back in, we made the noise of savage animals, of men.
Ori would have seen through my once white, now red-stained leotard and the white, now red-spattered froof of my tutu, to what’s inside. Not the second leotard under the first one, but deeper, under my skin. The gross parts of the person I really am, the blood and guts, the ugliness, the slimy secrets, the liar I’m hiding in there, the true person I am, tangled up with the worms and the rot.
Maybe, long ago, we used to be good. Maybe all little girls are good in the beginning.