Strays by Jennifer Caloyeras Read Free Book Online Page A

to be at my trial.
    â€œYou have to be there,” I said.
    â€œWhat time?” he asked.
    â€œTwo-thirty,” I lied, hoping that faking an earlier start time would get him there by three.
    I watched as he entered be at trial into his phone calendar. Sometimes I wanted to grab his phone and hurl it into the ocean.
    â€œYou have to put it into your phone to remember?”
    â€œIris, you know how busy things are for me right now. I can’t keep it all straight. If it’s not in my phone, it doesn’t exist.”
    I poured myself the last of the coffee.
    â€œIris, no more coffee.”
    I rolled my eyes.
    â€œTwo-thirty at the courthouse,” I said as Dad dashed out the door to work.
    I took a seat and gave myself a moment to breathe. I’d been dreading this day for two weeks, but at the same time, I was looking forward to getting it over with. I just wanted to fast-forward through time to my life post-sentencing—whatever my fate may be.
    I had only one outfit appropriate to wear in court—the dress I’d worn to my mother’s funeral. Even though it was two years old, it still fit; the rayon stretched as my body grew. When I first bought the dress in a secondhand store on Melrose Avenue in Hollywood, I imagined all of the fun parties I’d get to wear it to. It was stylish and graceful but also rebellious, with an aquamarine sheen shimmering underneath the black tulle.
    When my mom died, it was the only dress I owned elegant enough to wear to a funeral, and after that it became my depression dress. If I was wearing it, things were bad. I wore it to Mom’s memorial a year after her death, I wore it the day we moved to Santa Cruz, and now I was wearing it to receive my court sentencing.
    Dad had cleaned out our home in Topanga pretty quickly and thoroughly after Mom died. Her style wasn’t simpatico with mine, so I let go of a lot of her stuff—Dad encouraged its rapid elimination. But I did keep a bunch of her jewelry, which I housed in a keepsake box at the back of my underwear drawer. I riffled through my meager collection and put on two small gold hoop earrings and remembered what it was like to be close to my mom, who always smelled of a mix of citrus and cinnamon.
    *
    I’m not a bad person. I tried to talk myself up as I parked and locked my bike in front of the courthouse. My heart raced.
    The phrase got stuck in my head like the chorus of a catchy song.
    Even though I wanted to run in the opposite direction, I forced my body forward up the courthouse steps. Mr. Spencer was waiting for me in the shade of a cypress tree, finishing a sandwich. A piece of bologna fell out of the side of his mouth. He wiped his hands on his pants and extended his arm to shake my hand. Now there was a smear of mustard across his pant leg. This was the mess of a guy who was responsible for my future? I reluctantly reached out my hand.
    He might have been a disaster, but at least he was willing to help me out.
    For a moment, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. I couldn’t start crying. Not now. If I started, I didn’t know that I would be able to stop. At least when Dad arrived, I could look to him for support if things got rough in there.
    â€œAre you ready?” Mr. Spencer asked.
    I shrugged. I didn’t think anyone could ever really be ready for something like this.
    â€œOne sec,” I said, pulling out my phone. I texted Dad: Are you almost here?
    There was no response. I needed him to show up. Maybe he was already inside.
    My lawyer led me up the concrete stairs and held the door open for me. Inside, we placed all metal objects—our keys, change, and cell phones—in a plastic container and walked through the metal detector. I followed him down a long hallway and into the courtroom, where I was about to learn my fate.
    Court was already in session when we entered.
    The room felt suffocating, the heat oppressive as bodies crammed together on the