v.

bitter spaces

Ten months' probation. Weekly check-ins from a parole officer, random drug tests, and housebound except for doctor's appointments or family emergencies.

My lawyer – the one they gave to me, on account of me having no money to pay for my own – tells me I got lucky. He says that if the judge had been female, my sentence would have been much worse.

"Be thankful for your good looks," he tells me, sighing as he straightens his stack of papers in the backroom of the courthouse after the trial. "Having a pretty face always helps."

The lawyer tries to convince me that I'm lucky not to have gotten jail time. What he doesn't realize is how much worse living at home with my mom will be; we haven't spoken in four years, since we had a blow-up fight after my eighteenth birthday and I skipped town.

And when I walk through that front door, to see her standing frozen in the hallway taking in my train-wrecked appearance, I suddenly wish jail was an option instead.

Ten months locked inside a house with a mother who can't even look her daughter in the eye is going to be hell. Maybe, I think through a pounding headache as I stumble to my old bedroom, maybe it would be better to slit my own throat. Less painful, too.

I feel miserable, and not just because I haven't done a line in two days. I swore years ago that I'd never come back to this place, and yet here I am, staring at the same faded purple walls half-hidden behind posters of various bands, whose members have long since broken up. Here I am, alone again in the house with my mom and a weighted plastic bracelet locked around one ankle.

This is a nightmare.

"I got rid of your old clothes." She stands in the doorway of my old bedroom behind me, cautious, both arms crossed tight across her chest. Nodding to the cedar dresser beside the bed, she keeps her voice soft. "Years ago, after you left. I don't think they'd fit now anyway. I'll have to get more for you."

I realize she appears out of place, standing awkwardly in the doorway like that – as though she's teetering on the edge of danger. I know she's afraid of a fight, or maybe she's afraid I might lash out at her. Am I really that much of a stranger?

"I'll get my own," I snap hotly, though we both know I have no money.

I never had much, but my arrest and the trial led to a lot of fees – which I'll still be paying off over the next few years. That's why I lost the apartment. And that's why I have little more than the clothes on my back: a ratty gray sweatshirt and see-through spandex shorts.

Not exactly classy, but when have I ever had class?

"It's up to you, I suppose," she admits. "I just want you to be comfortable."

"Really?" I mutter bitterly, sifting through what few possessions I have in the plastic bag they gave me. An extra pair of underwear and socks. Two hair ties. A half-used pack of cheap cigarettes and an old lighter.

When has she ever wanted me to be comfortable?

My mom doesn't flinch at the tone of my voice, but I see the way her eyes darken, like they used to four years ago. I can feel it under the singe of her gaze: disappointment. Just as fresh and raw and gut-wrenching as it was at eighteen.

"I'm going to shower," I bite out, when the silence gets to be too much. "Can you leave me alone?"

She presses her lips together, a tight line to hold back the words she wants to say. I think she realizes that giving me a lecture at this point would only make it worse. Instead, she nods and tells me quietly to get her if I need anything – as though I would ever ask for her help more than I've already had to. She slips back out into the hallway and leaves me alone, just like I asked.

Later, I run the shower water and prop open the bathroom window. I sit on the edge of the tub and smoke a cigarette, the shower's steam carrying the smoke out of the window. This way, the fire alarms won't be set off and my mom won't send another disapproving look my way.

I sit in the bathtub, breathe in nicotine, and curse myself for everything that's happened. I curse myself for letting myself get caught, for losing the apartment, for getting sent back to my old home.

But most of all, I hate myself for letting my mom know I couldn't do this on my own.

Now she knows I can't do anything right.