Free Ugly Girls: A Novel by Lindsay Hunter Page A

came back to see that he’d finally spit it out.
    U jealous??:p
    You checkin up on me?
    Aw girlie I’m just innerested in your life , he wrote.
    Then: We cant have the same freinds??
    It’s spelled friends. And why you so interested in my life? Perry signed off before he could answer. Her face still felt hot, and she didn’t care what his answer was, only that he knew she knew.

 
    MYRA HAD TAKEN HIM by the belt, had led him to their bed. He knew men, other guards, who were just grateful their wives could cook, who confiscated magazines from prisoners and saved them for their breaks, going at themselves in a locked stall, emerging sweaty and red-faced and pretending it was just a difficult dump. He had never had to be one of those men, Myra had always taken care of him in that regard. He was grateful for that, but he was envious of the other men, too. Such cheerful wives. Sandwiches and cookies in Ziplocs, no foamy glasses to clean up at home.
    But he’d rather make his own lunch, he supposed, than be a man in a stall.
    Phil was at the front desk. “Morning,” he said as Jim walked up. Phil greeted him the same at the start of every night shift, and Jim appreciated it. Made him feel almost normal.
    “Morning,” Jim answered, and pushed through the first set of doors. With every door he pushed through, the light changed. Like they used the good bulbs up front and the harsh fluorescents farther in. He didn’t know why anyone bothered pretending prison offered any kind of rehabilitation; even if the food didn’t come powdered or in cans or already ruined, the light was enough to drive any man to violence—an unnatural bluish white light that hummed like a bee under your pillow. And they never turned the lights off. No telling what a man could do with a few seconds and a dark corner. Can’t take that chance. If a light blew out, it was immediate lockdown until it was repaired. The men were just too bored not to be creative.
    Ten hours of that light left Jim feeling like an animal. And he got to leave it after that. These men had to stay. Once, a meek, whip-thin drug addict on a three-year stint had come in, and it was clear he had meant to stay under the radar, never asking for seconds, never looking anyone in the eye. Jim had hope for him, had even stopped outside his cell to talk about the weather. The addict talked about feeling the warm rain on his face once he got out. But those lights. After a month the man had to be thrown in solitary for writing CRACK in his own fecal matter on his roommate’s bed.
    Jim rounded the corner and saw that O’Toole was also waiting to be buzzed in to the next area. “Morning,” Jim said.
    O’Toole snapped his fingers what felt like mere centimeters from Jim’s nose. “Get a cup of coffee, Tipton. It ain’t fucking morning.” Jim grabbed O’Toole’s hand so tight he could hear the surprise pop pop of O’Toole’s knuckles cracking. Happened almost before he could stop himself. Like he had turned the channel and now he was watching some new scene. O’Toole wasn’t a big man, but he’d fight back if it was called for, and the thought made Jim let go.
    “What the fuck, Tipton?” O’Toole was panting, his breath warm and moist.
    “Just kidding around,” Jim said. He could barely get the words out. Lactic acid was pouring into his muscles. He felt feverish, and sorry, and filled with dread. “Go on ahead,” he told O’Toole, though the man had already turned.
    Sometimes Jim thought if he could just take Perry to work, if she could just see what breaking the rules did to a person … but then this shit with O’Toole reminded him that life wasn’t no better on the other side of the bars. He shook his head. Had to stop thinking like that. But it was true. Taking Perry to work would only show her that you’re damned if you do and goddamned if you don’t.
    Jim waited at one door for a buzz, crossed through it, waited at another door for a buzz, crossed through