Free Gus by Kim Holden

Paxton doesn't want her to. I hate being in the middle of them. I try to play peacemaker. I usually fail horribly.  
    Holding the phone to my ear, I don't know what to say. I don't want to offer false hope and I know Paxton; I don't think he'll show for lunch, but I can't bring myself to say it, so I say, "Tell him I said hi. And to call me." I usually hear from him every day, but I don't want her to know that.
    She sighs, and I can hear the doubt through the phone, I can practically feel it. She doesn't want to be doubtful. She wants to be optimistic. She dreams of optimism, like little girls dream of princesses and happily-ever-afters. But at heart, she's a reluctant fatalist. Disease drives her fate. It's the reason Paxton refuses to be around her. "I will," she says, finally. She's trying, and failing, to smile. I can hear it in the fluctuations in her voice.
    In an attempt to cheer her up, I add, "Oh, and stop at Sweet Treats on the way home from Pasqual's and eat a slice of carrot cake cheesecake for me." Jane loves carrot cake cheesecake, and it always cheers her up. Me too. At least once a month we'd take a trip to Sweet Treats and drown any bad feelings in cheesecake. It's the cure for just about anything, at least for a little while.
    Her voice brightens. "I will. I haven't gone since you've been away, you know. I think it's time."
    I offer reassurance in a nod she can't see. "It's definitely time."  
    She changes the subject. "How's everything going with you?"
    I shrug. "Same. Eight more weeks. I've got this." I do. I have to.
    "You can do anything Scout. Anything you put your mind to." She's always encouraged me ... and only me. Almost like she's living vicariously, making up for all of the bad choices and the things she hates about herself. It makes me feel sorry for her. I've always felt that she's one of those people who never realized they have potential, or the power to create potential. Life merely happens to her , but she doesn't live it. She doesn't participate.
    "Thanks, Jane. Well, you better go get ready for your lunch date." I don't want to say what comes next, because if he's a no-show she'll be crushed. "Text or call me later and let me know how Paxton is doing."
    "Okay." There's already doubt and disappointment in her voice. I wish I could take it away for both of them.

    A text comes in from Jane four hours later. Paxton didn't show up.
    My heart sinks and I don't want to text back. I don't want to acknowledge the hurt she's feeling because then it's real. But I do text back with the only thing I can come up with that's genuine. I'm sorry.
    She doesn't reply. What's she going to say anyway?

Saturday, April 29
    (Scout)

    I didn't hear from Paxton yesterday. I know he's hanging out with his friends since he's home for a long weekend. He doesn't get to go home often, so I know he's busy, but I have to text him to check in on him. NYC this weekend?
    The response is almost immediate. I go back to prison tomorrow night.  
    Having fun? God, I hope he is.
    Hanging out with Cisco today. That's a yes. Cisco is his one of his closest friends. They've known each other since they were five.
    Good. Let me know when you get back to school tomorrow night. I like to know where he is and that he's okay.
    Sure thing.

Thursday, May 4
    (Scout)

    I hate to give Gustov credit for anything, but if there's one thing endearing about him it's how much he loves his mom. He talks to her on the phone every day. I never realized until yesterday that that's who he calls every afternoon.  
    Every.  
    Afternoon.  
    I can't help eavesdropping now. What rock star calls their mom every day? It makes him more human.
    Don't get me wrong, I still don't like him. He's just more like a real person, that's all.
    Five more weeks and I'm done with this.
    Five.
    More.
    Weeks.

Friday, May 5
    (Gus)

    When I arrive back on the bus after soundcheck, there's a stack of clean, folded laundry on my bunk. My sheets. And my clothes. All of