I Am Not a Juvenile Delinquent. Sharon Charde

had been an earnest task for him, requiring long contemplation over each choice. He’d always saved his money to buy gifts for each of us, and my parents, as well as others who were special in his life.

      The Christmas before he’d died, he’d been in Rome, and had stayed on in Europe to travel with his college friends, since he was continuing in the program for the second semester. He’d had to move out of the dorm and into a cheap pensione before they arrived.

      How I’d felt his loneliness when he called from a pay phone near the Vatican on Christmas Eve.

      “It’s pouring here,” he’d said over the static on the line. “How’s Sasha?” (our black Lab).

      I knew he’d never let us know that he wished he were home at Christmas and not by himself in the cold rain. He’d gone to the Amalfi Coast with one friend already, and now would travel to Lugano, Lucerne, and Munich for New Year’s Eve, and to Yugoslavia for skiing with two more friends.

      I was thrilled that he had these great opportunities. I asked him about the trips and he sketched some of the details for us, said how grateful he’d been to have the money to make them.

      I was grateful too. The money had been challenging to scrape up, but we’d managed to supplement what we could afford with appreciated contributions from both of my parents.

      Later, I imagined the excruciating regrets I would have suffered had we not had it to give.

      The spring of his sophomore year, when he’d called one afternoon from school to tell me he’d gotten into the Trinity College program, the only one that offered the full year abroad in Rome that he badly wanted, I began to cry.

      “Mom,” he scolded, “why are you crying? This is the happiest day of my life.”

      Because it was 1986. Terrorists had put bombs in the Fiumicino airport, and some had gone off. Because he had asthma and the air in Rome was toxic.

      “Because I’m so afraid something is going to happen to you,” I’d said to him.

      • • •

      I had struggled over gifts for the girls. What to get, what would they like, how much should I spend? It didn’t seem right to make a big splash with fancy presents, and I knew I couldn’t pick out individual gifts for each. That would never have worked, probably would have fed jealousies and started fights. So I settled on some rhinestone hair ornaments, each one different, that I’d seen on a trip to the Gap. Because the price tags were gummed on so hard, I’d had a really hard time scraping them off, so they ended up seeing what I’d paid.

      “You spent $5.98 on me?” said Brisa, shocked. “I’d never do that for anyone.”

      “I feel special,” said Nia, dancing around the room.

      Kaylee went into the bathroom to put the clip in her hair, came out to show me with that beautiful half-smile of hers. I would miss her so much.

      I handed back their typed pieces; Nia was the only one happy with hers. Before the meeting, I’d spoken to the assistant director about Brisa and Ana—Brisa sleeping all the time, Ana not writing anything. Brisa sat straight up throughout our session today and volunteered to read her work twice. Ana didn’t read, but promised she would next time. Tiffany had a doctor’s appointment, so wasn’t with us, but I gave her gift to Kaylee to give to her.

      I asked the girls to write about Christmas. That was a big mistake. They all wrote unconvincing sentimental pieces, imagining Hallmark holidays with their families that probably would never happen.

      They just weren’t into it today, talking with each other, ignoring me. I gave them “home” as the next prompt.

      My red farmhouse is home. I’ll drive up the gravel driveway tonight and see the candles lit in all its windows and feel its welcome. Being here with you girls makes me appreciate home. That I have a choice to go home when I want to, that I have a home to go to. After my son died, the cemetery was home. I went there every day and cried, sat by his gravestone trying to make myself believe he was really dead. I wanted to be there more than anywhere else, the house I lived in then didn’t feel like home anymore. I’d bring rocks from the beach and planted flowers there. Sometimes my husband and I would just go and sit. We felt like we were with him then.

      Maybe that had been too sad for today? I felt so unsure about what I was doing here when the girls were unresponsive like this. I’d asked them to write a goodbye to Kaylee, another grave miscalculation.

      “We don’t care about her, so there’s nothing to write,” Nia had said. The others, silent, seemed to agree. Kaylee, glaring, crumpled her piece, throwing it on the floor.

      I drove back to Lakeville through a snowstorm on slippery, treacherous roads. How inviting those window candles looked when I came up my driveway, the Christmas tree splendid with lights and all our old ornaments hanging on the fresh green boughs. Home. Cozy, warm—what a counterpoint to Touchstone’s dreariness and the sullenness of the girls that afternoon. Maybe Christmas wouldn’t feel so bad this year.

      Gratitude, so long a stranger in my life, filled me as I walked into the kitchen and hugged my surprised husband hard.

I Am Not a Juvenile Delinquent

      At our first meeting of the new year, I’d announced with what I hoped was ringing resolve, “Girls, I want to make a fresh start for this new year. I still really want to help you all tell your important stories, but I’m thinking of coming only every other week. You’ve been disrespectful a lot, and some of you don’t participate at all. It makes me wonder if you really want to do this poetry group.”

      The girls didn’t respond with reassurance, just looked blank and sad.

      Angel, the staff person assigned to the group that day, spent the session riding the exercise bike that usually sat unused in the back of the dorm basement.

      At least Mayra had moved the couches and chairs into a circle without being asked, and was pleased to see her piece typed up. Brisa looked awake for once, but Ana’s eyes were already closing. Nia was stretched out on another couch. Kaylee had finally left and taken with her the infectious liveliness she’d brought to the group.

      “Please, girls, focus up! I am speaking to you. And sit up, Nia and Ana. We are going to work on group poems today, but first we’ll try ‘I remember.’ Just write about the first thing that comes to your mind when you think that phrase, okay?”

      During this write, Ana continued to sleep. Nia confronted her, said she wasn’t showing respect for any of us. Ana got up and went to Angel for support.

      “Ana, you are free to leave the group if that’s what you choose, but I hope you will stay for the rest of today.”

      “I need to leave, Sharon.” She went to call someone on the phone. Angel was talking out loud on his walkie-talkie while we were writing.

      “Angel, could you please be quiet?” I said. “You are not showing respect for us.”