Aria raised her hand. “When can I make a phone call?”
Burroughs snorted indignantly. “Honey, phone privileges are earned. And you certainly haven’t done anything to deserve that yet.” She glared at the others. “And so are bathroom privileges, sleeping privileges, even eating privileges.”
“Eating privileges?” Spencer repeated, her voice cracking. “That doesn’t seem humane.”
Whap. The woman’s hand flew out and struck Spencer’s jaw so fast Aria almost didn’t catch it. Spencer pitched to the right and made a tortured sound. Aria turned to her, wanting to comfort her, but feared the woman might hit her, too.
“I said no complaining,” Burroughs hissed. Then she pushed them down a long, dirty corridor that smelled like feet, sweat, and the grimiest Porta-Potti ever, until they came to an entrance to what looked like a bathroom, though it didn’t have a door. “Time to shower,” she instructed, pushing them into the room.
Aria stared at the dingy tiles, the dripping faucets, the open toilet stalls. The place was teeming with other women—terrifying looking women with tattoos and vicious sneers and hunched, masculine postures, all strolling around totally naked and unashamed. A couple of them were shouting at each other as though on the verge of a brawl. A thin Asian girl was huddling in the corner, muttering something in a language Aria had never heard. One woman, who was plucking her eyebrows at the sink, had a scar running the length of her face. When she saw Aria staring, she broke into a wide, weird smile, tweezers held aloft. “Hi, there,” she teased.
Aria shrank into herself. Her feet wouldn’t move. She couldn’t shower here. She couldn’t even stand here. How was she going to do this? How was she going to stay strong? She thought of what Rubens had told them after the verdict had been passed down: “It’s going to be okay. We’ll appeal. We still might be able to beat this.”
“And if we don’t?” Hanna had sobbed.
Rubens had pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. “Well, then, you might be looking at twenty-five years. Twenty maybe, if you have good behavior. I’ve even seen some prisoners get out in fifteen.”
Fifteen years. Aria would be thirty-three by then. Half her life would be gone. Noel wouldn’t have waited for her anyway, even if they had stayed together.
Somehow, she made it into the shower, which had no curtain. She tried her best to cover herself up and scrub down at the same time, though the soap was slippery, didn’t really suds up, and smelled like vomit. Burroughs loomed close by in the corridor, arms crossed over her chest, watching each of them for reasons Aria didn’t really understand—maybe just to get them used to the humiliation. Just outside the stall, the prisoners circled like sharks. “New girls?” Aria heard one of them ask the guard. “They’re awfully pretty,” said another. “They look like bitches,” someone else said. Aria leaned her head against the filthy wall tile and let the tears fall.
After about three minutes, the guard ducked in and turned off the water, ordering Aria out. “Clothes back on,” she barked. Aria, Spencer, and Hanna dried themselves off as best they could and quickly got into their orange jumpsuits. Aria’s skin now smelled like the rank soap she’d used. Her wet hair dripped down her back, a feeling she’d always hated.
Then Burroughs motioned for them to follow her down yet another dark, windowless corridor—the whole place reminded Aria of one of those mazes scientists put rats in for psychological experiments—and past an open room of women’s bunks. Prisoners prowled around the space aggressively. Hip-hop floated through the air. There was more yelling from a back corner, though a guard’s voice rose up sharply, telling whoever it was to shut the hell up.
The guard took a turn down yet another hallway, but she took only Aria’s hand, instructing another guard to lead Hanna and Spencer elsewhere. “Orientation for you, Montgomery. D’Angelo, send Hastings and Marin to their bunks.”
Aria gasped. “We can’t all go together?”
Burroughs snickered. “Sorry, sweetheart.”
Aria met Spencer’s eye. Spencer gave her a look that was so terrified, so trapped, Aria’s own heart quickened. Hanna held up a hand in a wave. Something about it seemed finite, like they might never see one another again. The guards must have known how close they all were and that they’d allegedly committed the crime together. If their goal was to make everyone in here miserable, then of course they’d do everything they could to keep friends apart.
You can do this, Aria told herself. But really, she wasn’t so sure.
Burroughs held tight to Aria’s forearm and shoved her into a small conference room at the end of the hall. It was peppered with a few folding chairs and was so hot and stifling Aria immediately started to sweat. She shut her eyes, trying to pretend that she was in a hot yoga class—minus the yoga—but it really didn’t do any good.
A skinny blond woman with a dramatic overbite stood at the front of the room. “Sit,” she said to Aria, pointing at some empty chairs. A few seats were already occupied by other women in orange jumpsuits. Aria looked at each of them, wondering who on earth she could sit near without fearing for her life. There was an overweight Latina with a tattoo at her temple; a pale girl who was trembling a little, either in detox or on the verge of a psychotic break; a cluster of women all sitting together who, by their identical menacing expressions, looked like members of the same gang; and a tall black girl in glasses who was motionless at the back of the room, as watchful as a cat.