* * *
When we got to high school, I was getting tired of the way Shauna was constantly trying to play the rest of us against each other, saying one of us had talked about the other, leaving someone out of an invite, or making mean comments about our clothes and hair, then adding, “Just kidding!” The next day she’d tell you that you were her best friend and give you one of her favorite items of clothing, jewelry, or a CD she made just for you, which would make the others jealous. It felt like every week there was a flare-up and someone was upset. I was also getting tired of not being able to wear what I wanted—jeans and T-shirts, not skirts and blouses, which Shauna had decided should be our uniform.
When we were in ninth grade I mentioned to Shauna one day that I liked a boy named Jason Leroy. She told me she’d help. She threw a birthday party at her house and invited a few boys. Her dad was working and her grandma was supposed to be supervising, but she vanished into the TV room with a glass of something and a vague “Have fun, kids.” Before the party, Shauna told me she heard Jason liked me but he was into “real women.” She said I had to give him a blow job, and if I didn’t, I was a chicken—they’d all done it. I was nervous at the party, but Jason kept smiling at me and asked me to go into one of the bedrooms. After we were necking for a while, he hinted that he wanted a blow job. When I balked, he said Shauna had promised him I’d do it and that’s why he was there with his friends. If I didn’t go through with it, he’d tell everyone he had a threesome with Shauna and me.
After the party, when I told Shauna what he’d said, and what he’d made me do, she was furious. She called Jason and said if he told anyone what had happened, she’d tell everyone at school that he had a small penis. We never heard a word more from him, but later that night Shauna started giggling and admitted that none of them had ever given a blow job to a boy—I was the first one.
I was really angry that Shauna’s lies had set me up, but I tried to let it go because she’d stuck up for me. Part of me even relished my role as the now sexually advanced member of the group. A month later, though, Shauna developed a crush on Brody, a boy in my woodworking class. We’d often stay late to work on a project, and one day she walked by when we were laughing about something. I wasn’t into Brody, not like that, but it didn’t matter. After school, all the girls acted like I didn’t exist. So I asked Shauna what was wrong.
“You were flirting with Brody.”
“I was not! I don’t even think he’s cute.”
“He’s totally cute—and you’ve been crushing on him for weeks.”
They were all standing there, glaring at me.
I knew what she wanted. I’d have to apologize, then they’d ignore me for a while until they decided to forgive me. But I was sick of Shauna, the power trips, the games. I’d had enough.
“Screw you, Shauna. Believe whatever you want, but it’s not my fault Brody doesn’t like you. Not everyone thinks you’re hot, you know.” I walked away. Behind me I heard her gasp, and then angry whispers.
I knew she’d retaliate but didn’t realize how bad it would get until I went to school the next day. Turns out, Shauna had spent the evening spreading rumors that I’d been born with a penis—and tried to make out with her. She also told every single person anything bad I ever said about them—most of it stuff I never actually said myself, I’d just agreed with Shauna. After she was finished, I didn’t have any friends for months, endured whispers and stares. I was so ashamed of my new loser status that I didn’t say anything to my family, even when my mom kept asking why the girls weren’t calling anymore. Nicole, who was younger than me but went to the same school, knew something had happened and asked me about it, but I didn’t tell her either. My sister was the only person who talked to me at school, and if it hadn’t been for her I’d have been even lonelier.
Finally, after gym class one day I dropped my shorts in the girls’ bathroom and told them all to have a look. One of the girls, Amy, thought it was hilarious. She was a cool chick, dressed tomboyish like me—since Shauna had dumped me I wore whatever I wanted, camouflage pants and a tight-fitted black T-shirt, or big army boots with faded jeans and one of my dad’s work shirts. The next day at lunch, Amy dropped her tray beside mine and said, “I’ve always liked girls with penises.” We’d been best friends ever since, but I had a harder time trusting girls after the way Shauna had treated me—I was more comfortable with boys.
After that, Shauna moved on to other targets, made friends with Cathy, Kim, and Rachel—who instantly moved up the social ladder—and didn’t bother me for years. Sometimes she was even halfway friendly, saying hello or smiling when she walked past. But then I started dating Ryan. I found out later that Shauna had been going to the pit every weekend hoping to hook up with him. He’d given her a ride home once when she was super-drunk but nothing had happened, although she tried, and then Ryan and I connected the next weekend. She’d hated me ever since, even more than when I dissed her about Brody.
I’d only run into Frank McKinney a couple of times since my friendship ended with Shauna. He gave Ryan and me a hard time when he caught us out at the lake one night but he just dumped out our booze and told us to go home. Ryan had also gotten caught siphoning gas off a logging truck that summer. McKinney didn’t write up a report, just took him to the jail and gave him a tour, told him to smarten up, and said he’d be watching him from now on. And we knew he meant it.
I’m pretty sure McKinney didn’t know what Shauna did with all her free time after her grandma died, probably thought she was home studying. She must’ve done enough to keep up with her grades, though she didn’t have to try that hard, which pissed me off, but mostly she was hanging out with her friends or partying.
The girls were all watching me now from their perch on the other truck, whispering to each other, giggling.
I snuggled closer to Ryan and pulled his head down for another long kiss. I got really into it, wrapping my arms tight around him, loving that his hands were on my butt, smiling against his lips when I thought of Shauna watching.
When I looked back up, Shauna and the girls had left.
* * *
The next day after school, I was in the parking lot, waiting for Ryan by his truck and having a smoke, when a car pulled up so close it almost hit me. Shauna, in her white Sprint.
“Hey, bitch,” she said as she got out. Cathy and Kim climbed out of the backseat, Rachel from the front. They all circled me.
“What’s your problem?” I said.
“You’re my problem,” Shauna said. The girls laughed. I glanced over at them. Rachel had a mean scowl on her face, and Cathy had one of her big stupid smiles. Great. Nothing like being a chew toy for some catty bitches.
“I haven’t done anything to you,” I said. “Not my fault Ryan doesn’t like skanks.”
She got right in my face, so close I could smell her perfume, something fruity, like tangerine.
“You better watch your mouth.”
“Or you’ll what?” I said.
She reached out and gave me a shove. I stumbled into the truck.
I dropped my smoke and pushed her back, hard. Then we were going at it, fists flying, pulling hair. I could hear kids yelling as they ran over, cheering us on. The girls were screaming, “Kick her ass, Shauna!” Shauna was bigger than me and had the upper hand, but I managed to get free and was about to punch her in the face. Then an arm was around my waist, lifting me up.
“Cut it out,” Ryan’s voice said in my ear.
I was still spitting mad, wiping hair out of my face as he sat me down on my feet. Another guy was pulling Shauna away. Her friends were shouting insults at me. Ryan hustled me into his truck, threw my packsack in the back.
He started up the truck and tried to reverse out. Shauna was still standing by her car.
“Why don’t you let Toni finish her own fights?” she yelled.
He yelled out the window, “Shut up, Shauna.”
She gave him the finger.
 
; * * *
We went back to Ryan’s place. His mom was working another night shift and his dad, Gary, as he told me to call him, was sitting bleary-eyed in front of the TV.
He glanced up as we came in. “Hand me another beer, Ry.”
Ryan gave him one and said, “We’re going to my room.”
His dad winked. “Have a good time.”
That made me cringe, but it was nice not to be hassled, not that his dad didn’t give Ryan a hard time about other shit. Most of Gary’s arrests had been bar brawls or stealing stuff when he was drunk. Ryan said his dad didn’t have sticky fingers, he had whiskey fingers. When he was really drunk, he’d get rough with Ryan. They’d come to blows a few times this last year—now that Ryan was bigger and tougher, his dad seemed to want to take him down even more, prove he was still the man. Gary had a job as a logger, which was seasonal, but Ryan did all the chores around the house and helped his mom out. I don’t know why she didn’t leave Ryan’s dad. Her name was Beth; she seemed like a nice woman, worked a lot but was still caring, always smoothing Ryan’s hair back, asking him if he’d had enough dinner, needed money for school. And you could tell she really liked her son by the way she laughed at his jokes and looked at him proudly.
We went to Ryan’s room and I threw myself onto his bed while he turned on his ghetto blaster.
“You can’t let Shauna get to you like that,” he said.
“She started it.” I’d told Ryan the basics of the fight on the way to his house.
“So what? Ignore her.”
“Right, like you ignore someone who’s giving you a hard time?”
“It’s different with guys, usually when someone beats the crap out of someone, the other one backs off, but Shauna gets off on making you mad, so you’re just giving her what she wants. If you ignore her, you’ll piss her off.”
I thought about what he’d said, staring up at the ceiling. It was true that the more I reacted, the more Shauna seemed to enjoy it.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’ll run out of steam eventually.”
He dropped down beside me, turned his baseball cap around backward with a cheeky smile, and started nuzzling my neck. He slid his body over mine and reached under my shirt, his rough hands scraping against my skin, sending shivers down my spine that made me want to curl into him. I let myself be carried away, by the hard beat of the heavy metal music, his touch, his warm mouth. I wasn’t going to think about Shauna, wasn’t going to let her win, but I couldn’t help but feel a whisper of doubt. Was she ever going to leave me alone?
CHAPTER THREE
ROCKLAND PENITENTIARY, VANCOUVER
MARCH 1998
The transfer van pulled up in front of the prison. I was in the back, in cuffs and leg irons, trapped in a metal cage like an animal. The doors of the van opened and the correctional officers let me out, their hands tight on my biceps. I shuffled forward, staring in terror at the imposing building. It was all gray concrete, the blocks stained in big streaks, like giant tears had swept down the sides. Razor wire wrapped around the top of the twelve-foot metal fence that circled the entire building, and guards in uniforms stood on towers, carrying machine guns.
Fifteen years. The words echoed in my head, but I couldn’t fathom them, couldn’t make myself grasp the reality of what that amount of time meant. As soon as I heard the judge’s words and knew all hope was lost, something inside me had snapped off and disappeared way down inside. I felt removed from everything, like I was watching a surreal movie. They’d brought me over to Vancouver on a plane and I’d remembered how Ryan and I had planned on traveling the world. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we sat in his truck and dreamed of our future, of our big escape. We had wanted out of Campbell River so bad, and now I’d give anything to go back, even if it meant staying there forever.
I watched the officers’ mouths move but couldn’t focus on what they were saying, and they had to repeat themselves. I stared at my ankles as they led me inside. Shuffle. Shuffle. I was aware that my legs and wrists hurt but I didn’t care. All I could hear was the whooshing of my heart and the words fifteen years.
They took my photo and gave me my ID badge. Next I was asked a bunch of questions while an officer filled out forms. “Have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself?” “Are you on any medications?” I answered no to all of them but I was only half listening, only half there. In another room two female officers ordered me to take off my clothes. I just stared at them. The mean-looking one with the bad haircut said, “Take off your clothes.”
I’d been through this before, at the detention center when I was waiting for my bail hearing. I’d cried like a baby that time, sobbed in shame when they barked out their orders: Pick up your hair, stick out your tongue, lift up your breasts, bend over and cough. But this time, as I saw the annoyance and disgust on the officer’s face, I started to wake up from shock, feel reality beginning to sink in at last. My sister was never coming home, and I was in prison. And then I found something I could grab on to, something I could feel with all my heart. I could feel anger. It rushed through my blood, hot and heavy and thick.
I stripped. I spread my cheeks. I coughed. And I hated them. I hated every person in that place who assumed I was guilty, every person who sat in the courthouse watching our trial like it was a show, and every person who’d lied on the witness stand. But most of all, I hated whoever had killed my sister, who’d taken her away from our family, taken away her chance to grow up, to have a future. I clung to the hate and wrapped it tight around me, a fierce blanket. No one was going to get inside my rage. No one would ever hurt me again.
* * *
After I had a delousing shower, they handed me my new clothes: four pairs of jogging pants, four sports bras, four pairs of underwear, four gray T-shirts, two sweatshirts, and one pair of running shoes. I was also given a bag of bedding and a small package of hygiene supplies. It was late at night and all the other women were in their cells. We walked down a cold and drafty hallway, the floors painted gunmetal-gray, the air smelling musty and stale, like death. I was coiled like a tight spring but I kept my head down, didn’t look at any of the cells we passed. I could hear women’s curious whispers, feel their stares.
My thoughts flitted to Ryan and I felt a sharp stab, an ache under my rib cage as I imagined what horrors he’d be facing. He was also at Rockland but in the men’s prison across the road. We wouldn’t be allowed to see each other, not even once we were on parole—which would be for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t bear the idea of a life without Ryan, couldn’t fathom how I was going to survive. Our only hope was to be found innocent. The lawyer said he was filing the documents so our case could get heard in the Court of Appeals. It could take three to six months before he even got a date for the hearing, but there might be a chance. I caught my breath for a second, swinging back from hate to hope.
The guard stopped in front of a cell, fit the lock into the key, and slid back the door with a loud clang.
“Here you go, Murphy. You’re on the top bunk.” I stepped inside, and he locked the door behind me with another loud clang.
I surveyed my cell. It was about nine-by-twelve, with a stainless steel toilet and a mirror over a small metal sink, everything in the open. One wall was covered with taped photos. On the bottom bunk a skinny woman with long straight black hair and arms covered in scars and tattoos was reading a book. I’d never seen so many tattoos on a woman. She was staring at me.
“My name’s Pinky,” she said.
“I’m Toni.”
“You that kid on TV? The one who killed her sister?”
My face flushed, remembering the news trucks surrounding the courthouse, the cameras and microphones thrust in my face.
The words came unbidden out of my throat. “I’m innocent.”
She laughed, a deep, rattling smoker’s laugh full of phlegm. “Guess nobody told you we’re all innocent in here.”
I ignored Pinky, who was still laughing, as I made my
bed. Then I climbed up to the top bunk, curled into a ball, my bag of toiletries tight against my stomach in case she tried to steal anything. I wanted to wash my face and brush my teeth but I was too tired, and too scared. I closed my eyes, started to drift off.
Pinky popped her head up and grabbed my arm. I tried to tug it back, but she was holding fast, her hands white claws with long nails. Her thin face looked like a skull in the dim light. I almost screamed.
“I wouldn’t go around telling anyone that shit about you being innocent,” she hissed. “They’ll beat your ass.”
She let go and disappeared down below. I stared up at the ceiling, my heart thudding, still feeling her fingers digging into my flesh. A few minutes later I heard her snoring. I pulled the thin blanket over my head, trying to drown out the sound, trying to drown out everything.
* * *
For the first few days, I stuck to myself and tried to learn about the terrifying new world I’d been thrust into. My mood swung between helpless rage, where I wanted to punch and kick something or someone, and depression. But mostly there was fear, whenever another inmate glanced at me, whenever I thought about how long I was going to have to stay in this place.
The prison was old, noisy, and housed about a hundred and eighty women of various security levels. The air was poorly ventilated, the corridors and stairwells dark and narrow. Everything felt cold to the touch: the walls, the bars on our cells, the floor. The prison was broken into four units. One wing was the minimum-security side, for women who were the lowest risk. Over on my side, there were two ranges. I had been placed on A Range, which was medium-security. Both ranges were long two-tiered banks of about sixty cells, but B Range was about half the size of A Range and was the maximum-security side. The other half of B was protective custody and the segregation unit.
I sat stunned, still trying to take everything in, while I was given an introduction class for general orientation, and a handbook with information on things like visiting, phone calls, and inmate accounts. I’d be going through an assessment over the next ninety days, where my institutional parole officer would look at my risk level and needs. Then they’d come up with a correctional plan. Everyone was polite, businesslike, and firm, and I tried to pay attention to what they were saying, but part of me kept screaming in my head, No, this isn’t for me. I don’t belong here. I didn’t do anything wrong. Nicole’s killer is still out there!