"Want a chewing-gum, Steele?" the attendant Gray extended a wrapped Orbit towards Debbie. He popped one into his mouth. "I get bad breath working here."

"No, thank you. I'm good, Mr. Gray."

"Well, whatever works for you, Steele. The offer's still open if you ever change your mind." He shrugs.

Aside from the interiors, the strong phenyl-laden smell was a constant reminder of Debbie's duties as the personal assistant of Mr. Gray. With a faculty of seven attendants and their volunteers who monitored six hundred girls' and nothing to mask the perspiration scent, Debbie couldn't believe that it was already three months since she joined. Although the first month was the hardest for her as she strived to blend in with the crowd. A chill ran down her spine as she shuddered at the thought of the treatment she had faced from the inmates. If it wasn't for Julie's support, she would have been broken and devastated.

Debbie scrunched up her nose in disgust, as the smell of phenyl reeked the strongest on the residential floors of the building.

Besides the institute's interiors, there was something else is constant for Debbie—it reminded her of her school days. The musty aura emanated on whiffing the medicinally foul smell evoked a sense of somehow nostalgic, yet somehow comforted place. Even with six hundred girls' perspiration and pungent phenyl to cover it, the scent caused Debbie great discomfort. With no choice, she reluctantly took one of attendant Gray's mints.

Gray had set aside the plastic board, opened the journal called the logbook and had already penned the name of every kid into two columns. After each name, there was a note whether the boy was an AT, a close watch, in Confinement, or if the court had scheduled him for an appearance.

"Everything that happened on the unit, you write it right here, Miss Steele. Inspect the cells—log it in the logbook. The breakfast, lunch, or dinner cart arrived—log it in the logbook. Served a meal—log it in the logbook, Steele. Resident returned to the block from court—log it in the logbook. Hope I've made myself loud and clear."

"Yes, Mr. Gray. I do understand everything perfectly. I won't falter." Debbie reassured him.

Debbie had learned in the three months that the cellblock life revolved around this logbook and plastic board. So far she had only seen one actual juvenile, slumbering Victoria in cell nine and couldn't fathom how a stationery book and sheet of plastic could help her with the kids or even help her foil them from mugging each other for apples and fighting for places in the cafeteria.

 Debbie never thought one day, objects like these would define her existence—the bolted cell doors, a logbook, a roll board with myriad tags and labels. She had no experience of working with kids. Unless you count her interactions with Lizzie. Lizzie—her best friend. She missed her so much. Her eyes misted of their own accord and tears threatened to fall. Fortunately, the console phone rang at that very moment, giving Debbie a couple of secs to reign her emotions in. 

"Can you answer the phone, Miss Steele? Thanks." Attendant Gray sent Debbie from the TV area to answer it.

"Debbie here."

"A kind reminder Miss Steele," the supervisor said, without identifying herself, "we call each other by last name here. I'd appreciate if the inmates adhered to the rules. Make sure you do not forget the next time."

Debbie remembered attendant Gray had been addressing her as Miss. Steele or only Steele, but it hadn't occurred to her to address herself as Miss Steele too. A sigh involuntarily left her as many thoughts flowed in her mind. There were so many rules to memorise which made her skeptical if she could ever be able to satisfy the attendants or the supervisors.

She asked Mr. Gray about it and he explained there was a general notion going on that ''Mister/ sounded better than 'Attendant'. Attendant sounded lowly and reeked of subservience.

Even though she volunteered with Mr. Gray, Debbie was never called Miss Steele by her inmates. She was just Debbie to them, and she was glad for that semblance of normalcy. It was only in the presence of the supervisors or the attendants Debbie was called Miss Steele. She wondered if the formal mode of respect had managed to drive another wedge between the inmates and herself. Debbie didn't take this job to be a Miss to anyone. All she wanted was to be normal.

At noon, 3G's 7 a.m.–3 p.m. attendant, a wiry and curly headed man appeared in the hallway with the other twenty-two inmates, who were not in Confinement. They were returning from morning school. Whether indicted for first-degree murder or were involved in the trademark drug dealing practise on the dumpster behind the Oranges at 84th and Victor Avenue, federal law had blessed any jailed young person with an education twelve months a year—as long as you behaved in your cell, with your inmates and didn't land in Confinement.

Through the glass wall behind the console, Debbie saw the girls with Attendant Gray in the TV area. They stood outside the door in two single-file lines—all black and brown, mostly black, a couple of them white. The morning shift attendant, Mr. Gray opened the door and directed them inside- one line at a time. In turn, each line of girls passed the magnetic console in a parade showing their arms. Several loomed as big as Debbie and she was 5'11.

There were Asian letters, Chinese letters, Japanese letters whose respective sounds she doubted their owners could even pronounce; along with tattooed necks and forearms. Others uncovered displays of reptiles like snakes and some creatures of fantasy. The sight never failed to gross Debbie out every day.

Every six months, a barber came at the Center, which the inmates were expected to pay from their allowance. Only the interested girls lined up and there were no smiles going on--just grumpy, hardened looks. Every second girl wore one braid, two braids, a pony or made a bun to deal with their growing hair.

Some shirts hung loose on narrow shoulders. In others, the shirt fabric stretched along the broad frames or vanished into the waistline. The girls turned around and lined up with their backs to the cell doors that faced the console. Attendant Gray and Debbie stayed behind in the TV area and he added more details more in the logbook to complete his shift. Debbie watched the next shift attendant- Mister Edward Tremaine, as he followed the last inmate inside.

"Pull 'em up!" he shouted.

Out of habit, the girls bend and grabbed their pants' legs at the calf and yanked them above their ankles. Some faces grinned, glared, and the others just smirked. Indifference was writ across the faces of some. As usual, many checked her out from head to toe.

The girls widespread apathy was evident from the fact they didn't acknowledge Debbie nor showed displeasure at her presence. Their focus remained on attendant Tremaine's commands. His head turned taking every tiny detail and his eyes probed for pencils, dollar bills or folded up Vogue magazines bulging underneath their socks.

Debbie wondered why didn't attendant Gray prepare her on this routine—a routine she had never witnessed in the three months she was in the facility. And there was nothing of the sort in the summary when she applied for as a volunteer.

Oblivious to anyone, Debbie had to search more than the girls' cells and she was held accountable by Mister Tremaine. She had to inspect the girls' bodies after every trip off the cellblock in front of the attendant.

"Shirts!" barked attendant Tremaine from in front of the console. He always wore tight jeans and dark-coloured shirts which made Debbie's light, meshed T-shirt pale look like a dyed version of snow. The inmates dropped their pants' legs and hiked their shirts over their waistlines. They did what he told them to-no questions asked, but the man was still roaring in the air, as if his loud voice would ensure the girls' compliance. It did.

Debbie fervently hoped and prayed that she could command the same compliance as Mister Tremaine. He thoroughly scanned the exposed trousers and underwear lines. 

Debbie wondered aloud if there was stuff lodged where only nurses had the chance to ferret them out.

Mr. Tremaine nodded in approval. The shirts rolled down.

"Shoes!"

The girls kicked them off, hunched down, and pick them up. Holding their tops down, they looked at him as he nodded again. They whacked their sneakers together and brushed them off before easing back into their cars. No contraband dropped from the shoes, and the girls tossed them to the floor and wiggled their feet back into them.

"First five, TV area!"

At the line's left end, five girls filed past the glass partition to the nineteen chairs arranged in five rows and sit. Tremaine dispatched the next five and the next five until everyone rested in a chair. He joined Debbie and Mr. Gray in the front row.

After a while, attendant Gray summoned Debbie to leave the TV area with him. Debbie followed him to the console. Spotting the lunch cart in the hallway, he opened the door to pull it inside.

Angling his burly frame back around toward the TV area, Gray called out, "Let me have my kitchen help." To Debbie's ears, his callous, cold and void of feeling tone felt like a harbinger of bad news. 

The two kitchen-help juveniles had earned their duty through cooperative behavior. They stood up, exited the TV area and came to us.

Attendant Gray dished up the plates and the girls arranged them in rows on the table tennis table. Debbie had a look at the food cart—lightly baked fish with fresh bread, greens, rice, a small bottle of hot tabasco sauce, and a cellophane wrapped pre-cut chocolate cake in a square cardboard box. Better than the prison food she expected.

One of the kitchen helpers, Marissa, with her head braided with lots of braids like Victoria, looked menacingly at Debbie after Attendant Gray instructed her to portion out the pre-cut cake pieces onto the plates. Marissa held a wide metal spatula. She was shorter, so her closeness didn't seem to intimidate Debbie.

There is something off. Thought Debbie at she looked closely at her face. Marissa was concealing another emotion behind that frown. Something she was afraid to tell or show.

Just like she behaved with Attendant Gray, Marissa didn't look Debbie in the face until she had a proper reason—her nervousness with the cake-serving task.

Debbie reached out for the spatula. "Here, let me do it, Marissa."

She gratefully handed it to her. Relief splashed across her face. Debbie did the first one with Marissa watching closely.

"Thanks." With a grin, Marissa neatly wedged out the cake's second chunk. 

"This is what I'm here for—to help you in any way, Marissa." 

Marissa and her partner positioned five completed plates at each of the six tables.

Attendant Tremaine called the remaining girls from the TV area and lined them along the cell doors—exactly where the morning attendant put them for the after-school search.

"First five, right here," Mr. Tremaine pointed to a table. All of them obey.  Every girl paused behind her chair, hands wrapped in behind. When all the tables are filled, Mr. Tremaine prays:
"Our Father in Heaven, we give thanks for the pleasure of gathering together for this occasion. We give thanks for this food prepared by loving hands. We give thanks for life, the freedom to enjoy it all, and all other blessings. As we partake of this food, we pray for health and strength to carry on and try to live as You would have us. This we ask in the name of Christ, Our Heavenly Father."

The pious prayer reminded Debbie of church and she pondered if the words were meant to remind the inmates of their sins and the need to repent and reform.

As Debbie put a morsel in her mouth, she choked and turned red in a couple of seconds. She coughed and sneezed, her eyes watering. Julie was up and patted her back to dislodge the morsel.

"Hope you are okay, Debbie." Julie glanced at her, eyes full of worry and concern.

Julie put her hand around Debbie and gasped. "You are so hot. I think you have a slight fever."

"No, I'm alright, Julie. Trust me."

"Imma call Mr. Tremaine right away. You need rest."

"No. Wait--"

Julie informed Debbie's condition and after a checkup from the in-house doctor, he surmised that Debbie had viral fever and would spend two weeks in quarantine so that she would not infect the other inmates.

And since Julie was her roommate, chances were that she might have been infected by the virus too. As a precautionary measure, Tremaine put Julie with Debbie in an isolated room to contain the contagion completely. 

"Wait, what? Am I supposed to go with Debbie on a mere suspicion? That's not fair, Mr. Tremaine!" 

With a shrug, Tremaine conveyed his helplessness. "I'm afraid you have no choice but to go forward with our decision, Miss. Storm. Given the circumstances, it's the best we could do."

"Just hope you don't regret your decision." Julie's voice echoed across the hall.