Page 10 of My Family

The timer goes off on the oven. Lu heads over to check the bread, and Margarete follows to help. Dora is reassembling the espresso machine, distracted. Everybody else is minding their own business.

That's when I see it.

Harry's hand slides into the shelf next to the prep table, pulls out a small package. Yeast, I realize, the kind you need for baking… but also probably for brewing. In the same motion, he sweeps three sugar packets and slips them into his other pocket.

He catches me watching.

For half a second, there's no smile at all. His face is blank and hard. Then he grins, and winks at me again.

I pretend to be looking at the empanada dough, but I'm not stupid. I know exactly what he's doing.

Harry thanks Dora again, waves to Lu and Margarete, and gets out.

I hesitate for a second, then tell Lu I need to use the bathroom. She waves me off without looking, already focused on the oven.

I slip out of the kitchen, following Harry into the back hallway. The hallway smells like old onions, even though all the onions are sealed in plastic bins, and like garbage, because that's where the bins are.

He glances over his shoulder when he sees me.

"Following me, Marsal?"

"What are you doing with the yeast?"

He pauses for a second, then shrugs. I step in front of him, blocking his way.

"You're not making bread," I press. "Not with sanitizer and sugar and whatever else you've got stuffed in your pockets. What are you really doing?"

He sighs. It's theatrical, but the effect is a little off today. I see he looks uneasy, which is weird as fuck. He's never uneasy, or at least he never lets it show. He eyes the space between us, probably calculating if he can get past me if he needs to. He decides he can't and leans against the wall, mirroring my posture.

"Fine," he says. "You got me, Marsal. I'm making juice for the kids who can't survive another week sober. Maybe for myself, too. Yeast for fermentation, sugar to keep it going, sanitizer to keep the mold down. You happy?"

I let the silence hang, studying him. His face is blank.

"How do you do it without anyone realizing?" I ask.

He smirks. "Pay the right people, know the guards' schedule, don't get greedy." He looks at me, and for the first time since I've known him, there's something in his eyes that isn't arrogance. There's a slight tension in him. "It's not a big operation, okay? Just enough to keep people from losing their minds. Relax a little."

He's about to slide past me, but I block the path.

"You should be careful," I say. "If you get caught, they'll send you to real prison. Not this daycare version. With drugs it's easier to hide, but brewing?"

He laughs, but there's no joy in it. "Don't worry, Marsal. I've been doing this longer than you've been here. I know the risks. You're sounding too much like your owner, and that's no fun."

I roll my eyes at him bringing up Ethan, but he's not wrong.

I step aside and let him leave. As he passes, he drops his voice so only I can hear it.

"Thanks for not ratting. I'll make sure you get first taste when it's ready."

Then he's gone.

Chapter 4. Liam

The rec room is louder than I've ever heard it, and that's saying something, because this place has never been quiet in any fucking sense of the word. Everybody is always behaving like rabid gorillas, screaming, smacking each other. There's a TV, and the TV is ancient, the kind with a screen that curves at the edges and makes everyone look slightly wider than they are; sometimes it glitches green and pink, and Ethan explained to me why this happens. Still, I didn't pay too much attention, as I was too busy staring at his lips. The TV is bolted to the wall as if the administration expected someone to try to steal it, which, honestly, is a fair assumption. However, they'd be caught in ten minutes: imagine someone trying to run through the Academy carrying a huge ass TV. But tonight nobody cares about the quality because it's the Super Bowl and Griff actually approved the viewing privilege, which means sixty boys crammed into the rec room, sitting on every surface that can hold weight and some that probably can't, like the pinball table, despite several warnings from the guards.

I'm on the floor next to Jack, both of us cross-legged, close enough to the screen that the light flickers across our faces in blues and greens. My whole body is vibrating, and it's a fucking miracle I can stay sitting in one place. They should pay me. I could be a much worse type of menace.

It's the Buccaneers and the Steelers. As my team, the Dolphins, won't ever make the Super Bowl again, I decide to support our fellow Florida team, the Buccaneers. Some people here, though, are Steelers fanatics, and they're ridiculous rivals, so I decide not to be too loud about my support for the Bucs, in case someone decides that's a punchable offense.