Something Like Hope Read Online Free PDF Page B

to stop hurting Samantha or if I’m yelling for Samantha to stop fighting and screaming. It doesn’t matter. I just can’t take being around any more of it. My fists are balled tight, my ragged fingernails digging into my palms. In my mind I try to block out what’s happening.
    I put my head down and hum real loud to drown out the noise. Michelle, who sits next to me, begins to rock in her chair. She rubs a pencil eraser back and forth across her wrist to burn her skin. Michelle has cuts and burns all over her arms, legs, neck, and chest. The behavior specialist woman made a plan to get her to quit, but it obviously hasn’t worked.
    Finally, Samantha stops struggling and cries, “I can’t take this no more. I can’t. Somebody call my mommy because I can’t be here no more. This place is no good for me! You people ain’t even helping me. You’re hurting me. I’m not getting better, I’m getting worse. I need help. Please. Somebody help me!”
    It makes me sick, the idea of all these full-grown men and women beating the shit out of this girl. Samantha talks shit and annoys people. But that’s hardly a reason to torment her and bust up her chin.
    Later, we line up and move to the cafeteria for dinner. They’re serving burritos with Spanish rice and nachos. Even though it’s our favorite meal, no one eats. Samantha is getting stitched up in the clinic, which is close enough to hear her whining and crying. It goes on forever: “I want to go home!” and “I want my mommy!”
    Kiki and Tyreena mumble, “Shoot. Shut the fuck up, Samantha. We heard your stupid ass already.” But I notice they don’t touch their food either.
    Only Ms. Choi eats. She pretends not to notice the screaming. She smiles and sings to herself, “Don’t worry. Be happy!” She asks me to get a plate for Samantha in case she’s hungry. Then she proceeds to eat Samantha’s dinner. Kiki rolls her eyes in a visible display of disgust, as if to say, “Dang! That’s mad grimy, eatin’ that girl’s food.” Ms. Choi notices the look and says, “Kiki, you got somethin’ to say, then say it. Otherwise shut your face, girl. I already had enough drama for one day. Don’t nobody need no more.”
    The rest of us try to bury our noses in our books, but Ms. Choi won’t let us. Instead, she bullies us into phony conversations about Beyoncé and Mary J. Blige. She turns on her charm and tells jokes and funny stories, making a false display of everyone being cool with each other. It feels even more wrong than the actual beating.
    Samantha comes back to the unit after dinner. She has a gauze pad taped over her chin. She’s spaced out on painkillers. It’s strange to see her sit there quietly. Herhands don’t fidget, her skinny butt doesn’t slide all over the chair, and you can almost read the thoughts in her head: “I want to go home. I want my mommy.”
    And even though it’s selfish to think of myself, the thought forms: “At least she has a mommy. At least she’ll go home to someone when this is all over. She’ll get off the van with her garbage bag full of state-issue crap clothes, and her mother and grandma and aunt will hug her and cry with happiness. They’ll all board the city bus and go back to their shit hole apartment in the projects and have a big party with fifty brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins, and friends. Old women will bring casserole dishes of plantains, rice and beans, stewed chicken, and flan for dessert. And, in their own imperfect and beautiful way, these people will love Samantha because they don’t care if she’s imperfect herself. They don’t even know what a learning disability is, or conduct disorder, or ADHD. All they know is that Samantha is one of them and they love her.”

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            S usan, my daughter’s DSS worker, calls me on the phone today. Department of Social Services is the agency that takes kids away when they’re abused or neglected. They save them from abuse by