When I arrive at the courthouse, the security guard asks my name and flips to the second page on his clipboard. “Pins?”
He looks annoyed when I shrug and points to a door at the end of the hall. I shuffle toward it. The door opens before I can knock.
“You must be Jasmine?” an older woman asks, stepping aside for me to enter. “I’m Ms. Dean, your PINS officer.” Her white hair is in a bun pulled so tightly off her face that her thinly drawn eyebrows come to points at the ends. For a therapist, she doesn’t have a very soft demeanor. But maybe that isn’t what she is at all.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, my voice shaking.
The room is sparse, almost like a classroom before a teacher adds decorations. The floors are linoleum and there’s a round table and chairs in the center. My mom is already there.
“What’s PINS?” I ask, taking a seat next to her.
She takes a deep breath and moves her chair closer to me. “Hi, honey,” she says, grabbing my hand.
I pull it away. “Hey, Mom. What’s PINS?” I ask again. I feel my stomach flip.
My mom looks to Ms. Dean for help.
“Persons in Need of Supervision, Jasmine. It’s a…” Ms. Dean starts.
The meaning catches me off guard and I laugh.
“I’m sorry, is something funny?” Ms. Dean asks, her eyebrows arching up.
I shake my head no.
“It’s a program for kids like you, who have proven that you cannot be trusted to follow rules on your own,” Ms. Dean continues, her tone less friendly than when she began.
My mom clears her throat. “I’m worried about you, honey.I think this will really help with some of the challenges you’ve been having. Give you another outlet,” my mom says.
“How is court an outlet? I’m not a criminal,” I say, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jasmine,” my mom says. “No one thinks that.”
“Jasmine, the decision has been made. You’ll meet with me the first Friday of every month, right here, for an hour. And this is something you do not want to play with. Got it?” Ms. Dean raises her eyebrows again as she waits for my response.
“This is ridiculous,” I mumble.
“We can’t hear you, Ms. Cooper.” Ms. Dean leans closer.
I ignore her and turn to my mom. “Mom, you’re trying to scare me, right? You know I don’t need this!”
“It seems like you absolutely do, Jasmine. Look at your behavior right now,” Ms. Dean chimes in.
“You don’t even know me. I’m talking to my mom!” I’m yelling now, but I don’t care. This whole thing is over-the-top. I fight back tears.
“Enough, Jasmine,” my mom says, her voice low—a warning.
I sit back hard into my chair and cross my arms. “All teenagers do stupid stuff,” I say.
“If you know the stuff is stupid, then why haven’t you stopped?” Ms. Dean asks.
I ignore her question.
“I don’t want you to end up doing something that you can’t come back from,” my mom says, almost pleadingly. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“Yeah, on probation.”
The only kids I know who were ever in any programs at the courthouse were smoking weed all the time or stealing stuff. This is going to be so embarrassing if anyone finds out. Mymom doesn’t even know how many things I have said no to that would actually warrant this kind of dramatic response. Every time I start to consider that maybe staying out with Desiree is a bad idea, she reminds me why it isn’t. It’s like she can’t tell that these rules are suffocating me and I’m just trying to breathe. She’s going to keep pushing until one day I just run off and never come back.
