She's in full form this morning as she locks the office door behind her. She doesn't even glance at them as she shuffles past them on her way to the kitchen, keys clanging against her hip, where she keeps them looped through her belt. She also doesn't comment on the fact that Mr. Leonard is nowhere to be seen, even though technically there are supposed to be two providers with the boys at all times (he's outside, taking his fourth long smoke break of the morning).
Arnold looks at Peter with a question in his eyes, but Peter just shakes his head. With Ms. Charlise, it's better to accept the silence.
But apparently, Karen does not agree. Just as Ms. Charlise sidles past Justin—who doesn't even glance up from his book—she gets to her feet.
"Ma'am!" she says, and Ms. Charlise turns around slowly, her pouchy, red-rimmed eyes raking Karen's youthful face with unmistakable dislike. "Good morning." It's almost afternoon. "I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment."
"I have a very busy day coming up."
Ms. Charlise turns toward the door.
"We have a new resident this morning, Ms. Charlise," says Karen.
Peter admires her gall. Ms. Charlise's glare reminds him of Mrs. Arlington, makes his chest contract with phantom tightness every time she is in the room. But Karen holds her ground and doesn't falter, even when Ms. Charlise barely glances at Arnold and then turns her obvious irritation on her employee.
"If there's nothing else."
Once again she turns away.
"Actually" —Karen steps forward— "I'd really like to talk to you about our meals budget. Maybe we could go into your office and—"
"The budget is fixed," says Ms. Charlise, not even bothering to turn around this time. "If you have a problem, take it up with the state."
She takes another step toward the door. Peter's respect for Karen ratchets up another notch when the younger woman, undeterred, sidles around the coffee table to stand between the headmistress and the doorway, forcing Ms. Charlise to look her in the eye.
"Except, ma'am," she says, "except, I've looked at the budget, and I see what we have on-site, and I just can't imagine—"
"That's outside your duties, Ms. Anders."
"Well, yes, but it's public record and—"
Ms. Charlise's eyes jolt away from Karen's face to look at Ryan, who has just appeared in the doorway, a hulking shadow.
Her scowl deepens.
"And where have you been, Mr. Overton?" she snaps. "I thought your case worker agreed that social time is to be a firm aspect of your rehabilitation."
Ryan snarls in reply, making the three younger boys sitting around the coffee table recoil. Ms. Overton doesn't even blink, just pushes Karen out of the way and goes to stand toe-to-toe with her largest, most intimidating resident, even though her head only rises to his chest.
"Do I need to write you up again, Mr. Overton?" she says. "Because if I recall, one more citation could indicate that your parole was granted prematurely. Should I inform your case worker that you enjoy incarceration more than you enjoy following a simple rule?"
"Ms. Charlise, please, it was Ryan's turn on the computer. I told him he could—"
Ms. Charlise sticks a hand into Karen's face to silence her, still glaring up at Ryan.
"Well?" she says.
Ryan's sneer deepens, and there is a collective holding of breath. For a second Peter is certain there is going to be a fight. He scoots closer to Arnold, blocking him from view. Then—
"Sorry, ma'am," Ryan grunts, and he takes a lumbering step to the side, out of Ms. Charlise's way.
Her keys clink as she shoulders past him.
They all listen until she disappears down the hallway, and don't exhale until they hear the front door open and close, then the clunk of the key turning in the lock.
Ryan stands in the hallway, gazing after her with an inscrutable expression until Karen steps forward and puts a hand on his arm.
"Come on, Ryan, we can—"
Ryan jerks her hand off.
Peter starts to rise, then scolds himself. Keep your head down, Parker.
"Back off, bitch," Ryan says, and before Karen can say anything to stop him, he disappears up the narrow stairs that lead to the bedrooms on the upper level.
Karen stares after him, her back to the living room, and Peter can tell from the way her shoulders shake that she is gathering herself. But when she turns back, it's with a smile, which lingers on a struck-looking Arnold the longest.
"I'm really sorry about that, boys," she says.
Justin shrugs and goes back to his book. Peter can't think of anything to say, especially not when he can feel Arnold trembling slightly beside him.
"Ah, fuck them Miss K," says Felipe. "We all know you a homegirl. It isn't your fault this place is a shithole."
Arnold looks even more shocked, but Peter and Karen give identical shaky laughs.
"Language," she says, resuming her seat next to Arnold and placing a hand on his knee so subtly Peter wouldn't see it if he weren't looking for it. "I still work at this shithole, you know."
"Yeah, and we live here. Ain't none of us can really talk shit, but all I'm saying is you're allowed, Miss K. I can't speak for Pedro and Arnoldo, but I for one am no snitch."
"Uh, seconded," says Peter, picking up his cards. "On the, um, not being a snitch part. Even felons have to have some morals, right?"
They all laugh this time.
It's the one thing that the halfway house has against the Arlingtons: at least here, Peter isn't alone.
That the halfway house is like an oven is no exaggeration. There is no air conditioning. The windows are all locked shut.
Peter has been here since June. He thought the heat couldn't be worse than it was in July, when the boys all had to wear sandals anytime they were on the hardwood floors in the hallways, to avoid scalding their feet.
Then August arrived.
In August, the humidity makes the air so heavy breathing it is like having a continuous asthma attack. Their urine is "fuckin' sludge" (Felipe's words) no matter how much water they drink, because they are all sweating it out faster than they could hope to replenish it. If Peter stands up too quickly, he has to grip whatever wall or furniture is nearest to stave off the inevitable wave of lightheadedness.