19
Juvenile
“You think this is funny?”
Me and Inge try and stifle our laughs. I guess that means we do.
But the woman in the baggy khaki pants and white shirt doesn’t think so. She paces left and right. A lanyard with an ID around her neck. She looks tired. Make-up free. Dark, springy hair a little wild like she just got up.
I lean my head back against the wall. The notice board on the other side of the corridor blurring a little. My body feels unsteady on the hard plastic chair drilled into the floor. Inge leans against me, her head on my shoulder.
The ID on the woman’s neck says Esmeralda Sousa. The more I look at her hair—no one in the nineties had any fashion sense. I mean, literally, no one.
Esmerelda shakes her head. She has a mobile phone on her the size of a planet. She pull
