superstar: sings for everybody

June 10, 2000.

Twenty days since arrival in Arizona.

Billy was on his cot singing melodies continuously, with gentle grace. Every day, he practiced his singing with all the techniques taught by Master Spencer. He did everything Connor explained to him, harshly rejecting those who approached him, arguing about meddling in matters that didn't concern him. Connor nodded, and both continued with their lives. Unlike Twin Towers, a reformatory institution, there was no school all day to do whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and however you wanted.

However, there were educational classes similar to high school. You could take a fast course and sit for an exam accrediting your education level. At Billy's request, he and Connor took a class in social sciences. However, Billy opted for English and mathematics. The study hall provided individual classes every day from 9 am to 1 pm; all inmates had to take their studies separately.

Once a week, they had a treatment and rehabilitation program. According to Joseph, they were the ones who allowed early release from prison, usually focusing on those living abusive lives at home, individuals with a high criminal history, or the IPs, a fancy term for psychopaths used in some cases with criminals who had no apparent motives for their crimes.

The lead guide preferred to treat individuals one-on-one and monthly requested group exercises. After all, at Arizona State, they sent all cases deemed hopeless: dangerous criminals who needed a life of supervised living away from danger.

In the morning, Connor and Billy were allowed to use musical instruments in another small room until 5:00 pm, marking the end of academic sessions. It was there they practiced most of the day. Billy began to see that no one approached them except the S-45 group, asking if they could handle certain matters—minor things, according to Connor, just details. The first task: get nails; the second: note down the patrol schedules in the west hall; the third: observe or check who or what was selling supplies in the prison and make some purchases.

Billy learned a lot; the atmosphere in the prison was much more dangerous than he thought. He kept away from everyone. Joseph asked him to sing songs in the evenings, and Billy softly sang the repertoire of nine songs they knew—four of his own, two by Frank Sinatra, two by Louis Armstrong, and one by Elvis Presley, taught to him by Joseph's namesake, the old Joseph, the old curmudgeon who shared a room in his hotel.

To get to his room, he had to go up to the second floor and walk fifteen cells, situated in the middle. Security guards watched in the corners and some corridors; they only allowed entry to those wearing their assigned floor uniform, whether it was 2 or 3. There was only one staircase for all prisoners, for both entry and ascent.

They followed a strict schedule, but it was a schedule. Billy didn't have time to play the piano, but he could practice the guitar, and some simple notes, but his fingers had grown accustomed to the piano.

The schedule was always the same: leave the cell at 6:00 am, bath, meal until 7:00 am, take classes until 1:00 pm, lunch, do whatever you want—if you're in the educational halls, it's until 5:00 pm—and exercise from 5:00 pm to 6:00 pm. On weekends, it was the same, except the exercise gap extended by five hours. Connor argued that people who exercised were bothered the least. For the first time in his life, he used concrete bars as a bench press.

Both Billy and Connor sat at a somewhat distant table and practiced music as best they could. They both had a strict day or so it seemed. On weekends at 7:00 am, he hadn't received visits from anyone in general. Every day, his hope dwindled that someone would visit him. The summer heat was more intense, but he continued exercising, playing basketball with a large group on Sundays until his shoulders gave out.

-Come on, maggots, get up, - said the security guard, who, unlike at Twin Towers, looked much more threatening.

-I love waking up in the morning to the whisper of the birds. The day they stop calling me maggot, rat, inept, fool, freak, or troublemaker, I'll wake up in a bad mood, - said Joseph, jumping off the bunk.

Billy just yawned, trying to recompose himself; he could only recompose himself. Being asleep wasn't a good idea. Even with support. Something he noticed was that the cells were much emptier; at least 30 boys had left.

-You can bet, - said Billy, organizing himself as quickly as possible, taking a shower, eating, and starting with the daily routine as soon as possible. Arizona was a prison that collected all minor offenders from the West Coast; here, there were enough security guards to ensure safety. The kids weren't wise enough to threaten the guards.

Joseph simply ignored him; Billy had known for a long time that he was a narcissist, although he enjoyed hearing Billy sing, their interaction was just allowing Billy to sing until they both fell asleep.

-Next. -

-Next. -

-Next. -

Everyone moved in straight lines without stopping. Billy showered as quickly as he could, with cold water, and a bit of soap from a liquid dispenser provided before the shower, and he organized his day as best as he could. The black gang watched him, especially a boy who had previously beaten him up, with a fierce expression. He remained just as big, surrounded by a large group of black boys; the black gang was twice the size of the white one, but they were divided, the larger number causing the whites to be more united.

Racism wasn't palpable, and there were very few racist attempts, but there were nuances, like how the black gang was more closely monitored.

-Stop staring, you're being obvious, - said Sam, a member of the S-45.

's just an old grudge. Big Dog gave me a terrible beating in the previous reform school, - said Billy.

-Can we settle something? - Sam asked maliciously.

-No, it's better not to start a war over something stupid. I'm waiting for him to make the first move, - said Billy.

-You should ask Jimmy to teach you boxing; he's a champion. His fists are quick and heavy, -suggested Sam.

-Have you tried? - Billy questioned.

-I prefer knives, - Sam replied.

-What's the point of fighting when you can have a revolver? - Billy remarked.

Sam raised an eyebrow. -Who said that? - he asked.

-A friend, who said that fighting is good, but knowing how to shoot is better, - Billy explained.

Sam's eyebrows furrowed with disdain. -I prefer the knife. Do you want me to teach you? - he offered.

-Sure, - Billy agreed.

Sam smiled; using the knife is easy. All you need is the right stance, with a small wooden stick, Sam explained the easiest ways to stab a person and how to avoid getting hurt in the process. The edge of the knife isn't something good to use, and it's better to use the pointed end.

-It depends on the size, but it's best to use it close to the body, pointing the flat part towards your body so the edge doesn't touch your skin. Aim for the eyes, be quick, - Sam advised. The conversation lasted 30 minutes, but Billy learned a lot.

It was enough teaching time to finish his lunch and walk to the educational halls, which were more empty than full. Connor was in the music room, practicing with drumsticks. There was no drum kit in this place, but he managed to grab a pair of sticks and practice individually.

-A social studies and math book, please, - said Billy, referring to the two classes he was taking. The assistant, not very sure if he was a full-time teacher, answered questions that were asked, sat at the desk, and read a book silently while the youths took notes, some just attempted to study, and others whispered.

Billy continued his sporadic efforts to remember his math sections, which was difficult due to his apparent lack of knowledge and skills. He completed the interactive guides for social studies, covering the Second World War, ideological parties of the time, and relevant historical data.

-Have you finished your work? - Billy asked Connor, who nodded.

-Good, let's practice music, - said Billy.

...