jasper jones, district ten | fin

Damn it.

I've really fucked up this time. Peacekeepers came and got me from my house, dragged me away from my mom, and brought me up to the Justice Building. I left my gun, Big Iron, underneath one of the floor panels in my room. As I'm being marched down the hallway to one of the offices, I'm praying they ain't trying to get me for possession of a firearm. Sure, there's a shit ton of other stuff I'm guilty of, but there's only evidence of that, and it's sitting right in my bedroom. If they search the house, they might find it, and then I'm good as dead, or they might whip me in the Town Square, or whatever they do to criminals these days.

I doubt my dad — well, my unofficial dad — will be able to help me. He's a Peacekeeper, and no one knows we're related except me, my mom, and him. I'm a bastard, an illegitimate child. My dad's never been able to be a real father, or be around at all, since Peacekeepers aren't allowed to have families. I wasn't supposed to exist, and even though I know there isn't anything that can be done about this situation, I still fucking hate my dad. I hate him for being a deadbeat, for knocking my mom up. I know I wouldn't be here if it weren't for his mistake, but that's not the point.

The two Peacekeepers flanking me bring me into a room and shut the door. When I turn around, I instantly roll my eyes.

It's my fucking dad.

He's in his white armored uniform, but isn't wearing his helmet. I'd rather that he was so I wouldn't have to look at his stupid fucking face, and see the eyes that match mine.

"The fuck do you want?" I spit.

He sighs, crossing his arms. "Why don't you sit down, and take off your hat?" he suggests, nodding his head to the brown outback hat on my head.

"You sound like my fucking mom," I retort. I don't sit, and I keep my hat on. My mother always reminds me to take it off when I'm in the house, and my dad can go fuck himself if he thinks he can tell me what to do. I know he's a Peacekeeper an' all, but wearing a hat indoors ain't against the law.

"Jasper, look — I know you robbed Odessa White," my dad explains calmly.

Indignation flares up in my chest. How the fuck does he know that?

"What?" I exclaim. "She didn't even see my face!"

Fuck, I was careful. I thought I was careful. I held Odessa White at gunpoint last week and took all the money she had on her, but it was dark and I was covered by the shadow of an alleyway. Odessa dropped her wallet on the ground and ran, there's no way she recognized me.

"Actually, I wasn't sure it was you. But now I am."

I hate this man, I really fucking do. Can he really blame me for stealing? I gotta help my mom and half-sisters somehow, and I'd rather steal than get tessera and put my name in the Reaping more times. If I died, they'd have no one, and what would they do then?

"You were caught on a security camera, Jasper," my father tells me. "I thought I recognized your voice on the tape. It turns out my hunch was right."

A scowl twists my features. Maybe there's still a way out of this — fuck, I shouldn't have admitted to the crime so fast. I wasn't fucking thinking. If my family starves because I'm a dumbass, I'll be damned.

I could threaten to tell everyone I'm his son. He'd probably lose his job, maybe even get punished.

"So, what you're gonna lock me up now, huh?" I ask. "How embarrassing for you. Your own son, a criminal." I've already dug my own grave, so fuck it if I dig even deeper.

To my disappointment, my father doesn't even look mad, or annoyed. His composure is flawless, his expression completely stoic no matter what I say. I could probably punch him in the face and he wouldn't react. I'd like to do that. Maybe I will if I end up getting arrested.

"No," my dad replies. "The Peacekeepers that brought you here think I'm interviewing you as a witness. I'm talking to you because I want to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"Well, technically, none of this woulda happened if I hadn't been born," I say, "and whose fault was that?"

My mom always tells me I run my mouth too much, but right now I don't fucking care. This is the first time I've talked to my dad in months — this is the only one-on-one conversation we've ever had. Sometimes, he bothers to talk to me when he sees me, but never acknowledges me as his son. He never has. Not even in private. He knows that I know because of my mother, and I bet that's the only reason he doesn't try to deny it if I ever bring it up.

I know he wishes I was never born. Sometimes I do, too.

There is a flicker of something on my father's face, but I can't tell if it's disappointment or exasperation.

"Jasper," he says, "I don't regret that you're my son. I know it puts you in a difficult position, and I know you resent me. But I'm not throwing my own child in prison. I'm trying to help you. Let me."

Something other than anger sears painfully through my chest, but I can't tell, or maybe I just don't want to admit, what it is. He actually looks fucking genuine, looking at me with a soft gaze, brow slightly furrowed with concern. I've spent too much time hating him to change my mind that he isn't a terrible person.

"Yeah well — well I wouldn't have to steal if you weren't a fuckin' deadbeat," I nearly stumble over my words, but I catch myself. Thank Ripred I did, 'cause I couldn't stomach it if I stammered in front of my dad.

Ever since my step-dad died, it's left my mom to take care of a whole bunch of kids she can't afford. I was the first, the oldest by a lot since I was the one born out of wedlock, so now I'm the one picking up the slack. But helping out as a farmhand, taking on extra work around the ranch, ain't enough. So I steal sometimes. Pick-pocketing, swiping food from the market, even extreme things like what happened with Odessa White. I could sell my horse, Jax, but I've had him since I was a kid and it'd kill me to part with him.

"I'm sorry," my father tries to apologize, at least. "I wish things had been different. But even if I retired, I'd be sent back home. Either way, I'm not in your life."

"Yeah, whatever," I grumble. I know there's nothing that can be done. But that doesn't make me resent my father any less.

"Look, Jasper, just get rid of your gun. Clean up your act. Don't ever give me another reason to have you brought in here," he sounds rather stern this time, his concerned expression hardening.

"Alright," I say bitterly. "Yeah, okay." I'm lying right to his face — there ain't no way I'm getting rid of my gun. I might need it someday, even if I stop stealing. (I don't think I will, but robbing someone at gunpoint didn't seem to work out for me, so I guess I'll scrap that method.)

"Thanks for not arresting me, I guess." I don't make eye contact when I say that. It's hard enough to get those words out. It'd probably be impossible to say it if I tried to look him in the eye.

My father nods, and waves his hand.

"You're free to go, son."