After (22 page)

Devon had rolled her eyes, less at Phil’s request than at her mom’s annoying fawning—and fake—behavior.

Devon’s mom frowned. “Bow your head and close your eyes, Devon. Show respect to God.”

And then Phil began in a slow, reverential tone, “Dear Lord, our thanks are on ya. Instead of turkey, we have lasagna—”

Devon peeked over at Phil. Was he even serious? But his eyes were tightly closed in concentration.

“Bless us this year, O Lord. That we shall see your gracious hand in all the good that we see therein. Amen.”

“Amen!” Devon’s mom had cheered. “That was so great, Phil. Thank you.”

Okay, so what about all the bad stuff? Is God’s gracious hand in that, too? Devon had wanted to ask Phil this but resumed pushing her food around her plate instead. Phil wasn’t the kind to field such intricate theological questions. He’d just say something clichéd like, “All’s we can do is take the good with the bad, Devon. The good with the bad.”

Devon’s mom smiled across the table at Phil. She lifted the jug of cheap wine, the table’s centerpiece between the two flickering candlesticks, and poured Phil and herself each a glass.

By Christmas, Devon and her mom were eating their lasagna alone.

Devon takes another bite. She feels her stomach twist suddenly, squeezing out any appetite. She tosses her spork back onto the tray.

Devon wishes she’d quit thinking about her mom. At every turn, she’s there. Especially her face That Morning. Always her face in Devon’s mind, like the background on her cell phone—that face pops up whenever Devon’s mind is idle. Realization breaking across that face, the realization that Devon wasn’t who her mom thought she was. The face of someone whose dreams are shattering. But then Devon’s guilt shifts to anger. So where is she? Huh?
Huh
? How could she just leave Devon here all alone? The last time her mom had seen Devon, she was bleeding and unconscious in their apartment. That was an entire week ago! Devon could be dead right now, for all her mom knew or cared. Devon spits the bite into the thin paper napkin. Drops it, crumpled, onto her tray.

Her mom’s gone, end of story. She probably took off for good, never to return. Just like she did all those years ago when she left Spokane and her own mother and father. Devon just needs to stop obsessing about it, move on, and be done with it.

“So. The food’s not good enough for you.”

Devon looks up. It’s Karma, standing before her.

“God! What a freaking snob.” Karma plops down on the floor beside Devon, grabs up the tray. Snatches Devon’s used spork and, without asking, starts shoveling in Devon’s food.

Devon watches Karma eat without saying anything.

Karma devours everything but the vanilla pudding. She stretches out her legs then, kicks the tray away. The liquid from the green beans sloshes out of its depression, some onto the gray carpet.

Karma yawns, glances around the room surreptitiously. Then, with a swift snap, breaks off the end of the spork, the handled end. She tucks that piece into her bra, tosses the remainder onto the tray.

Devon shifts her eyes to the broken spork on the tray, its jagged edge. She thinks of Karma’s crisscrossed arm, the raw gouges there. She checks back to Karma.

Karma’s eyes narrow, challenging Devon.

Karma knows Devon’s job, that she collects the sporks and napkins littering the room after each meal. Karma knows Devon could easily tell the staff about that broken spork.

And Devon
should
tell the staff about it. This information is definitely something they’d want. The memory of a TV documentary slips into her mind then, one that she once had watched from her solitary spot on the couch at home. A documentary about prison life. One of the wardens was displaying a shockingly huge stash of weapons confiscated from the inmates over a one-year period. Lethal implements made from ordinary things. Things like broken plastic sporks.

Is Karma making a weapon? Combined with a pencil—by attaching that jagged plastic shard to a pencil somehow, maybe with one of those rubber bands Karma uses to keep her braids together; it wouldn’t be hard to do—she could stab someone. Karma had hinted at it the other day, hadn’t she?
You can kill someone with a pencil
, she’d told Devon.
There’s lots of ways to do it.

She could stab me,
Devon realizes suddenly. Devon thinks of Karma’s scars, her impulsiveness. She could stab herself.

Devon would probably get extra points for reporting this. With those extra points, she might earn her way up to Honor before the hearing on Tuesday. The judge would be impressed. Dom would be pleased.

All these thoughts run through Devon’s mind in an instant.

Karma is still watching Devon, still challenging.

“Tattletale, tattletale,” Karma sings softly, her voice taunting, “hanging by a”—she exaggerates a pause, as if she’s searching for the correct word, then smirks—“
devil’s
tail.” Karma drops her head back, stretches her arms toward the ceiling unconcernedly. “Oh, don’t you worry, Devil.
I
don’t get off on trying to kill
other
people. Not
me.
” She makes a point of glancing at Devon, then looks back up at the ceiling. “No, I just like having stuff around in case, you know, I need it.” She breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly. “In case you didn’t know, dead people don’t bleed. If you can bleed—see it, feel it—then you know you’re alive. It’s irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.” Karma turns to look at Devon then, straight into her eyes. “
I’m
alive. Are
you
, Devil?”

Devon says nothing. She doesn’t break eye contact, though. Barely even blinks.

“But go ahead. You tell Staff Bitch”—Karma pats her chest where the plastic fragment is hidden—“and we all get Lockdown. Everybody gets an early night—not a prob; you like hanging out in your cell anyway, don’t you? Reading all those stupid books and stuff?—and I get lots and lots of attention, which is always fun. They’ll call down that Dr. Bacon freak job to work on me for a while, and, well, you know all about that, don’t you?” Karma smiles at Devon, a saccharine one. “So, how was it,
Devil
? Huh?” Karma jabs Devon with an elbow. “You have a nice little heart-to-heart with the doc today? You cry to her about how much you miss your iPhone and your Abercrombie wardrobe? Your cute little convertible? Your itty-bitty doggy named Lulu? What kind is it, anyway? A Chihuahua? A rat that barks?”

Devon continues to say nothing, just holds Karma’s eyes with her own. Is that who Karma thinks Devon is? The next candidate for
My Super Sweet 16
?

“Hey!” Karma snaps her fingers in Devon’s face. “What, you don’t like to talk? I’m not interesting enough? Huh? Not smart, like you?”

Silence between them, then Devon finally says, “So, you done with that?” She nods toward her near empty food tray, pleased she’s kept her tone even and cool. Betraying nothing. Except, maybe, boredom.

Karma raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know . . .
am
I?” She eyes Devon up and down, then finally pushes up off the ground. Bends over the tray, scoops the fake whipped cream off the pudding with an index finger. She checks back at Devon, licks her finger slowly, mock savoring the white fluff. She kicks the tray aside. “
Now
I am.” She smirks at Devon, saunters away across the room. Devon watches her sidle up to Jenevra, give her a shove. Jenevra shoves her in return. They both laugh. Karma moves on, disappears into her cell.

And Devon understands what Karma wants.

She just wants someone to push back.

Saturday mornings are different from weekday mornings. Devon senses this immediately. The door lock still jars everyone awake at seven thirty with its abrupt snap. The daily chores still await completion. The girls still stumble out of their cells, retrieve their hygiene bags from the box beside the control desk, and ready themselves for the day. But the mood in the unit is lighter. As if the fluorescent bulbs have all been brightened a notch, or a crisp breeze has been allowed into the room, freshening everything. As if a giant vacuum has been turned on, sucking most of the tension, stress, and tightness out of the air.

The girls are energized. They are talking louder, laughing, chasing around the room. Devon watches this from her spot beside the book cart. Like recess in elementary school, she thinks.

“My mom is coming today!” Macee, the tiny black-haired anime girl, skips around the room, announcing to everyone. “My mom is coming today! Today, today, today!”

Macee stops in front of Devon. “Hey, you,” she says. “How come you’re always sitting here? By yourself. You like books or something?”

Devon looks up at Macee. She’s hopping from one foot to the other. Her jumpsuit is so oversized the crotch hangs halfway down her thighs with the pant legs rolled up, the fabric forming miniature inner tubes around her ankles.

Devon shrugs. “Yeah . . .”

“Then how come you’re never actually reading them? You sit there with a book all the time, but mostly you’re really just watching stuff.”

Devon closes the book she’s been reading—some teen fantasy about a girl disguised as a knight—and clears her throat. “Well, I read an entire book yesterday.” She scans the book cart, finds the paperback she’d returned this morning,
Where the Red Fern Grows
. Points to it.

During the scheduled five o’clock Quiet Time in her cell last night, she’d started the book, later opting out of the evening Free Time in the common area—the supervised card games and letter writing and showering some of the other girls engaged in. She remained lying on her mattress in her cell reading, finishing the book just before the door’s lock snapped shut and the lights went out. She’d stared up at her ceiling in the dark with the finished book open on her chest, quiet tears rolling off her face and down into her pillow, her throat tight and throbbing. She’d thrown her arm over her eyes. The tears were there because both dogs had died and because of the boy’s empty sadness over losing them. The tears were there because she’d never had something—a dog or anything—that she had loved enough to mourn.

But Devon doesn’t say any of this to Macee.

Macee shrugs. “Cool. I hate reading. Is your mom coming today?”

“No!” Devon’s voice is harsh. Macee hops backward, her eyes widen.

Devon clears her throat again, softens her tone. “Sorry. I mean, no. I seriously doubt it.”

“But it’s visiting day.”

“I know.”

“Maybe she’ll call.” Macee glances over her shoulder, across the common room at the two pay phones hanging on the wall. “Or you could call
her
, you know. You’re allowed. Just ask the staff.”

Devon doesn’t respond. She doesn’t tell Macee that, apparently, her mom doesn’t want to be reached. If she did, she’d have called Devon herself.

At ten thirty, after the chores are done and the Saturday cell inspection is complete, the staff on duty, a new one with spiky salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it’s seen way too many bad things in life, drags out the basketballs. She drops the mesh ball bag that contains them near the door that opens out into the courtyard.

“Listen up!” the staff announces to the common room in general. “I need one volunteer to Windex the glass. Double points. And it’s open to anyone, not just Privilege and Honor statuses.” She looks around. “When, and only when, the job gets done will any of you get to go out to the courtyard. So, let’s cooperate. Any takers?”

Devon, hunkered down in her accustomed spot, considers this. She should volunteer. She could use the extra points. Those points could push her up a status. Devon feels her hand creep upward.

But the staff doesn’t notice Devon in the corner. “
And
whoever volunteers also gets first dibs on these.” She kicks the bag of balls.

“Yo! I’ll do it!” Jenevra says, jumping up from one of the round tables.

Devon slinks her hand back down.

Jenevra collects the Windex and paper towels from the staff, and Devon returns to her book.

“Hey, you! Devon!”

Devon looks up, slightly dazed from reading and surprised to hear her name. She blinks away the images her mind has created from the words on the pages—jousting knights and pageantry—and turns her head toward the voice.

Jenevra is standing at the open door to the courtyard, bouncing a basketball, two girls flanking her sides. All three are watching Devon.

“So, you want to play?” Jenevra asks. “Two on two?”

Devon stares back at the girls. She can feel the cool outside air breeze through the opened door. She hasn’t been outdoors since . . . since she was brought to this place in the back of that squad car. How many days ago was that now? Six? One of the girls, the tall one with the short red hair—someone Devon doesn’t remember ever seeing here before—smiles over at her. An encouragement.

Ms. Coughran’s warning jumps into Devon’s mind:
Not you, Devon . . . the doc hasn’t cleared you for exercising yet.

Devon shakes it away, clears her throat. “Sure.” She dog-ears the page she’s on, shoves the book back into its spot on the cart. She stands up uncertainly then, wipes her hands on the legs of her jumpsuit.

Jenevra fires the ball at Devon. On reflex, Devon’s hands snap up. Catches it solidly.

Jenevra nods at her. “Good hands.”

“Thanks.” Devon bounces the ball once. Twice. Then follows the three girls out into the courtyard.

The game gets competitive fast. Jenevra and Devon against the other two. One of the girls—Devon now remembers her name—is Evie, and the other one, the new redhead, is Sam. All three girls definitely can play, especially Jenevra, who’s brilliant. Her moves are fluid, her footwork quick, her shots accurate, even wearing that cumbersome jumpsuit and rubber slide sandals. The courtyard is imperfect for a serious game—too small, about half court sized and shaped hexagonally, the cement underfoot rough and uneven. The walls surrounding them enclose the game, so the girls slam into them again and again.