After (24 page)

“Doing my part for the environment, yes.”

Devon looks over her shoulder toward the door behind her, then back to Dom. “Cool. You do that a lot? Ride your bike places?”

Dom sets her pen down, nice and centered, on her yellow legal pad. “I do, but I’m not here to discuss my preferred mode of transportation with you. Okay? I hate to constantly bring this up, but we have a hearing coming up in three days. That’s why I’m here yet again. We have some new developments we need to cover—”

“That girl.” Devon looks back at the door again. “Do you . . . know her?”

Dom looks confused for a moment. Then, “Oh, the girl on the stretcher? The one who was on her way out when I was coming in?”

Devon nods. She brings her thumb up to her mouth, gnaws.

“No.”

Devon starts pacing. “Well, she took the spork from my tray at dinner last night and broke the end off of it. I think she used it to cut herself.”

Dom watches Devon, following her back and forth with those steady eyes.

“She was freaking out all over the place this morning. So, the staff slammed her to the ground and made all of us lockdown in our cells. Then a little later, an ambulance came. I saw them take her away on that stretcher. I was looking out my window. She had blood all over her.”

Dom nods. “I’m sure seeing that was very upsetting for you.”

Devon stops pacing, throws her arms out. “Did you even hear what I said, Dom? She used
my
spork, the part she broke off of it, to cut herself! I’m sure that’s why she was bleeding so much. She must have done it in her cell during Lockdown. She—her name’s Karma—she showed me her arms the other day. She had tons of scars from cutting herself.” Devon backs into the corner of the room nearest the door, slides down to the floor. “I should’ve told the staff about the spork. I should’ve
said something
!”

“So, why didn’t you?”

Devon shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want . . . I don’t know.”

Dom leans forward. “Are you friends with this Karma girl?”

Devon
friends
with Karma? Devon shakes her head. “No. No way. We talk sometimes. I guess. Mostly she just tries to get in my head.”

“I see.” Dom sits back again. “Well, Devon, one thing you have to learn? You can’t control other people. Yeah, maybe you should’ve told the staff. But Karma makes her own choices. Just like you. Just like me.” She pauses a moment, leans over sideways around the table to get a better view of Devon. “So, this is what’s bothering you then? Because you seem very agitated today. More so than usual.”

Devon draws her legs toward herself, rests her chin on her knees. Shrugs again.

“It’s not your fault, Devon. Whatever Karma did, she did to herself.” Dom stands, walks over to the stool Devon had only briefly occupied, sits on it herself so she’s closer to Devon, can see her clearly.

Devon watches Dom. She’s wearing those little cycling shoes, the kind that clip into the pedals. They make a
click-clack
sound against the cement floor as she moves.

“I don’t know,” Devon finally says. “When I saw Karma on the stretcher, I just—” She hugs her legs tighter to herself. “I just started, you know,
remembering
. . . stuff.”

Dom sits up straight. “Like what?”

A flash of memory. The dark-eyed man, looking down at her. The concern on his face. The bright lights of the emergency room, the rocking movement of the stretcher rolling across the floor. Devon’s slow realization of why she was there, the panic rising inside of her.

“When I was on a stretcher,” Devon says. “At the hospital.”
And the blood in the bathroom. The blood . . . and IT.
Devon squeezes her eyes shut.

But she can feel a tugging in her mind. Questions inching forward, questions about IT.

Should she ask them—Where is IT now?
How
is IT?—because Dom, she might know.

Devon opens her mouth. “I . . . I was just . . .” She swallows, then lowers her head. She can’t do it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dom and Devon stay like that for some time—Dom watching Devon hug herself—both saying nothing.

Finally, Dom takes a deep breath. “Well, Devon, I can’t up-load your brain into mine. You know you’re going to have to share these things with me—everything, not just the things you feel like sharing—hard as that’s going to be. But right now, we need to talk specifically about Tuesday.” She turns from Devon, picks up her pen and legal pad, leafs through it. “So. I met your soccer coach at Stadium yesterday. Mr. Dougherty—”

Devon’s head shoots up. A jolt in her gut. “Coach Mark?”

Dom turns around, studies Devon for a moment. “Yes. I had a good conversation with him. Talked to him for about an hour or so.”

An hour?
A lot of information can be discussed in an hour. Devon feels her throat constrict. Whispers, “What did he say?”

“Well, he thinks you are a very talented soccer player. One of the most talented he’s ever had the privilege to coach.” Dom checks her legal pad. “His words exactly.”

Devon tries to force down the lump that’s swelling in her throat. “Does he know about . . . about . . . you know. What happened?”

“Of course.” Dom hesitates a moment, then, “Everyone does, Devon. I told you that before.”

Devon drops her head back down on her knees.

“He said he’s known you for a long time.”

Devon nods. “Ever since I went competitive. I’ve played for him since I was eleven.”

“So, in addition to being your high school coach, he’s also been your club coach?”

Devon nods again.

“And that’s, uh”—Dom glances at her legal pad—“for the Washington Premier Football Club? ‘Football’ meaning ‘soccer,’ right?”

“Yeah.”

Dom doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “A couple of things came up while we were talking, things I’d like—no
need—
to explore with you.” Her voice turns stern suddenly. “And I want you to be one hundred percent open and honest with me about it. No playing dodgeball. Got it?” She looks back at her legal pad. “He said that you had gotten injured, and that the injury kept you out of soccer for most of the winter training and all of your spring club season thus far.” Her voice takes on an edge. “This was news to me, of course.”

Devon doesn’t say anything. She places her hands flat on the floor, pushing against it.

“From about mid-January on is what he said. Is that right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You
guess
? Look, either this statement is right, or the statement is wrong. We’re talking solid facts here. So, which is it?”

It happened about a week after winter break, Devon remembers. The drizzle was a little heavier that afternoon than the typical Tacoma winter day. Had been for days and days. The mist a thick spit, almost like it had some snow in it, coming down at a slant. The ground in front of the goal a slick, muddy mess. But they practiced anyway. In the Northwest, if you cancel practice for rain, you’d be canceling it almost every day. “We love the rain!” Coach Mark loved to yell on such days. “We love the mud! Love it more than your opponent hates it!”

“Yes.” Devon takes a breath. “It’s right.”

“Really?” Dom’s eyes narrow. “Funny how I didn’t find any record of this injury anywhere in your medical files, Devon. So, why don’t you just tell me about it now.”

Devon shrugs, kicks off her rubber slides. Rakes the cement floor with her toes. She feels the rough bumps through her socks.

The memory is right there. She’s with her club team, practicing at her club’s field complex off River Road. The girls are preparing for a preseason showcase tournament in Southern California, only a few weeks away. This practice, Coach Mark is putting them through a simple crossing and finishing drill, one they’ve done countless times. The forward at the top of the box passes the ball to the midfielder who’s making a run along the inside of the sideline toward the field’s right-hand corner. She takes a touch, then crosses it back to the center of the goal box. The forward, running onto it, simply one-touches it into the net—that is, if the ball can get past Devon in the goal.

This particular time Kait, the team’s top forward and, until recently, Devon’s best friend, is running onto the cross that’s coming from her right, Devon’s left. It wasn’t a great ball from Madi on the outside, Devon remembers thinking—not to feet and coming to a bounce just behind Kait at the six. But Kait handles the ball fine anyway, popping it up and half-volleying it when it’s on its way down, and the ball blasts toward the goal’s right corner, to Devon’s left. Devon dives, arms outstretched, hands reaching for the ball, her body propelling parallel with the ground.

The ball’s coming too fast, too wide. She does what she can now to tip the ball out and around the post, but at the last instant, the ball makes an unexpected curve. Devon’s bottom hand, her left one, takes the full impact of the shot, forcing her arm back. She hits the ground; her left shoulder feels a violent wrenching there. She wants to get up for the second save, but the mud is too slick and she’s sliding across the ground. Kait, she’s still coming at a full sprint and crashing the goal. Devon rolls slightly onto her back, tries to slow herself. She hears the
swoosh
of the net behind her as the ball hits it.
Gave up a goal.
Her head, the back of it, slams into the post.

Darkness.

Devon opens her eyes slowly. She blinks away the rain. Above her teammates are crowding, anxious faces looking down at her. She catches a glimpse of Kait, standing off to the side with crossed arms, her lips pressed tight together. And Coach Mark, he’s kneeling at her side, his mouth moving, his words unintelligible.

Slowly, her surroundings take shape, make sense. She’s outside—gray sky, rain. Wet grass. Mud underneath. Cold. And her head—it throbs. She moves to swipe the rain from her face. A searing burn from her shoulder. She cries out.

“So,” Dom says when Devon has finished telling her story, “did they call an ambulance?”

“Uh—” Devon blinks, shakes the memory from her mind. “No.”

“Anyone take you to the emergency room?”

“No!” Devon stops, collects herself. “I mean, no. I didn’t want to go there, to the hospital. I . . . after a couple of minutes, I felt fine. Really. Coach Mark ended practice early, and then he drove me home.”

Dom nods. “Yeah, he told me that he was very worried about you. He wanted to make sure that you got home okay.”

Devon remembers sitting in his Tahoe, the passenger seat. Resting her aching head against the window, holding her left arm close to her body, not saying anything. Watching the rain splat the glass, then slowly slide down. The windshield wipers swishing across the glass the only sound.

“So, your mom took you to a doctor later.”

Devon shakes her head. “No . . . ”

Dom frowns down at her legal pad. “But Mr. Dougherty said that you missed school the next day, and when you came back the following day, you told him that you had gotten a concussion and a shoulder subluxation—you had explained to him that your shoulder had sort of rolled along the edge of your socket and snapped back in place again—and that the doctor had said you wouldn’t be able to practice for at least four to six weeks, mostly due to the concussion. And that you had to go to physical therapy three times a week for the next six weeks to strengthen the muscles around your shoulder’s rotator cup.” Dom raises her head, looks at Devon.

Devon shifts her eyes back down to her knees.

“So, you’re telling me now that you
didn’t
go to a doctor
at all
?”

Devon chews on her lip. Risks a glance up at Dom.

Dom is frowning. “Should I take that as a no? Because I wasn’t able to dig up the medical records documenting any of this.” She drums her fingers on the tabletop. “Did your mom know
anything
? About hitting your head and hurting your shoulder?”

“Well, when Coach Mark brought me home, my mom was still at work. I go to sleep way before she gets home most nights, and I went to sleep extra early that night because I wasn’t feeling very good. And then, well, my mom was asleep when I got up in the morning. So . . .”

“But—” Dom looks up at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts. “Okay, so you
did
stay home that next day? Like your coach said?”

“Yeah, because I wasn’t feeling that great. I was sore all over. My head was still hurting—I had this huge lump. I didn’t feel like sitting in school all day.”

“Okay. So when
did
you tell your mom?”

Devon picks up one of her rubber slides. Slips a hand into it. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I really didn’t want to deal with it. She’d just obsess over nothing. Plus, going to the doctor’s expensive! We don’t have money to just—”

“Excuse me, but smashing your head into a goalpost and getting your shoulder knocked out is
nothing
? I think if your mom
hadn’t
obsessed about it, I’d be concerned. And there are some things in this world worth spending money on, Devon. Okay? You didn’t even give your mom the chance to make that choice!” Dom sighs with frustration. “You
robbed
her of an opportunity to finally make a good decision for you!”

Dom’s comment stings. Devon slips her other hand into the second slide. Goalkeeping wearing these? Totally ridiculous.

The conference room is silent. Finally, Devon peeks up at Dom. She’s on that stool with her jaw clenched, her cheeks flushed. Devon quickly returns her eyes to the slides on her hands.

“Didn’t the school call your mom that day to report your absence?”

Devon shrugs. “My mom never asked me anything about it.”

“I see.” Dom’s voice is pinched. “So, that stuff you told your coach. You just”—she flicks her hands out—“made it up?”

“Um.” Devon clears her throat. “Not exactly.”