Part 2 (2/2)

Now she is here.

The police officer is waiting. ”Come on, miss,” he says. ”Time to get out.”

Devon nods, swings her legs to the outside. Stands. Waits for the officer to close the car door. Follows slowly behind as he strides toward the building his partner just entered. He turns back to Devon, notices her slight limp and takes her elbow as they continue to cross the asphalt.

Devon says, ”Thank you,” because she knows it's the expected response, and because she's relieved for his support. Her pelvis feels so unstable it scares her-a throbbing, leaking hollowness between her legs.

But the soreness doesn't worry her much. She's done soccer tournaments where she'd played back-to-back games in summer heat without ever being subbed out. Lead thighs, aching tightness through the calves and ankles and feet, bruises on shoulders and ribs are all part of the game, consequences that Devon has come to expect, sometimes lasting for days afterward.

Devon knows the soreness always goes away . . . eventually.

And even what happened to her That Night. That nightmare. The sweat, the intense pressure, the haggard uncontrolled breathing, the involuntary shaking, the gruesome ripping-Devon halts the images, actually squeezes her eyes shut to stop them. What she went through those lonely hours-while outside her bathroom window nighttime slowly turned to day-was more physical, more excruciating, than anything she had ever experienced. When she lay on the cool linoleum covered with her own gore-after it was over and done-she knew she'd feel it later. But even then, she realized the pain wouldn't last forever.

The blood, however, is something altogether different. Something unexpected. The constant seeping through thick hospital-issued sanitary pads and disposable underwear, the sickening sweet smell of it. She'd hated asking the nurses to bring her fresh things, afraid of the avoiding eyes and tight nods some of them had given her when she finally brought herself to do it. Devon can't help but suspect that all the blood must be a sort of never-ending punishment-some kind of twisted reminder-for what had happened to her That Night.

The police officer opens the door they'd been moving toward, waits for Devon to step inside.

The other officer is already there, leaning up against a counter, relating information to a frizzy-haired woman behind a desk, a s.h.i.+eld of bulletproof gla.s.s between them.

”But you should already have the police report,” the police officer is saying to the woman through the gla.s.s. ”She's been at Tacoma General the past three days. They just released her to us about a half hour ago.”

Devon can't make out much of the woman's response because of the gla.s.s. And anyway, the other police officer is nudging her toward a long wooden bench backed against a line of windows with a view of the parking lot.

”Sit,” he tells her, then drops to the bench himself, crossing his arms, as if expecting a laborious wait.

Devon stops at the window. A white minivan so dirty it looks gray creeps by. The woman behind the wheel hunches forward, her nose nearly touching the winds.h.i.+eld-peering left, then right-like she's lost.

Devon turns away and eases herself down onto the bench. She feels a strange pulling on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she bends, a definite tenderness that she hadn't felt before. One of the nurses had told her this would happen, that it was a normal part of the postpartum process. Her body only doing what it's designed to do.

”Her discharge papers? Yeah, I got them right here,” the police officer is saying to the frizzy-haired woman as he pushes a file through a slot in the gla.s.s. ”Uh, no. They said they'd forward her medical records later on.”

Devon drops her head, fixes her eyes on the scuffed floor without actually seeing it. She hears the police officer's voice, still talking to the woman, without really processing his words. Devon's straight black hair falls across her face, but she doesn't brush it aside. She's careful to think of nothing; she just waits, waits to carry out the next action required of her here.

Finally, the police officer turns from the woman behind the gla.s.s. He says something. Hesitates. Then says it again.

Then yells, ”h.e.l.l-o!”

Devon jerks, looks up. That police officer-he's talking to her. Staring at her, impatient.

”Sorry,” she whispers.

He continues to study her. ”This is your first time here. Isn't it, kid?”

Devon swallows, nods her head. ”Yes.”

”Yeah. Well. Piece of advice? Stay alert. You can't be zoning around in la-la land here. You gotta know what's going on every minute.”

Devon nods again. ”I'm sorry.”

The police officer is still watching her. Devon looks down at her hands. She doesn't like him watching her, afraid of what he thinks he sees.

”All right then,” he says finally. ”You need to step over here now. This lady has a couple questions for you before you go inside and finish getting inprocessed.”

Devon pushes herself off the bench and walks up to the gla.s.s, her stomach twitching. Questions. What do they want to know? What will they make her say? A woman had come to talk to her at the hospital, but Devon had said nothing. Devon holds her hands in front of her because of the cuffs.

The frizzy-haired woman observes Devon's approach without much interest, then asks for her name, date of birth, address, and next of kin. Is she currently taking any medication?

Devon answers all of the questions completely.

The woman types everything into her computer, raising her eyebrows slightly at Devon's middle name. ”Devon Sky Davenport,” she repeats. ”Sky? S-k-y?”

”Yes,” Devon says, addressing the back of the computer monitor now rather than the woman's face directly. ”S-k-y. As in”-she swallows-”as in, 'the sky's the limit.'”

But Devon doesn't volunteer any further explanation, doesn't explain to the woman the story behind the name. That, in fact, ”the sky's the limit” is how Devon's mom has always defined Devon and her supposed potential in life. Her mom would say it when Devon brought home a flawless report card or when Devon received a stellar postseason evaluation from her coach or when a complete stranger commented on Devon's exceptional manners or after the Latest Loser packed his stuff and walked out. ”You'll be Somebody for both of us,” her mom would say.

Not anymore, Mom. Everything's changed. Now, for me, ”the sky” isn't anything but flat and gray and too far away to ever reach. She takes a deep breath. If you were here with me, you'd see it for yourself.

But her mom isn't here. She hasn't come to see Devon at all. Those long hours Devon spent alone between the bleach-white sheets, watching the door to her hospital room and hoping her mom would cross the threshold. It never happened; she never came.

Devon closes her eyes, bites her lip to stop the trembling. She won't cry in front of this woman. No-she won't cry in front of anyone.

”All right, Sky Girl,” the woman says, ”I'm going to have you come inside now. You've got a court appointment at one this afternoon, and we've got a number of things to get accomplished before then.”

Devon nods, suddenly exhausted.

She walks through the door the woman's opened for her.

”Davenport, Devon,” calls out a pet.i.te woman with frosty blonde hair, short and stiff with hairspray in that wispy, windblown look.

Devon hears her name, and an adrenaline jolt jazzes her heart. Her eyes lock on the woman, but Devon doesn't answer, doesn't move. She'd taken a shower during Intake, but sweat p.r.i.c.ks anew along her still-damp hairline, across her upper lip. Under her arms.

This is it. Her name being called. It nails her to this place.

The woman scans the line of molded plastic seats against the wall. Eleven kids sit there with their hands uncuffed and waiting to get called into court. They are all dressed alike in their stiff polyester jumpsuits with leg irons pinching their ankles, white tube socks, and cheap rubber slides. The girls wear orange and the guys wear blue, and Devon in her own orange jumpsuit is sitting right there with them, third plastic seat from the end.

”Uh . . . ” The woman checks her clipboard again, just to make sure. ”Davenport?” She looks uncertainly at the guard sitting at a desk behind her.

Devon knows she's now bordering on disrespect, but she can't make herself respond. And how should she respond, anyway? Raise her hand, like she would in honors world history when Ms. Guggenheim is standing up front, wanting the date the Magna Carta was signed?

Devon swallows; her spit is paste. The kids beside her-the guy with the dreads and long scar crossing his face, the girl with her completely shaved head and piercing blue eyes-do not look the types who'd ever raise their hands in cla.s.s. Or, for that matter, even go to cla.s.s.

And this woman, as small as she is, scares Devon. She has this sort of authoritative aura about her and a hard-looking face. From the moment the guard with the Motorola on his hip led Devon from the inprocessing area to this room and told her to wait for her name to be called, Devon has watched this woman. She's been coming in and out a door at intervals with that clipboard she's holding, calling jumpsuited kids forth. None looked thrilled to be following her, and none came back through the door after they had. The makings for a teen scream summer thriller.

The woman crosses her arms, the clipboard hugged to her chest, annoyance gathering in her eyes.

<script>