Part 4 (2/2)

And the noise she hears is reminiscent of a Boys and Girls Club, too.

The noise.

She takes a breath, forces herself to look toward the noise. Toward the two round plastic tables situated off center in the irregularly shaped room.

Her heart hesitates, then pounds. The scene, like cigarette smoke in a small room, squeezes Devon's lungs.

Girls.

Girls playing cards. Girls scribbling on paper. Girls laughing and talking or sitting alone.

Girls roughly Devon's age.

Girls in orange jumpsuits. Like hers.

Pod, her mind whispers. Like peas in a pod. And you, you are here with them.

One or two girls look Devon's way, curious. Another glances up, then says something to the girl beside her, who giggles. Another raises her hand and waves.

Devon looks away, to the desk the woman guard is sitting behind. It is solid and impersonal and somehow reminds Devon of the reference desk at Main Library.

Those girls aren't anything like me, Devon tells herself. They've done something bad, really bad, to end up here. The scariest kind of girl is in this place, the kind she'd give a wide berth to while jogging in Wright Park or step away from while waiting for the bus. The kind the police drag out of Stadium High in the middle of cla.s.s.

She doesn't belong here. Her thoughts turn desperate, grasping for supporting evidence. Her report cards are immaculate, certainly very unlike any of these girls'. Unfamiliar teachers recognize her in the halls and smile. Fellow students shout over the clamor to commend her latest performance in the goal: ”Go, Tigers!” Strangers call her to babysit. She tutors fellow students in Spanish, gives young aspiring goalkeepers individual training sessions. Referees kids' rec soccer games, keeps the parents on the sidelines in control and civilized. Don't these people here realize this? Can't they see it? She's not anything like them.

She has to get out. Today. She must get out today.

”You need to leave your bedding here.”

Devon looks up blankly, the voice yanking her from her thoughts. She slowly comes to realize that the woman guard had just said something to her, and the man guard is no longer there. Where did he go?

”I . . . I'm sorry,” Devon stammers. ”I . . . didn't hear you.”

”No.” The woman gives Devon an exasperated smile. ”No, you weren't listening. What I said was: 'You need to leave your bedding here.'”

”Oh.” Devon almost smiles with relief. She's not staying after all! ”Because I won't need them.”

The woman eyes Devon quizzically. ”No,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. ”Because you haven't been a.s.sessed by Mental Health yet. That's usually one of the very first things we do here at Remann Hall after Intake, but the priority today was getting you into court. So, you can just drop your stuff right here, and I'll take you to your cell.”

Devon stares at the woman, confused. She doesn't get the connection between Mental Health and a pillow and blankets, why she must relinquish them if she's going to remain here. She squeezes her bedding harder, takes a step backward.

The woman c.o.c.ks her head, a frown creasing the s.p.a.ce between her eyebrows. ”Um, I think I just told you to drop your bedding here? You cannot take it with you. This is for your own safety, Devon, until Mental Health determines differently.”

The room quiets.

Devon can feel eyes, many eyes, from the tables behind her slowly homing in. Devon squeezes her own shut, feels her lips tremble. She just can't do what this woman is asking of her. Not here. Not with all those girls watching. They'll see her, they'll see her jumpsuit. And then they'll all know.

Devon shakes her head.

”Okay.” The woman sighs. ”I don't think you quite get how things work around here. It goes like this: I tell you to do something, and you do it. End of discussion. Now, let's try this one last time. Please drop your bedding, right here and right now, and then I will take you to your cell.”

Devon's arms quiver, from all the squeezing and the fear. The woman is obviously prepared to mete out punishment if Devon doesn't comply. Devon can't imagine what that punishment might be, but how could it be worse than what she's just been asked to do? But still . . . she is unaccustomed to punishment or authority-figure disapproval. She is unaccustomed to confrontation. Except with an opposing player near her goal, but that skill has no crossover application in a place like this.

”Can't I”-Devon takes in a shaky breath and swallows-”couldn't I just . . . when I get to . . . my cell? Please? I promise-”

”No,” the woman interrupts. ”And I'm losing patience, fast.”

Devon looks at the woman while she's looking back at Devon. Devon knows she has no choice now. She relaxes her arms. The bedding tumbles to her feet in a heap.

The woman lifts her chin with an expression of self-satisfaction. Her eyes travel from Devon's face, down to her chest, and stop. She takes a small intake of breath, whispers, ”Oh.”

Devon's face burns. She looks at the floor.

For a moment Devon and the woman remain like that.

The room stills around them.

The woman quickly steers Devon toward the back wall of perfectly s.p.a.ced olive doors. They must pa.s.s the two round plastic tables, all the eyes quietly tracking them. The woman does her best to s.h.i.+eld Devon, but those eyes, like the ones in the courtroom, are sharp. They don't miss the wetness of Devon's clothes, dark and ringed like ma.s.sive armpit sweat, except freakishly misplaced.

Whispers erupt. Soft at first, then urgent. A m.u.f.fled giggle.

Devon's hair p.r.i.c.kles, pulls away from her scalp. They are discussing her and laughing. Somehow Devon's legs function, move her across the room.

”Hey! What's up with her b.o.o.bs?”

The woman guard stops at one of the olive doors. D-12 is stenciled in white on the doorframe above it.

The woman releases Devon and unlocks the door. Devon counts breaths until the heavy door is pulled open, anxious to escape the eyes and finally hide. The woman moves aside, allowing Devon to pa.s.s.

Devon steps forward, peers in.

Light gray cinder block walls. Dark gray cement floor with a drain in the center. Stainless steel toilet and sink in the far corner. Blue plastic rectangular block against one wall-the bed, she guesses, because of the thin rubberized mattress that's tossed over it. Three narrow slats of frosted plastic on the far wall, allowing three faint horizontal shafts of sunlight into the s.p.a.ce. The faint reek of urine.

A tiny, walled-in cage.

Devon turns to the woman. This can't be real. She opens her mouth to say something, to plead.

The woman nudges Devon forward. ”This is your cell.”

Devon stumbles inside.

The woman follows behind. She indicates the three fixtures. ”Bed. Sink. Toilet. And that's about it for an orientation.” She looks at Devon. ”I'm going to allow you to keep the mattress, only because I'll be monitoring you every five minutes. However, if I determine that you're not using it appropriately, out it goes. Mental Health should be by to talk to you soon.” She pauses. ”You have any questions for me?”

Devon says nothing, her eyes locked on the stainless steel toilet in the corner. Horrifying. She can't do this.

”Okay, great.” The woman nods her head. ”Well, once Mental Health talks to you, you'll get a booklet that spells out all the rules and regulations for this place. You'll be tested on it sometime tomorrow. We do this so everyone's on the same page and knows exactly what to expect here.” She hesitates, clearing her throat. When she speaks again, she's perceptively talking faster. ”One final thing. I'm very sorry, but I have to ask you to remove your bra.”

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