Part 6 (1/2)

A short, slight woman, the staff from behind the control desk, steps through the doorway, holding a food tray in one hand.

The woman looks at Devon, and Devon yanks her jumpsuit up over her knees. Sweat breaks out everywhere.

”Caught you in the act, huh?” the woman says. ”Don't think this is a first for me, okay? You girls need to get over yourselves.”

Devon watches as the woman continues inside, shoving the crumpled sheet out of the way and placing the tray at the foot of Devon's bed. ”This is your breakfast, but don't expect room service every day, okay? After today, you'll be coming out of your room like everybody else. We always keep the new residents in their rooms for twenty-four hours after Intake, okay? To get used to things. It's called Orientation Status. That's a rule, okay?”

From her mortifying spot on the toilet, Devon, in a funk of disbelief, observes the woman. She can't understand the woman's absolute disregard for her privacy, moving methodically as she does in her shapeless Seattle Mariners T-s.h.i.+rt and black Adidas sweatpants and speaking in that crusty lilting tone of hers with a hint of an accent that Devon can't place. She could be Mexican or Native American or even Indian, judging from her skin color and short black hair, straight and flat and shapeless on her head, and her chiseled facial features. She could be forty, or she could be sixty; Devon can't guess.

The woman glances around the room, nodding to herself, like she's doing a mental inspection. Then she turns her dark eyes on Devon. ”My name is Henrietta, okay? You're going to be seeing a lot of me. Most of the time I work nights, okay? But today, I have the day s.h.i.+ft, too. Back-to-back s.h.i.+fts. So you better not mess with me, okay? I am not in a mood to be messed with.”

Devon nods.

”Good.” Henrietta also nods, satisfied that she'd gotten across whatever she'd intended to communicate. She drops a thin booklet on top of the food tray. ”You need to read this, okay? If you have any questions, just ask. I make cell checks every fifteen minutes, okay? That means me looking into your window to make sure everything's all right. By lunchtime, you need to be ready for my test, okay?”

Devon nods again. ”Okay,” she whispers. She doesn't want to tell Henrietta that she'd already received the booklet from the staff woman last night, that it's stashed in the cubby under her bed. She'd fallen asleep memorizing it. That was before the doctor had shown up, waking her.

”And you need to pa.s.s it, okay? So don't blow it off.” Henrietta studies Devon for a moment. Devon averts her eyes to the floor, feeling miserably uncomfortable under the woman's gaze, wis.h.i.+ng that she would just move along and give her some privacy. And quit saying ”okay?” every five seconds. How annoying. Devon s.h.i.+fts on her seat, her b.u.t.t growing painfully numb.

”After you eat, you'll need to take a shower, okay?”

”Oh.” That makes Devon feel better, something positive to look for. She glances up. ”Okay. That would be . . . really great. Thank you.”

”Thanking me makes no difference. It's a hygiene issue with you, okay?” Her voice turns scolding now. ”Let me tell you, I would have made sure you got one last night, even if I had to drag you out of your cell myself.” She clamps her mouth shut, says nothing further for a moment. ”But we'll wait-okay?-until the other girls start school for the day. That way we won't be violating the twenty-four-hour rule of no contact with the other residents, okay? The shower is right across the common area. So it's just better if no one's around then, okay?”

School? They have school here? Well, whatever. She won't have to see the girls, at least not in the near future. And maybe not at all. She may be gone soon, hopefully before tomorrow ever comes. She'll be back at Stadium High School, sitting in her own cla.s.ses. Turning in her critical a.n.a.lysis on The Taming of the Shrew that's due for Mr. Andrew at the end of the week. She'd already finished it two days after he'd a.s.signed it.

The woman steps toward Devon. Her face is intent, almost like a hawk's on the hunt.

Devon shrinks back, her spine touching the cool stainless steel behind her.

The woman pulls a thick maxi pad out from somewhere and tosses it on Devon's lap.

Devon stares at it. She can feel heat crawling across her face.

”You have a meeting with your lawyer at ten.”

Her lawyer? Devon feels her heart pick up, beating fast. Maybe she is leaving here. Soon. No, today! Is that the reason for the shower? So she can leave all fresh and clean?

Devon looks up, smiling slightly, her embarra.s.sment momentarily forgotten. ”Thank you.”

But the door's clanked shut. Henrietta is already gone.

chapter seven.

The first thing Henrietta says when Devon steps outside the shower room is, ”Comb your hair.” She shoves a black plastic comb into Devon's hand, then leads her to the door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM, two doors down from the shower and directly across the common area from Devon's cell. ”Let me tell you, first impressions are lasting impressions. You only get one, so make yours good.” She opens the door and moves aside. ”Okay?”

Devon takes a step inside and stops. Who she sees isn't who she'd pictured. This person isn't old and balding or wearing a shabby, dandruff-sprinkled suit or hunching over a stack of files, barely acknowledging her presence.

Instead, this person is a woman. And young. In a dark, perfectly pressed suit, cream cuffs peeking out of her jacket sleeves. A tight, neat updo, almost like a beehive. Blonde hair, but not like her mom's fake blonde straight out of a box. This woman's hair is almost gold, with too many colors weaving through it and catching the light to be fake. Tiny, wire-framed gla.s.ses. And she's looking right at Devon.

Devon feels the teeth of the comb biting into the palm of her hand. She's acutely aware of her own sloppy appearance, her hair still wet from the shower, dripping onto the shoulders of her jumpsuit and leaving wet tracks.

This must be some mistake, Devon thinks. This isn't her lawyer. This person belongs in an episode of Law & Order, not here with her. Devon turns back, but Henrietta is gone. The door has clanked shut, probably locked.

”Devon?”

Devon turns back around. The woman half-stands, smiles, and offers her hand across the table. ”Hi. I'm Dominique Barcellona, your attorney. You can call me 'Dom.' How are you doing today?”

Devon stares. She can detect a faint whiff of the heavy sweetness that clouds over the makeup counters at Nordstrom's. It's like what her mom sprays, thinking it will mask the cigarette smoke. Devon feels her heart twist, then harden, with the thought of her mom. Always hiding something and never present when Devon needs her. Devon frowns, looks at this coiffed woman with suspicious eyes: so, what is she hiding?

”Okay.” The woman's voice has an edge to it now, but she keeps her lipsticked smile in place. ”Mind sitting down?” She lowers her unshook hand slightly, indicating the stool across the table from her.

Devon realizes then that she had been rude; she hadn't taken this woman's hand and shaken it. So much for first impressions. She opens her mouth to apologize but then quickly shuts it. Why should she apologize? She'd been taken off guard, hadn't she? And this woman . . . Devon feels an uneasiness growing inside. What will this woman want from her anyway?

”We have a lot to discuss today and, unfortunately, not a whole lot of time in which to do it.” The woman checks her thin watch on her wrist for emphasis. ”So, we should get started right away.”

Discuss? Devon doesn't move.

The woman frowns slightly, then her hand disappears behind her back, smoothing her skirt before sitting down herself. ”Uh, is there a problem, Devon? You seem a little . . . confused.”

Devon looks down at the comb in her hand, runs her thumb over its teeth. It tickles. ”You're not a man,” Devon whispers, then glances back up at her.

Something flicks in the woman's eyes, and her frown is replaced with a smile. ”Your powers of observation are impressive.” She laughs. ”This is the twenty-first century. News flash: women have been attorneys for quite a while now, Devon.” She clicks her tongue. ”Wis.h.i.+ng for a man to rescue you-not a great way to make friends.”

Devon s.h.i.+fts her weight, uncertain what this woman had meant by that. Friends? Right. And wanting a man to rescue her? This has pushed a b.u.t.ton. Devon rubs her thumb across the teeth of her comb again, hears the faint prripp, prripp it makes. She needs n.o.body-man or woman-to rescue her. Ever.

The woman waves toward the stool opposite her again. ”Sit. Please.”

Devon hesitates, but then moves to seat herself. Both the table and stool are bolted to the floor. It is the same type of table, Devon realizes, that the girls sit around in the common area-to eat on, to play cards on, to watch Devon from and laugh.

She feels itchy. She doesn't want to be here. Not in this room or at this table. Not sitting here at this predetermined distance from the bolted-down table, either, which can't be altered by either tipping back the stool or pulling it out a few inches. And definitely not with this strange woman, who makes dumb comments, thinking she's so smart. Who is so unprofessional that she wants Devon to call her by her first name, like they're ”friends.” Well, she won't.

”Okay.” The woman lifts a brown accordion folder from the floor and drops it on the table, sounding like a slap between them.

Devon's eyes jerk to the folder. On it, a white label spells her last name DAVENPORT in black.

”Let's start at the beginning.” The woman opens a yellow legal pad, readies her pen. ”Why don't you tell me why you're here.”

Devon's eyes stay on the folder. It isn't empty; she can see that. The band around it is stretched taut. So, why the question? Doesn't this Dom, this attorney, this female attorney, already know? It's all right there in front of her.

This irritates Devon. The inefficiency of it. The insincerity of it. She looks down at the comb, stares at it a moment, then pulls it through her damp hair, as if the woman isn't even there. The shampoo Henrietta had given her was cheap and greasy. The comb meets no resistance. Bits of water sprinkle her hand.

The silence lasts a long time. Devon finally peeks at the woman across from her. She's exactly as Devon had last seen her, pen poised over the yellow paper, watching her. ”Well, why are you here?” Devon blurts at last.

Her voice was too loud, she thinks. Too aggressive, distrustful. She hadn't meant to sound like that exactly; she'd merely meant to sound disinterested and bored. But there it is, and she can't take it back.