Part 10 (1/2)

”Hey!” Karma's whisper is in Devon's ear again, distracting her attention from Jenevra's poetry recitation. ”You want to read mine, Devil? Even though I only used one of the words, I think it kicks a.s.s.” She thrusts her paper under Devon's face.

Devon looks down, can't help but read what's written there: She can paint a lovely picture.

BUT . . .

This story has a twist.

Her paintbrush is a razor,

and her canvas is her wrist.

”So, what do you think?” Karma leans in closer. ”Love it?”

Devon turns away, says nothing. What a freak.

Karma pulls her paper back, smirks. She whispers again, ”Yeah, you are a devil. Deep down inside.” She laughs softly. ”So am I. So are all of us.” She kicks Devon's chair. ”Get over it.”

chapter ten.

The next day after breakfast, Ms. Coughran rolls the audiovisual cart out of her cla.s.sroom and into the common area, where all the girls are waiting.

Devon raises her head. She's sitting on the floor, the book cart beside her; this has become her spot. It's where she eats her meals and spends her free time, little that there is, when she doesn't choose to retreat to her cell. This is her spot because it's the only place in the room that n.o.body else seeks out. She can remain invisible here, or at least out of the way, hiding behind the cover of a book.

”We're starting with P.E. today,” Ms. Coughran says, ducking behind her AV cart. She grabs the plug to the DVD player, then pushes it into a socket on the wall behind her. She stands, sweeps a fallen strand from her face.

A few girls groan out their oppositions: ”I hate P.E.” and ”Can't we do it tomorrow?” and ”I got bad cramps, Ms. Coughran. Can I sit out?” A few express slightly more positive opinions. Like Jenevra, who yells, ”Bring it on, baby!” But most say nothing, including Devon in her corner by the book cart.

”Hey!” Ms. Coughran says. ”I don't want to hear your griping. It's already Thursday and only the first time we've done P.E. all week. If it were up to me, we'd be doing this every single day. So, zip it.”

”Let me pick!” Jenevra rushes up to Ms. Coughran.

”No! She picked last time!” someone yells. ”It's not fair!”

Devon watches as two more girls run up to the cart, start rifling through the box of DVDs.

”Nope,” Ms. Coughran says, ”I'm picking.” She wades through the girls and pulls the box up and away from them, balancing it on her hip. ”Bye-bye now.”

The girls slump away, mumbling. ”You always make us do that boring yoga stuff,” one of them says.

”Yeah, Yoga for Dummies. It's so dumb!”

”Okay, ladies,” Ms. Coughran addresses the room. ”Get into three rows, facing me. Come on, hustle up!” She selects a DVD and returns the box to the cart. ”We've got other things on the horizon today.”

The girls drag into the middle of the room, form three sloppy lines. Devon scans the group. Karma isn't there; she's nowhere in the room. Again. Devon hasn't seen her since they did poetry in cla.s.s, yesterday morning. Right before lunch, Devon remembers, Karma had been called out of cla.s.s. In the afternoon, she hadn't come back. And at dinner last night, Devon had overhead Jenevra telling some other girl that Karma was on Lockdown. Which, Devon's learned from the unit pamphlet, means solitary confinement in her cell for a staff-determined amount of time. Devon herself is locked down every night at eight, but that's only because of her current status-Regular-and the rules. Jenevra is on Privilege, so her bedtime is nine. And when Devon makes it up to Honor, she'll be allowed to stay up until ten. But last night, Jenevra made it sound like Karma was on Lockdown because of something she did.

”Let's move it, ladies!”

Devon pushes herself up off the floor, but first she dog-ears the page she's on and returns the book-some sci-fi about a kid who can access the Internet through a chip in his brain-to the cart. She takes a spot in the back row, on the end. Wonders if Karma is watching them all through her cell door's window.

Ms. Coughran slides her chosen DVD into the player and turns on the TV. Loud music bangs from the speakers. A large black guy with his hands wrapped like a boxer appears on the screen, shouting out enthusiasm. The girls start moving to his instructions. Some of them languidly wave their limbs around, going through the motions. Others are totally into it, especially Jenevra. She's connecting with the air in front of her like someone she wants dead is right there.

”That boxer guy is so hot!” some girl squeals.

”You're sick. The dude's, like, thirty or something.”

Devon is bouncing on her toes, squinting toward the screen, trying to pick up the rhythm of the movements. Working her body feels good; when she sweats and her heart rate picks up, it'll be even better. She feels a gush between her legs then; it's warmed the pad lining her underwear. The blood still comes at times; this little bit, brought on by the bouncing, is nothing to worry about.

”Uh-uh, girl.” Ms. Coughran appears at Devon's side, startling her. ”Not you.”

Devon stops bouncing and frowns at her.

”Two reasons. Number one: the doc hasn't cleared you for exercising yet. And number two”-she points across the room toward the closed door of the conference room-”your attorney is here. She wants to talk to you.”

Devon looks across the room to the closed door, and suddenly the pit of her gut drops. Dom wants that list. That list Devon has yet to write. That list that Devon hasn't even thought about. She'd been locked down in her cell for two full evenings with nothing to occupy her mind but staring at the gray walls around her and the back of the door. Obscenities and tags other girls had scratched there: JAC, KARTOON, BK-4-LIFE, CRIP. All that time and no list. Dom will be unhappy. No, Dom will be livid.

The music from the speakers blares. The girls have dropped to the ground for push-ups. No one is doing them correctly, Devon notes. Head bobs aren't push-ups.

”Devon?” Ms. Coughran says. ”Did you hear me?”

Devon turns back to Ms. Coughran, says, ”Okay.” Because what are her options? She has none. She gives Ms. Coughran a little unsteady smile and walks across the common area toward the closed conference room door. Pausing there, she takes a breath, then turns the k.n.o.b and enters.

Dom is sitting at the table again. This time her hair is down; it's stick straight and much longer than Devon would have guessed when Dom had worn her updo the other day. She wonders if Dom uses a hair straightener, or if her hair is like that naturally, like hers. Dom looks up when she hears the door-Clank!-behind Devon. Dom isn't wearing her tiny gla.s.ses, either.

”Hey, Devon,” Dom says, pulling a hairband off her right wrist and drawing her hair back into a loose ponytail. ”How did yesterday go? This is day four for you, right?”

Devon hovers near the door. This change in Dom's appearance is disconcerting. She liked the other Dom better, the tight and in-control Dom wearing a suit and gla.s.ses and the neat little beehive bun. Seeing her sitting there now in a sweats.h.i.+rt two sizes too big and jeans with a loose ponytail makes her seem . . . erratic and unreliable, somehow. Why is everything so unpredictable here?

Devon walks over to the table and sits on one of the bolted-down stools across from Dom. She clears her throat. ”Okay, I guess.”

”No,” Dom says. ”You are not 'okay.' What's bothering you?”

Devon looks down at her hands. ”I don't know . . . your hair?”

”You don't like my hair.” It's a statement.

Devon looks up at Dom. She shouldn't have said anything. She should've just left it at ”okay” and thrown her a convincing smile.