Part 17 (1/2)

Dr. Bacon puts an arm around Devon then, gently leads her into the common area and toward the conference room. Leans forward so she can observe Devon's face. ”So, how have you been? This is your fifth day here, isn't it?”

Devon nods. Yes, five long ones. She remembers her goal for the day then, the promise she made to Dom and to herself, though she didn't get it down on paper.

When they-Devon and the doctor-are both inside the conference room and the door clanks shut behind them, when the doctor's quiet eyes are across the table from her, waiting, Devon is ready to talk.

And she does.

”My middle name is Sky,” Devon starts.

Dr. Bacon nods. ”And how do you feel about that?”

chapter fourteen.

When dinner comes, Devon takes her tray to her corner of the common area, near the book cart, to eat. Tonight it's lasagna; a reddish grease seeps out from between the noodles, pooling in the tray's depression designed for the main dish. Garlic bread, green beans-the grayish-green kind that comes in cans-and vanilla pudding, a dollop of that stiff, fake whipped cream on top.

Devon pushes her plastic spork out of its cellophane wrapper, takes a bite of the lasagna.

It doesn't touch her mom's, not even close. Lasagna is the only food her mom can make from scratch, and it is surprisingly good. ”It's all in the ingredients,” she'd say mysteriously when someone asked about the recipe. Devon's mom had learned how to make lasagna from her own mother-the grandma Devon's never met-in that ”other” life, her pre-Devon life, in Spokane. And strangely, lasagna had become their special meal at every holiday, the closest thing Devon and her mom owned as a family tradition. As if, in that small way, her mom's long-abandoned family could be there with them. An unconscious presence.

Devon takes another bite, and a memory pushes forward into her mind. Last Thanksgiving. She hadn't eaten much that day, she remembers. She'd been feeling ”fat” lately, the fly on her jeans becoming a struggle to zip, her hips and around the waist snug against the denim. So, she'd started wearing warm-ups more and more, for comfort. In fact, in this memory she's sitting at the Thanksgiving table in her soccer warm-ups, still damp from a run she'd taken earlier that afternoon. She hadn't felt like dressing for the occasion, or even cleaning up after her run, their only guest the Guy of the Moment. She had no desire to impress him.

”You could've at least taken a shower, Dev,” her mom had hissed at her in the kitchen. ”What's up with you? I mean, you could make an effort to be nice. Phil's a good guy. And besides that, I like him.” She'd torn open a salad bag then and dumped its contents into a large mixing bowl. Sprinkled a package of salad toppers-sliced honey-roasted almonds-and shredded cheddar cheese over the lettuce. ”Just put this on the table, okay? And grab the light Italian dressing, the good stuff by what's his name? That Newman guy? I've gotta check on the lasagna. It smells like it's burning.”

When they were all seated at the table, the three of them, their plates covered with the salad and steaming stuff, Devon picked up her fork. Started pus.h.i.+ng her food around.

”Wait up,” Phil said suddenly. ”Before we dig in, how about I say grace? You know, seeing as it's Thanksgiving and all? We probably should give thanks.”

”I was just going to say that myself,” Devon's mom said, pressing her hand over her heart. ”Gos.h.!.+ You read my mind, Phil! It's like we're the same person!” She was beaming across the table at him. Phil, who fancied himself a religious kind of guy. Phil, who'd insisted on taking Devon's mom to church on Sunday mornings, rarely the same one twice-at least on those Sunday mornings that hadn't come too quickly on the heels of a rough Sat.u.r.day night. Too skinny Phil, desperately trying to quell his receding hairline by globbing Rogaine on his exposed skin, but his balding head showing no visible change besides developing a bad case of dandruff.

Devon had rolled her eyes, less at Phil's request than at her mom's annoying fawning-and fake-behavior.

Devon's mom frowned. ”Bow your head and close your eyes, Devon. Show respect to G.o.d.”

And then Phil began in a slow, reverential tone, ”Dear Lord, our thanks are on ya. Instead of turkey, we have lasagna-”

Devon peeked over at Phil. Was he even serious? But his eyes were tightly closed in concentration.

”Bless us this year, O Lord. That we shall see your gracious hand in all the good that we see therein. Amen.”

”Amen!” Devon's mom had cheered. ”That was so great, Phil. Thank you.”

Okay, so what about all the bad stuff? Is G.o.d's gracious hand in that, too? Devon had wanted to ask Phil this but resumed pus.h.i.+ng her food around her plate instead. Phil wasn't the kind to field such intricate theological questions. He'd just say something cliched like, ”All's we can do is take the good with the bad, Devon. The good with the bad.”

Devon's mom smiled across the table at Phil. She lifted the jug of cheap wine, the table's centerpiece between the two flickering candlesticks, and poured Phil and herself each a gla.s.s.

By Christmas, Devon and her mom were eating their lasagna alone.

Devon takes another bite. She feels her stomach twist suddenly, squeezing out any appet.i.te. She tosses her spork back onto the tray.

Devon wishes she'd quit thinking about her mom. At every turn, she's there. Especially her face That Morning. Always her face in Devon's mind, like the background on her cell phone-that face pops up whenever Devon's mind is idle. Realization breaking across that face, the realization that Devon wasn't who her mom thought she was. The face of someone whose dreams are shattering. But then Devon's guilt s.h.i.+fts to anger. So where is she? Huh? Huh? How could she just leave Devon here all alone? The last time her mom had seen Devon, she was bleeding and unconscious in their apartment. That was an entire week ago! Devon could be dead right now, for all her mom knew or cared. Devon spits the bite into the thin paper napkin. Drops it, crumpled, onto her tray.

Her mom's gone, end of story. She probably took off for good, never to return. Just like she did all those years ago when she left Spokane and her own mother and father. Devon just needs to stop obsessing about it, move on, and be done with it.

”So. The food's not good enough for you.”

Devon looks up. It's Karma, standing before her.

”G.o.d! What a freaking sn.o.b.” Karma plops down on the floor beside Devon, grabs up the tray. s.n.a.t.c.hes Devon's used spork and, without asking, starts shoveling in Devon's food.

Devon watches Karma eat without saying anything.

Karma devours everything but the vanilla pudding. She stretches out her legs then, kicks the tray away. The liquid from the green beans sloshes out of its depression, some onto the gray carpet.

Karma yawns, glances around the room surrept.i.tiously. Then, with a swift snap, breaks off the end of the spork, the handled end. She tucks that piece into her bra, tosses the remainder onto the tray.

Devon s.h.i.+fts her eyes to the broken spork on the tray, its jagged edge. She thinks of Karma's crisscrossed arm, the raw gouges there. She checks back to Karma.

Karma's eyes narrow, challenging Devon.

Karma knows Devon's job, that she collects the sporks and napkins littering the room after each meal. Karma knows Devon could easily tell the staff about that broken spork.

And Devon should tell the staff about it. This information is definitely something they'd want. The memory of a TV doc.u.mentary slips into her mind then, one that she once had watched from her solitary spot on the couch at home. A doc.u.mentary about prison life. One of the wardens was displaying a shockingly huge stash of weapons confiscated from the inmates over a one-year period. Lethal implements made from ordinary things. Things like broken plastic sporks.

Is Karma making a weapon? Combined with a pencil-by attaching that jagged plastic shard to a pencil somehow, maybe with one of those rubber bands Karma uses to keep her braids together; it wouldn't be hard to do-she could stab someone. Karma had hinted at it the other day, hadn't she? You can kill someone with a pencil, she'd told Devon. There's lots of ways to do it.

She could stab me, Devon realizes suddenly. Devon thinks of Karma's scars, her impulsiveness. She could stab herself.

Devon would probably get extra points for reporting this. With those extra points, she might earn her way up to Honor before the hearing on Tuesday. The judge would be impressed. Dom would be pleased.

All these thoughts run through Devon's mind in an instant.

Karma is still watching Devon, still challenging.

”Tattletale, tattletale,” Karma sings softly, her voice taunting, ”hanging by a”-she exaggerates a pause, as if she's searching for the correct word, then smirks-”devil's tail.” Karma drops her head back, stretches her arms toward the ceiling unconcernedly. ”Oh, don't you worry, Devil. I don't get off on trying to kill other people. Not me.” She makes a point of glancing at Devon, then looks back up at the ceiling. ”No, I just like having stuff around in case, you know, I need it.” She breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly. ”In case you didn't know, dead people don't bleed. If you can bleed-see it, feel it-then you know you're alive. It's irrefutable, undeniable proof. Sometimes I just need a little reminder.” Karma turns to look at Devon then, straight into her eyes. ”I'm alive. Are you, Devil?”

Devon says nothing. She doesn't break eye contact, though. Barely even blinks.

”But go ahead. You tell Staff b.i.t.c.h”-Karma pats her chest where the plastic fragment is hidden-”and we all get Lockdown. Everybody gets an early night-not a prob; you like hanging out in your cell anyway, don't you? Reading all those stupid books and stuff?-and I get lots and lots of attention, which is always fun. They'll call down that Dr. Bacon freak job to work on me for a while, and, well, you know all about that, don't you?” Karma smiles at Devon, a saccharine one. ”So, how was it, Devil? Huh?” Karma jabs Devon with an elbow. ”You have a nice little heart-to-heart with the doc today? You cry to her about how much you miss your iPhone and your Abercrombie wardrobe? Your cute little convertible? Your itty-bitty doggy named Lulu? What kind is it, anyway? A Chihuahua? A rat that barks?”

Devon continues to say nothing, just holds Karma's eyes with her own. Is that who Karma thinks Devon is? The next candidate for My Super Sweet 16?

”Hey!” Karma snaps her fingers in Devon's face. ”What, you don't like to talk? I'm not interesting enough? Huh? Not smart, like you?”

Silence between them, then Devon finally says, ”So, you done with that?” She nods toward her near empty food tray, pleased she's kept her tone even and cool. Betraying nothing. Except, maybe, boredom.