Part 17 (2/2)

Karma raises her eyebrows. ”I don't know . . . am I?” She eyes Devon up and down, then finally pushes up off the ground. Bends over the tray, scoops the fake whipped cream off the pudding with an index finger. She checks back at Devon, licks her finger slowly, mock savoring the white fluff. She kicks the tray aside. ”Now I am.” She smirks at Devon, saunters away across the room. Devon watches her sidle up to Jenevra, give her a shove. Jenevra shoves her in return. They both laugh. Karma moves on, disappears into her cell.

And Devon understands what Karma wants.

She just wants someone to push back.

chapter fifteen.

Sat.u.r.day mornings are different from weekday mornings. Devon senses this immediately. The door lock still jars everyone awake at seven thirty with its abrupt snap. The daily ch.o.r.es still await completion. The girls still stumble out of their cells, retrieve their hygiene bags from the box beside the control desk, and ready themselves for the day. But the mood in the unit is lighter. As if the fluorescent bulbs have all been brightened a notch, or a crisp breeze has been allowed into the room, freshening everything. As if a giant vacuum has been turned on, sucking most of the tension, stress, and tightness out of the air.

The girls are energized. They are talking louder, laughing, chasing around the room. Devon watches this from her spot beside the book cart. Like recess in elementary school, she thinks.

”My mom is coming today!” Macee, the tiny black-haired anime girl, skips around the room, announcing to everyone. ”My mom is coming today! Today, today, today!”

Macee stops in front of Devon. ”Hey, you,” she says. ”How come you're always sitting here? By yourself. You like books or something?”

Devon looks up at Macee. She's hopping from one foot to the other. Her jumpsuit is so oversized the crotch hangs halfway down her thighs with the pant legs rolled up, the fabric forming miniature inner tubes around her ankles.

Devon shrugs. ”Yeah . . .”

”Then how come you're never actually reading them? You sit there with a book all the time, but mostly you're really just watching stuff.”

Devon closes the book she's been reading-some teen fantasy about a girl disguised as a knight-and clears her throat. ”Well, I read an entire book yesterday.” She scans the book cart, finds the paperback she'd returned this morning, Where the Red Fern Grows. Points to it.

During the scheduled five o'clock Quiet Time in her cell last night, she'd started the book, later opting out of the evening Free Time in the common area-the supervised card games and letter writing and showering some of the other girls engaged in. She remained lying on her mattress in her cell reading, finis.h.i.+ng the book just before the door's lock snapped shut and the lights went out. She'd stared up at her ceiling in the dark with the finished book open on her chest, quiet tears rolling off her face and down into her pillow, her throat tight and throbbing. She'd thrown her arm over her eyes. The tears were there because both dogs had died and because of the boy's empty sadness over losing them. The tears were there because she'd never had something-a dog or anything-that she had loved enough to mourn.

But Devon doesn't say any of this to Macee.

Macee shrugs. ”Cool. I hate reading. Is your mom coming today?”

”No!” Devon's voice is harsh. Macee hops backward, her eyes widen.

Devon clears her throat again, softens her tone. ”Sorry. I mean, no. I seriously doubt it.”

”But it's visiting day.”

”I know.”

”Maybe she'll call.” Macee glances over her shoulder, across the common room at the two pay phones hanging on the wall. ”Or you could call her, you know. You're allowed. Just ask the staff.”

Devon doesn't respond. She doesn't tell Macee that, apparently, her mom doesn't want to be reached. If she did, she'd have called Devon herself.

At ten thirty, after the ch.o.r.es are done and the Sat.u.r.day cell inspection is complete, the staff on duty, a new one with spiky salt-and-pepper hair and a face that looks like it's seen way too many bad things in life, drags out the basketb.a.l.l.s. She drops the mesh ball bag that contains them near the door that opens out into the courtyard.

”Listen up!” the staff announces to the common room in general. ”I need one volunteer to Windex the gla.s.s. Double points. And it's open to anyone, not just Privilege and Honor statuses.” She looks around. ”When, and only when, the job gets done will any of you get to go out to the courtyard. So, let's cooperate. Any takers?”

Devon, hunkered down in her accustomed spot, considers this. She should volunteer. She could use the extra points. Those points could push her up a status. Devon feels her hand creep upward.

But the staff doesn't notice Devon in the corner. ”And whoever volunteers also gets first dibs on these.” She kicks the bag of b.a.l.l.s.

”Yo! I'll do it!” Jenevra says, jumping up from one of the round tables.

Devon slinks her hand back down.

Jenevra collects the Windex and paper towels from the staff, and Devon returns to her book.

”Hey, you! Devon!”

Devon looks up, slightly dazed from reading and surprised to hear her name. She blinks away the images her mind has created from the words on the pages-jousting knights and pageantry-and turns her head toward the voice.

Jenevra is standing at the open door to the courtyard, bouncing a basketball, two girls flanking her sides. All three are watching Devon.

”So, you want to play?” Jenevra asks. ”Two on two?”

Devon stares back at the girls. She can feel the cool outside air breeze through the opened door. She hasn't been outdoors since . . . since she was brought to this place in the back of that squad car. How many days ago was that now? Six? One of the girls, the tall one with the short red hair-someone Devon doesn't remember ever seeing here before-smiles over at her. An encouragement.

Ms. Coughran's warning jumps into Devon's mind: Not you, Devon . . . the doc hasn't cleared you for exercising yet.

Devon shakes it away, clears her throat. ”Sure.” She dog-ears the page she's on, shoves the book back into its spot on the cart. She stands up uncertainly then, wipes her hands on the legs of her jumpsuit.

Jenevra fires the ball at Devon. On reflex, Devon's hands snap up. Catches it solidly.

Jenevra nods at her. ”Good hands.”

”Thanks.” Devon bounces the ball once. Twice. Then follows the three girls out into the courtyard.

The game gets compet.i.tive fast. Jenevra and Devon against the other two. One of the girls-Devon now remembers her name-is Evie, and the other one, the new redhead, is Sam. All three girls definitely can play, especially Jenevra, who's brilliant. Her moves are fluid, her footwork quick, her shots accurate, even wearing that c.u.mbersome jumpsuit and rubber slide sandals. The courtyard is imperfect for a serious game-too small, about half court sized and shaped hexagonally, the cement underfoot rough and uneven. The walls surrounding them enclose the game, so the girls slam into them again and again.

Devon is surprised that she can actually hang with them. Like soccer, she'd learned basketball basics during the years she spent after school at the Boys and Girls Club. But when the time came to choose, when Devon turned eleven in fifth grade-”You've gotta pick one sport, hon,” her mom had said. ”I'm not made of money, you know.”-Devon chose soccer. Her height, athleticism, and having Jenevra as her partner are what keep her in the game now.

”Let's break a sec,” Jenevra says after they'd played hard for about twenty minutes.

Sam drops the ball; it bounces, then rolls along the cement floor, finally stopping in a far corner. The girls lean against the gla.s.s wall overlooking the common area inside and catch their breaths. They don't say much. Devon is relieved that they've stopped playing; her inner thighs are shaky and sore from the quick movements, and her crotch throbs. She may have overdone it, just as Ms. Coughran had warned the other day, playing so soon after. . . . But the sweat, it feels great. Her heart pumping, not from stress and fear for once, but from pure physical exertion. Devon looks up the cinder block walls to the patch of sky that's visible from the courtyard-a solid gray. No clouds, no sunbreaks. She takes in a long, slow breath.

”You play much?” Devon hears Jenevra ask.

Silence.

Sam nudges Devon. ”Hey. Dude. She's talking to you.”

Devon looks over at Jenevra. Her shaved head, pale face, intense blue eyes. Especially against the overcast day, those eyes seem to glow, they're so blue. ”Oh, sorry. Um, not really.”

<script>