Part 20 (1/2)

”Well, maybe they wouldn't have found anything wrong with me.”

”Yeah.” Dom makes a snide laugh. ”Maybe they would've found a lot wrong with you.”

Devon brings her thumb up to her mouth. Chews on it. ”I . . . I didn't feel like I was that good anymore.” Her voice is so soft, Devon isn't sure she's said anything at all. ”I was playing really bad, Dom. I was feeling heavy and slow. My timing was totally off. And my jumping . . . toward the end of my high school season in November, I was having a hard time putting the b.a.l.l.s over the crossbar. Those high b.a.l.l.s would just roof me sometimes. Coach Mark was starting to notice it, too. He kept getting on me to play faster. He kept yelling at me.” The last sentence is a squeak. She takes a moment to pull herself together. ”One time he screamed in front of everyone, 'Get the lead out of your a.s.s, Davenport! You are totally ineffective back there!' He . . . he'd never said anything like that to me before. Ever.” Devon covers her face with both hands. ”So, I . . . I wanted to take some time off and work out on my own in the afternoons, take a month or whatever and get in really great shape before the season started. Work hard on my core and run. Jump rope.” She drops her hand then, looks up at Dom. ”I was going to come back before league started. That was my plan, Dom. I swear.”

”And, according to all that extensive research you did on your injuries, you determined that it was perfectly safe to work out.”

”The Web sites just said no contact sport activities. No heading the ball. Stuff like that.”

”Uh-huh. And, so, did you? Work out?”

Devon nods. ”Yes. Every day. Even on the weekends. I was running about thirty miles a week. And I even did those shoulder-strengthening exercises that I found on the Internet.”

”Well, you never came back, did you?” Dom's voice is quiet now. ”The girls' season for Was.h.i.+ngton state's premier league started at the end of February, and you never came back to practice, Devon. So, you didn't stick to your 'plan' after all.”

Devon shakes her head, whispers, ”I wasn't ready yet.”

”Wasn't ready yet.” Dom studies Devon for a long time. Devon can see all sorts of thoughts going on behind Dom's eyes. Dom's expression is one of intense dissatisfaction and suspicion.

Finally, Dom stands up. She slowly walks to the wall on the other side of the room opposite Devon. Leans against it and crosses her arms. Stares at the floor for a long time.

”What about friends?” Dom says at last. She looks over at Devon. ”You never mention them. Except that one girl here in Detention, that Karma . . .”

”She's not my friend,” Devon says quickly.

Dom c.o.c.ks her head. ”So, do you have friends? Anyone you feel close to, anyone who you'd be able to trust with your secrets? Your worries?”

Devon looks down at her knees again. ”Yeah. Of course. Everybody has friends.”

”No, I don't think that's always the case, Devon. Most people have lots of acquaintances, but acquaintances aren't friends. There's a difference.”

Devon shakes her head. ”Whatever. I already talked to Dr. Bacon about this stuff yesterday. Why do we have to talk about it again?”

”Because I want clarification, Devon. I have a specific purpose for the questions I ask, and Dr. Bacon has her own reasons for the questions she asks.” Dom pauses. ”Dr. Bacon has drawn the conclusion that you have two completely separate sets of kids who you interact with. You have a set of kids that you hang out with at school, and then you have your club soccer teammates. Is that correct?”

Not exactly. There's one girl who straddles both worlds of school and club soccer-Kait. But Devon doesn't want to go there with Dom right now, and she didn't mention Kait to Dr. Bacon, either.

Devon nods. ”Yeah, pretty much. I told her that on my club team, most of us go to different high schools, so during practice is pretty much the only time we see each other. Most of them have no clue what I'm like at school.”

”Are you a different sort of person at school than you are with your club team?”

Devon doesn't know how to answer that question, so she just shrugs.

”Your coach told me that you are a leader on the field,” Dom says. ”That your teammates really respect you and seem to like you a lot. So, what's the situation like with the kids who don't play soccer? The regular school kids. Do you have friends there, too?”

Devon draws her legs in closer, wraps her arms around them. She thinks about Dom's question. Does she have friends? Her number is programmed into a lot of people's cell phone contacts, so she gets plenty of texts, and she usually has kids to sit with at lunch. Some of them play on the varsity soccer team with her, and some don't. But she's never had anyone over to her apartment; Devon's mom just isn't around much and it would just be weird. And Devon doesn't like to waste time at the mall or the movies after school or on weekends very often; she's way too busy for that and doesn't have the money for it anyway. This arrangement has always seemed to be enough for Devon. Mostly, the people at school are her ”friends” simply because they are there.

Except Kait. She was always more than just ”there.” The years of sleepovers at Kait's house-the prank calls and movie watching and music listening and whispering in the dark. But, well, Kait wasn't really speaking to Devon much anymore.

”I'm just not a big talker, I guess,” Devon says at last. She raises her eyes to Dom. ”I really don't like to talk about myself very much. So, when I'm around people at school, I sort of just sit there and listen. It's not that I'm shy or unpopular or anything. It's just that if I have something to say, I say it. Otherwise, I'm sort of just there. And I'm totally fine with that.”

”But it's different when you're out there, playing soccer?”

”Yeah, because I definitely have things to say then. About the game and what's happening on the field. From the goal, I can see the entire field.”

”Okay,” Dom says. ”So, did you talk to anyone about Connor? About your relations.h.i.+p or how you felt about him? To a teammate or someone at school? Anyone at all?”

Devon shakes her head no.

But over the summer, Devon remembers, Kait had grown suspicious. ”You're acting very strange, Dev,” she'd teased in her silly singsong. Like always, they were coming off the field together, their afternoon practice finished. ”You're being really secretive. You look like you are glowing.” She'd grabbed Devon's cell then, right out of her backpack, ignoring the sweaty s.h.i.+n guards and gloves that smelled like roadkill. She clicked through Devon's call log. ”So, what's this three-oh-three number? Hmm? Wow-it's in here a lot recently. Way more than my number even!” She looked over at Devon and grinned. ”Could this possibly be a love interest? Could Devon the Untouchable have finally met her prince?”

Devon grabbed Kait's bag, then, and s.n.a.t.c.hed her car keys. And they chased around the field, laughing and squirting each other with their water bottles until Coach Mark yelled, ”That's it, Tweedledee and Tweedledum! Next practice, get here fifteen minutes early 'cause you're doing suicides. You two obviously have way too much energy!”

And Kait had yelled back, ”So, which of us is Tweedle Dumb?'”

Devon closes her eyes. No, she didn't even tell Kait about Connor.

”But your mom knew about him?” Dom says. ”Right?”

”Nope.”

”Your mom had no knowledge of your romantic involvement, having s.e.x-”

”No way! I'd never, not in a million years, tell her that! I don't talk to my mom about anything.”

Devon stares back down at the floor again. She's so tired suddenly. So done with talking. Can't Dom see this?

”All right, let's push on to something else.” Dom kicks at the floor with the toe of her cycling shoe, thinking. ”The question I'm going to ask you now is one I've asked you before, but in a different way. The difference is subtle, but important. Before, we've discussed the fact that you were afraid that you might be pregnant because you'd had s.e.x that one time with Connor. The context of that discussion revolved around your behavior during your September appointment with the doctor at the clinic, with Dr. Katial-how you reacted to his questions, your not returning the urine sample to his office, wearing the sanitary napkin in your underwear, et cetera. This question has to do with later circ.u.mstances, as time moved forward in your story. Did you ever notice anything specifically about your body that may have led you to believe that you were, in fact, pregnant? You've told me that you felt heavy and slow at soccer practice, that you noticed you weren't jumping as well. And that you were starting to wear baggier clothes because they felt more comfortable. Did you, at any time, suspect that you were pregnant, Devon?”

Devon thinks about Dom's question. Did she suspect? Did she?

Running up Carr Street, what game did she always play? She'd stand on the corner of 30th and Carr after running the three miles to get down there, staring up at the monster hill before her, as long and steep as any in San Fransisco. She'd check her watch. If she could make it up those six blocks from h.e.l.l-from 30th Street to Yakima-in under two and a half minutes, then there wasn't anything ”wrong” with her. If she failed to make her self-imposed time . . . But it was just a stupid game; she knew that nothing was ”wrong” with her. It was just a way to motivate herself to bust her b.u.t.t, to give herself a goal with consequences. And two and a half minutes was not a generous window of time. But she made it every time, sometimes with only seconds to spare. Her lungs would burn and her heart pound, and she'd bend over at the waist, feeling like she might puke when she was finished. Her stomach tight and throbbing.

Except once.

When she'd stopped her watch that one time, it read 2:36. She'd stared at the numbers, a cold sweat p.r.i.c.king her skin.

Just six seconds. It didn't mean anything. Right? Six seconds is basically four strides. One full breath cycle. A brief lapse of concentration. It probably happened when she'd sidestepped that walker with his unruly dog, straining at its leash.

And the air was thick that day, the temperature too warm for February. She hadn't slept well the night before, either, had kicked around in her sheets, worrying about a world geography project that was due at the end of the week. And she'd skipped lunch earlier that day to cut calories, skipped lunch every day that week, actually. She shouldn't have. Skipping lunch always made her weak. All of that together could easily account for those lost six seconds.

But still. She hadn't made the time. It could be a sign.

She jogged the remaining mile home. Pounded up the steps to her apartment. Untied her shoe to retrieve the key she always attached to her shoelace when she went running.

She yanked open the door, slammed it shut. Closing off the light from the outside.