After (26 page)

Except once.

When she’d stopped her watch that one time, it read 2:36. She’d stared at the numbers, a cold sweat pricking 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.

She stood in the doorway, catching her breath and thinking.

She dropped to the floor and hooked her feet under the couch. And did sit-up after sit-up until she’d done five hundred without stopping, falling back exhausted, panting up at the ceiling.

Trying so hard to squeeze down the lump that was her stomach.

To flatten it away.

“Devon? Come on. Please focus!”

Devon snaps her head up. Blinks, clearing her dim living room and that ratty couch away. “Sorry . . . I . . . ”

“My question again: Did you ever suspect that you were pregnant?”

Devon shakes her head no. Just because she did a few sit-ups? It means nothing. She did sit-ups every day.

She thinks about what Dom mentioned, the clothes she’d worn. Baggy warm-ups mostly. Loose-fit jeans, oversized sweatshirts. Just because she dressed like a slob? She’d been so tired lately, all that extra running. Warm-ups were just easier. Pony-tails so much simpler. Applying makeup just to sweat it off? Less grooming meant more time for sleep.

But there were other things, strange little rituals, and her mind creeps toward those things now. How she’d avoided ever entering her mom’s bedroom. That antique full-length mirror was always there, the one her mom prominently displayed like artwork on the far wall between the two windows—ornate and condemning. She’d stopped taking baths, too, something she’d always loved to do with a book—she’d soak and stretch and soothe her overworked muscles. But at some point she’d started to opt for the quick five-minute shower, instead. She’d wash hurriedly—her hair and face, shoulders and arms, legs and feet. Her midsection—why bother? The water from the showerhead above, mixed with the soap and shampoo, rolled down her body and rinsed away her sweat adequately enough. She wouldn’t ever touch her breasts—she had let him do that once. She wouldn’t touch her belly, either, the skin around her navel. Because what if? Ridiculous question. But . . . what if there
was
something there, deep inside herself, and IT felt her fingertips? Thought that her touch meant she loved IT?

She’d been touched once. All that touch brought on was fear, disappointment, and self-disgust. And a profound loneliness.

“Devon.” Dom’s voice. Full of resigned weariness.

Devon feels the wet track that a tear has left as it slid down her cheek. She wipes it with the back of her hand. “Yeah?”

Dom and Devon watch each other from opposite walls for a long moment. Then Dom shakes her head. “Look, we’re not accomplishing much of anything at the moment. We’ve just sort of run out of steam. I wanted to go over some more of what you discussed with Dr. Bacon yesterday, specifically the things you told her about your mom, but it’s not all that crucial for us to talk about right now. So, I’ll just see you on Tuesday morning, all right? Before the hearing. We’ll go over some last-minute details then.”

Devon looks back down at the floor. She doesn’t want to disappoint Dom. All these things building in her head, they are so scary. Her throat just won’t open to let them escape.

“You need to get some rest. I’ll ask the staff to let you stay in your room for the remainder of the weekend. But if you think of anything—something you remember and want me to know, or think I’d want to know, or any little thing at all—write it down. And we’ll talk about it on Tuesday morning.”

Dom pushes herself off the wall then, walks across the room to where Devon is sitting, her cycling shoes click-clacking across the cement floor. She offers Devon a hand to help her up.

Devon places her hand in Dom’s. Dom squeezes it.

“Please trust me, Devon,” Dom says softly. “I know how independent you’ve always been. But you have to let go now. You just can’t do this on your own anymore.”

“I’m trying, Dom,” Devon says. “I really am.”

“Yes, I know.” Dom pulls Devon to her feet. “But try
harder
.”

Devon bolts upright, awake.

The ghost of a dream fades from her mind like a cool mist in the morning. Only a vague unsettled feeling lingers now—one of being lost or stranded somewhere alone or of leaving some important task undone.

Devon lies back down, closes her eyes, tries to bring the dream back. But it’s gone, stealing along with it any desire for sleep. Devon tosses a while under her wool blanket and sheet, her mind pushing toward places, toward uncomfortable things, where she doesn’t want to go. Things like how totally alone she had been. The past months, all those messages on her cell phone from people at school or her team, messages that Devon had listened to, then immediately deleted, unreturned. The texts she’d read and ignored. The invites to various parties and snowboarding trips and concerts that she’d declined. The class-assigned group projects that Devon had opted to do by herself. The semester exam study sessions that Devon had turned down, choosing instead to sit at her desk at home while her classmates were meeting at Starbucks, shoving tables together and drinking Venti lattes and Frappuccinos with extra whip. The times Kait and the varsity team captain, Lucy, had offered to accompany Devon on her afternoon runs—“So you won’t get lonely,” Lucy had said. “No way,” Kait had scoffed. “To kick your butt”—but Devon always finding some excuse to run alone. Going to sleep before her mom got home from work, or leaving the house early in the mornings when she’d worked nights, the few quick text messages the only communication between them: “Left wash in 3rd dryer. Pls bring up.” “Some guy coming at 11 to fix toilet. Let him in.” “Chinese takeout in the fridge. Drink milk. XOXOXO!” Hustling between classes, her head down to discourage eye contact and conversation. Most days opting to eat lunch hunched in one of the library carrels or not at all, choosing instead to spend the time crouched inside one of the bathroom stalls while skater girls giggled and smoked by the sinks.

Why had she pulled away from everyone and everything?

Eventually, the calls and texts trickled to nothing. The offers to run after school stopped. Nobody talked to her in the hallways during passing periods. The teachers quit trying to coax answers from her in class. Only her mom kept up an attempt to engage, but Devon was rarely around to satisfy it. And her coach, of course. The worried look in his eyes, the unasked questions hovering there. But Devon avoided him, too, darting into a classroom or bathroom when she saw him coming.

And then there was Kait, the most difficult to dodge. She’d taken Devon’s detachment so personally. “What’s wrong?” she’d text. “Are you mad at me?” “Where were you at lunch?” “Did I do something?” And when Devon didn’t reply, Kait finally wrote that long, angst-filled letter and slid it through the slats of Devon’s locker. Kait just didn’t get it; she couldn’t understand that Devon’s need to be alone had nothing to do with her. Devon crumpled the letter and lobbed it in the trash, and when she’d turned around to leave, Kait was right there, watching. Her shocked expression changed from hurt to disbelief, then hardened into scorn.

Oh, God. Devon had been lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

She finally kicks off her bedding to disrupt the stream of disturbing thoughts coursing through her mind. She stands, the floor chilly under her bare feet, then goes to look out the window of her cell. Checks the clock over the control desk across the pod: 7:03. Still too early for Wake Up.

She sees Ms. Coughran standing out there beside the control desk, talking to the staff—one of the day shift staffs, the blonde ponytailed one with the big smile. Seeing Ms. Coughran reminds Devon that today is Monday. She’ll have to go to class today, be around the girls again. The nearly two-day window of time that Dom dictated she stay alone in her cell—reading, sleeping, and trying to relax—is officially over.

Ms. Coughran must have detected movement from Devon’s cell, because suddenly she turns her head and looks right at Devon. Raises a hand, waves.

Devon jumps back out of sight, but it’s too late. The lock of her door pops, and she watches Ms. Coughran move determinedly toward her cell from across the common area.

Ms. Coughran pushes the door open a crack, sticks her head inside. “Hey, girl! Saw you peeking out your window. Awake already?”

“Yeah,” Devon whispers. “I couldn’t sleep for some reason.” She turns back to her bed, retrieves her rubber slides from the cubby because the floor is too gross for bare feet.

“I hear you. I had the same problem this morning; that’s why I’m already here at this ungodly hour.” Ms. Coughran hesitates, then takes a step into the cell and glances around briefly. “Well, this chance meeting is actually good, Devon. It gives me a couple secs to talk to you. I’ve been wanting to get you alone.”

Devon feels a little wary.
Why alone?

“So, you want to come out in the common area and sit at one of the tables with me?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Ms. Coughran laughs. “Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. No, I finally got your school records on Friday afternoon and have been meaning to talk to you about them. That’s all. No worries.” She pushes the door wider and steps aside, an invite for Devon to step outside.

It’s not like Devon will be able to sleep anyway. Her mind’s too whirling and, besides, the time’s too close to Wake Up. Still . . .

“But I didn’t brush my teeth yet—”

Ms. Coughran waves her hand dismissively. “Trust me—your breath can’t be worse than my husband’s, and I deal with that daily.”

Devon steps out of the cell, and together they walk to one of the round tables. Each takes a stool across from the other.

This is the first time that Devon’s sat here at one of these tables. The table’s the same kind as in the conference room, but this one displays no warped heart ink splot. The only marks are some initials and symbols scratched into the hard plastic. She runs her hands over the table surface, waiting.

“Well,” Ms. Coughran starts. “Your report card tells me that you are quite the Little Miss Smarty-Pants.”

Devon shrugs, feels her face heat up. “I guess.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. Even though you didn’t open your mouth
one time
last week.” She gives Devon’s hand a playful slap. “You just have ‘that look.’ That ‘smart look.’”

Devon jerks her head up.

Ms. Coughran smiles. “Surprised? We teachers aren’t as oblivious as you kids might think. Not much flies under my radar. And
nothing
flies under yours. True? You watch everything.”

Devon frowns. Ms. Coughran is yet another person here who has been analyzing her, thinking about what kind of person she might be.

“Just because you don’t say much doesn’t mean people don’t notice you, Devon. It’s actually the quiet ones who often draw the most attention. There’s this constant whirlwind of motion and sound all around, and then there’s the quiet one, the eye of the storm. Quiet tends to stand out here because it’s so uncommon.”

Devon looks down at her hands.

“So, thus far, what do you think about what we do in class? Boring? Too easy?”

Devon shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s okay.”

“But not very challenging.” Ms. Coughran waits a moment.

Then, “I realize this, and it’s a big concern for me. The work is aimed at about a seventh-grade level. Sometimes that’s challenging enough for some of these girls.”

Ms. Coughran goes on about how many of the residents at Remann Hall have come from terribly chaotic backgrounds, how their schooling may have been inconsistent, many of them being transient kids or with too many problems going on in their lives for them to absorb academics. Kids living in crack houses with strung out and abusive parents, who’d rather have them dealing and distributing than writing book reports and memorizing multiplication tables.

“So, my idea of what I’d like to see happen,” Ms. Coughran says now, “is for you to come into the classroom after dinner every night, during the time that’s scheduled as Clean Up and Quiet Time, and work on self-paced programs on the computers. I’ve got some good interactive math and science activities that you could do. And we could come up with a writing project together, if that’s something you’d like. That way, your academics won’t suffer too much while you’re here. How does that sound?”

While you’re here.
How long does Ms. Coughran expect Devon to stay in this place?

Devon pulls her eyes from the tabletop and looks up at Ms. Coughran. She’s smiling and eager. Similar to the look her mom gets when she’s suggested an activity they could do together. This instinctively makes Devon feel stubborn inside, initially makes her want to reject the idea immediately.

“The staff has been thinking of bumping you up to Honor status. They’re going to discuss it this morning, in fact, during their meeting—”