by Amy Efaw
For not being here for her now.
“I think everyone reacts against their parents,” Dom is saying, “in one way or another.”
Devon turns around. Dom’s still sitting on the floor, her face contemplative and sad. Did Devon just tell Dom those things? Had she just opened up her mind and allowed all those memories to spill from her mouth?
“Yeah, I’ve had to deal with it, too, unfortunately. Not in the same way as you have, but it’s that old parent expectation thing. It’s why I’m here with you, actually, instead of with my dad in his big Seattle law firm.” When Dom says those last four words—“big Seattle law firm”—her lips twist, and she makes a bitter laugh. But then she pushes off the floor and to her feet, rubs the back of her neck and shrugs. “It’s just tough being someone’s kid sometimes.” She checks her watch. “Well, it’s time. I’ve got somewhere else I need to be.”
Devon watches Dom as she walks over to the table, starts gathering her papers and files together, places them neatly in her briefcase.
“I think we’ve made some real progress today.” Dom looks over her shoulder at Devon, smiles. “Good job. Really, really great. I mean it. You’ve given me a lot to work with.”
Devon looks down at her feet. She feels utterly wiped, suddenly. But also relieved, somehow. She envisions the rubberized mattress, her cell with the toilet in the corner. She could use a nap.
“I’ve arranged for a psychiatrist to talk with you this afternoon. I know it’s a lot for one day, but she’s agreed to testify for us as an expert witness at your hearing on Tuesday, and there’s just no other time that she can fit in meeting with you. I think you may remember her—Dr. Bacon?”
The woman with the long gray braid. Devon nods yes.
“Can you please look at me, Devon?”
Devon looks up at Dom.
“I need you to be open with her. As open as you were with me just now, okay? The things you told me today, about your mom specifically, I am going to share with her—”
Devon frowns, opens her mouth to protest.
Dom puts her hand up. “Look, nothing that you’re going to tell Dr. Bacon will surprise her. Believe me, she’s seen everything. She’s been dealing with families and their issues for a long time now. It is very important that you cooperate with her. I can’t stress that enough. Do you understand?”
Devon nods, mumbles, “Okay.”
“I mean it, Devon.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, then.” Dom picks up her warm-up top from the floor and puts it on. Zips her briefcase, arranges it on her shoulder. “Oh, and Devon?”
“Yeah?”
“You never told me his name, you know.”
Devon pulls at her wristband. A flutter ignites in her gut. “I know.”
“Well?”
Devon brings her thumb up to her mouth, but encloses it in her fist instead.
“Devon. If he’s The Boy, then he’s the father of the baby.” She pauses, speaks softer. “Don’t you think he has a right to know?”
Devon presses her lips together. Slowly meets Dom’s eyes. Dom looks solid, like she could stand there all day if she must, even with that briefcase on her shoulder and places to go on her agenda and that shower to take. “Connor,” Devon whispers.
Devon’s heart made a little flutter when she’d said his name. After all this time, just his name on her lips, and her body reacts.
“Connor.” Dom nods. “Okay . . . and does Connor have a last name?”
Devon shrugs, looks down at the floor.
“He does, but not today, right?” Dom sighs. “Okay, Devon. Baby steps. Just Connor. For now.”
Dom puts her arm around Devon’s back, gives her shoulder a little squeeze. “Come on. Time to go. I think your school’s already started.”
Devon feels herself lean into Dom as they walk toward the conference room door. Dom reaches for its handle, pushes downward, popping the bolt. She holds the door open for Devon to step through first, taking a step back to let her pass.
“I’ll be in touch soon,” Dom says. She reaches out and gives Devon another light shoulder squeeze. “Have a good day, Devon.”
Devon watches Dom walk away, round the corner toward the pod’s entryway.
“You, too,” Devon whispers.
chapter thirteen
Devon approaches the classroom slowly; the door to it is open. From the entryway, she can already hear Ms. Coughran’s voice from inside the room:
“Ladies! Why is it that when we change activities you think it’s time to open your mouths? You want to do math facts for the entire day? Because I can definitely make that happen. . . .”
Devon stands in the doorway now, feels her heart speed up, under her arms grow moist. She hates walking into places late. Hates the moment when everybody stops what they’re doing and looks at her. Her mom doesn’t, though. She loves a grand entrance, loves it when people pause and take her all in.
Enough about her mom. She’s not here. It’s been exactly a week since Devon’s last seen her, been almost five full days spent in this place, and she hasn’t even bothered to call or leave a message. It doesn’t matter what her mom would do.
Devon raps on the open door three soft times.
Ms. Coughran, perched on her stool, turns toward the door. She smiles over at Devon, waves her inside. “Just grab that empty seat”—her arm is extended, a finger indicating—“over there.”
Devon turns her eyes, mentally connects the invisible dots between Ms. Coughran’s finger and the assigned seat.
Karma is there, one seat away from the only empty seat at that table, the only empty seat in the room, actually. Freshly sprung from Lockdown where she’d been for the past day and a half. And she’s watching Devon from under her heavy lids, a slight smile twisting her lips.
Devon gets a sinking feeling inside, a draining sort of dread.
“You’re just in time for our weekly health department’s presentation,” Ms. Coughran is saying. Then she addresses the room. “Did you hear that, ladies? We’re having a guest speaker. Allison should be here any minute. So that means I expect your behavior to be . . .”
Devon takes a breath and starts moving toward the table, careful to keep her eyes focused on that task and nothing else. She purposefully doesn’t acknowledge Karma’s stare.
A small girl who Devon doesn’t recognize is sitting beside Karma; she’s between Karma and the open seat. The girl’s hair is so blonde it looks white. Long and thin, like spider silk. Well, good. Devon won’t be sitting right beside Karma, at least.
Karma whispers something in the small girl’s ear, then gives her a shove. The girl quickly slides over, then ducks her head, long bangs veiling most of her face. Just as Devon arrives, Karma looks up, makes a big smile and pats the now empty seat beside her. “Right here, Dev,” she whispers. “Saved you a seat. Ain’t I sweet?”
Devon glances over at Ms. Coughran; she’s busy with two girls at the front of the room, working out some kind of dispute. She hadn’t witnessed the seat switch. Devon wonders what she would’ve done if she had. Send Karma back to Lockdown for the rest of the day? Devon pulls out the chair and sits. Puts her elbow on the table, rests her head in her hand. Turns her back to Karma.
The chatter in the room picks up now that Ms. Coughran’s attention is diverted. A buzz of white noise.
Karma’s mouth is suddenly near Devon’s ear; Devon can feel her breath. “Miss me?”
Devon doesn’t react at first. Then, “Not particularly.”
“‘Not particularly,’” Karma repeats in a fake British accent. She kicks the back leg of Devon’s chair and laughs. “Yes, I pride myself on my rather vast vocabulary, darling.”
“Ladies!” Ms. Coughran yells at the room. “What is up with you today?” She stands, holding up her right hand, checking her watch on her left. The noise grinds down. Someone on the other side of the room spurts a sudden loud laugh, squeals, “Dang, girl!” Then, “Oops. Sorry, Ms. Cough
ran.”
Ms. Coughran watches her own foot tapping the floor—tap, ta-tap, tap—waiting for complete silence. When she finally gets it, she looks up. “It seems that Allison is running behind. So, while we’re waiting on her, let’s have some quiet time—notice the emphasis on the word quiet?—thinking about your goals for today. I’m talking very short-term goals here, all right? They can be as simple as not losing any points today or eating your lunch without complaining about what it is.”
“The only good thing is when we get pizza,” someone says from another table. A small girl, black hair, cut short, little face with tiny features and wide dark eyes. An anime girl.
“Wow,” Karma whispers to herself. “That was random.”
“I didn’t see a hand, Macee,” Ms. Coughran says to the girl. “Please use it next time.” She turns back to the room. “So, ladies, I want one goal you have for yourself. All right? Then I want a second goal involving a good deed you’re going to do for someone else. Again, it can be small. It can be as simple as a smile. It can be a compliment. Or it can be more significant, like helping someone with her chore. But you need to pick out a specific person and then come up with a specific deed. Understand?”
Jenevra raises her hand.
Ms. Coughran looks over at her. “Yes?”
“Can passing out the pencils count? ’Cause I already did that today for you. Actually, for all of us. Before we did that Sudoku stuff. Remember?”
“No,” Ms. Coughran says. “It can’t be something that somebody told you to do. You can’t count the chores you’ve been assigned, ladies. It has to be something you come up with all on your own, out of the goodness of your heart—”
Karma snorts.
“But that was a good question, Jenevra. Thank you. Anyone else?”
Ms. Coughran looks around the room.
Karma kicks Devon’s chair again. “Watch this,” she whispers. Then she raises her arm.
“Okay,” Ms. Coughran says. “Karma?”
“‘You have two hands. One to help yourself, and the second to help others.’ A wise saying from my good friend Anonymous, which I thought would inspire all of us to work really extremely hard on our goals today.”
Ms. Coughran smiles. “Thank you, Karma, for that contribution. Anyone else have something to share?” Nobody says anything. “Okay. Let’s see. . . . Karma. Since you seem so excited about the concept of serving others, why don’t you show us how it’s done? Please get some paper off the shelf for me and hand out one piece to everyone.”
“Absolutely, Ms. Coughran.” Karma stands, stretches both arms high over her head, then saunters over to a cluttered shelf, removes a small stack of white paper.
“I want these goals on paper, ladies,” Ms. Coughran continues. “It’ll seem more like a contract that way, and hopefully you’ll, in turn, feel more obligated to actually follow through with them. If we have time, whoever would like to share her goals with the class may.”
Karma takes her time passing out the paper, weaving around the three tables, saying “for you” to each girl as she hands one sheet to her. When Karma gives Devon hers, she leans over and whispers in Devon’s ear, “You’re welcome, Devil,” then kicks her chair before moving on.
“Keep your feet to yourself, Karma,” Ms. Coughran says.
“Ooops!” Karma slaps her hand up to her mouth. “So sorry! I guess I tripped?” She shrugs. “Well, as they always say, ‘A stumble may prevent a fall.’ And I know you wouldn’t want me to fall, Ms. Coughran. Would you? You always have my best interests at heart.” She throws her arms out. “So, it’s all good! Right?”
“All right, Karma, just finish up.”
Devon looks over at Ms. Coughran. She’s back on her stool, twisting her funky beaded glasses chain around her index finger, watching. Devon’s eyes meet hers. Devon can’t read what Ms. Coughran is thinking, but she’s definitely got something working in her mind. Devon quickly moves her eyes away, looks down at her blank paper.
When Karma’s finished, she returns the remaining stack to the cluttered shelf, then drops into her seat beside Devon.
“Thank you, Karma,” Ms. Coughran says. “Now, ladies, get busy. Quietly. This is not a group project.” Ms. Coughran retreats behind her desk, starts sorting through papers, tossing some of them into the trash can at her feet.
The room is surprisingly quiet; Ms. Coughran’s paper shuffling is the most prominent sound. Devon glances around. Some girls are staring up at the ceiling, others down at their hands. A couple of the girls have put their heads down on the table, obviously sleeping or trying to. The white-haired girl Karma shoved is one of those. Devon checks on Karma out of the corner of her eye. She’s drawing anarchy symbols, retracing them over and over, dark broad strokes slashing across her paper. Her thumbs are looped through holes torn near the cuffs of the long-sleeved white thermal shirt she’s wearing under her jumpsuit, the fabric pulled tightly over her hands so only her fingers show.
Devon closes her eyes. She’s so tired. That meeting with Dom, it was exhausting. She can feel that exhaustion deep inside her bones. How could merely sitting in a room wipe her out so thoroughly? But she hadn’t been “merely sitting” at all. We’ve made some real progress, Dom had said. We’ve. Plural. Dom and Devon—like a team. Dom had smiled at her, too, told her she’d done a good job. Really really great.
And, just like that, Devon realizes she has a goal for the day: she’ll try her very best to cooperate with the doctor. Dom had asked her to.
Devon feels a kick at her chair. Her eyes fly open.
“Wake up,” Karma whispers. Then she leans in close, speaks directly into Devon’s ear. “Why are you so happy, Smiley Face? Having a sweet little dream?”
This kicking thing is getting old. Devon turns her head slowly, coolly stares back at Karma. Devon’s played this weary game before, but in a different form. It’s what she’s endured often enough before a penalty kick. The girl taking the kick trying to unnerve Devon, get in her head, so she’ll screw up and let the ball into her net. But Karma doesn’t have a ball to kick, and Devon doesn’t have a net to protect. No acknowledged foul between them to atone for.
The two girls hold each other’s eyes for a long moment. Devon feels Karma’s animosity smoldering, reaching out from between those heavy lids to strike her. But then a light rap on the classroom door draws Karma’s eyes away, breaks the bond, and Devon also turns to look.
A woman too tan for the Northwest, with dark hair curling loosely to her shoulders, strides into the classroom. She’s wearing a tight black T-shirt and cargo shorts, black Keen sandals. She’s a person who’s spent a lot of time outdoors doing athletic things, Devon thinks. The woman tosses a canvas bag on the floor below the whiteboard, then faces the room.
Ms. Coughran plops the stack of papers she’d been sorting back onto her desk and stands. “Ladies, Allison has arrived!” She moves so she’s beside the woman, drapes an arm around her shoulders.
Allison gives the class a twitchy smile, dimples peeking out at them from her cheeks before quickly hiding again. “Sorry I’m late—”
“Hey, you are one busy lady, Allison,” Ms. Coughran says. “And you’re here now, so no worries. All right, ladies! Place your papers under your seats, so they won’t distract you. And that means right this second. Macee, collect back the pencils and count them, please. If you don’t get exactly fifteen, be sure you tell Allison. And remember, I’ll be back”—Ms. Coughran glares at the class—“popping in when you’ll least expect me, so you better stay controlled in here. Got it?” With a quick wave to Allison, Ms. Coughran is out of there.
“Um, I’m Macee?” Macee says to Allison, jumping up. “Ms. Coughran said . . . about the pencils? So . . . um, yeah.” She skitters around the tables then, grabbing pencils.
Allison nods, gives her twitchy smile to the class, then turns to the whiteboard. Starts writing numbers across it, equally spaced:
12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21
; The chatter in the room picks up again.
Karma kicks Devon’s chair.
Devon sighs loudly, exasperated.
“‘All this death and destruction is because of one’s construction. ’” Karma recites, leaning toward Devon again. “Just some more wisdom from my faithful friend Anonymous.” She unhooks a thumb from her cuff, pulls up the sleeve so her wrist is exposed, thrusts it under Devon’s nose. “Some of us wear our scars on the outside.”
Devon looks. A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink or red. Like the pattern of cracks on the conference room ceiling, Devon thinks. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint. She feels her stomach twist in on itself. She looks back up at Karma. She’s unable to hide the shock on her face.
Karma smiles a victorious smile, delighted with Devon’s response. “I’m told that the scars you can’t see are the hardest to heal. So. Where are yours, Devil? Outside?” Karma yanks down her sleeve, rehooks her thumb. “Or inside?”
The woman, Allison, has cleared her throat. Devon turns away from Karma, focuses on the woman at the front of the room. Sees her give the class yet another twitchy smile.
Devon remembers Karma’s poem then. She feels skaky inside. So it did mean something.
“As Ms. Coughran already mentioned, I’m Allison,” the woman says over the voices. “I’m from the Health Department. Some of you have met me before; I think I recognize a few faces. . . .”