When the transfer is done, when she’s clasping the bedding to her chest, she feels safer somehow. All those layers hiding her, protecting her, giving her a definite purpose. She will carry her bedding until she’s told to stop. She will not drop any of it, and she will not complain, no matter how far she must carry it or how heavy it becomes.
“Okay, then,” he says. “Let’s move along.”
Devon feels a sudden warmth gush between her legs then, feels it spread across the lining of her underwear, deep into the thick maxi pad the gray-haired guard had handed her after the shower. Panic grips her gut. Devon’s never prayed much, but she tosses one up now, a small one: Please, God, don’t let it show on the outside. Please.
“Ready to roll?”
Devon nods and, ignoring the cramping across her abdomen, follows the guard through the maze of white walls and gray carpet.
They stand side by side, Devon and the guard, facing a metal door. The guard had pushed a buzzer, and they are waiting for the door to open.
“Unit D,” he says, filling the stiff silence between them.
“We call it Delta Pod, though. It’s that police phonetic alphabet thing.” Short silence. Then, “Eight pods total in Remann Hall, Alpha through Hotel—that’s, uh, A through H—but only one is female. At least most of the time. It all depends on the number of girls we get at any given time.”
Devon says nothing, but she wonders at the word pod, at what it means. Is it pod as in “peas in a pod”? Or pod as in iPod? Or pod as in the groups that whales travel within as they swim the wide open ocean beyond Puget Sound? She’d witnessed the free beauty of the whales once, on one of those orca whale watching tours out of Seattle. Her mom’s boyfriend at the time had made a big deal about paying for it, the guy who’d owned that used car dealership on South Tacoma Way. The one who’d snorted when he’d laughed and squeezed Devon’s mom in an obnoxious way when he’d thought Devon wasn’t watching.
But then a low buzzer sounds, and the memory evaporates because the guard’s pushing open the heavy door and they are stepping forward through it.
The door locks—CLANK—behind them.
A heavy, metallic, final sound.
Devon and the guard are inside a bright entryway, white walls on either side with closed olive doors. Underfoot is white vinyl tile, polished so it shines. Devon can see her own distorted reflection there, a faint orange smear topped with a black smudge for hair. She jerks her eyes from the image.
The smell here is similar to the hospital’s: disinfectant masking stale air with an underlying hint of cafeteria food—something beefy, like stew.
Straight ahead, the entryway opens into a large room. From it comes the sound of voices and movement. Sounds that fill Devon with dread.
Together Devon and the guard move forward, toward the noise.
Devon clutches her bedding tighter. Her arms ache from its weight, and her pelvis throbs. The bedding slips slightly, and she makes the readjustment. She is intent on directing her eyes in front of herself and in front of herself only, straying nowhere else.
Devon follows behind the guard as he veers toward a large desk just inside the vast room. A woman with a blonde ponytail is sitting behind it. She looks up briefly and smiles. Her smile is quick and bright.
“Hey, Joey,” she says.
“Hey,” he says back. “This is Devon Davenport. Just back from court.”
“Wow,” she says, reaching for a clipboard. “That rhymed. Impressive.”
“I try.”
The two guards exchange information, and in that space of time Devon allows herself a furtive look around, her eyes snatching up the details.
A huge, bright room. Four white walls, but irregularly shaped. A warped trapezoid.
A high ceiling, like in a gym.
That ubiquitous gray carpet with a sort of white vinyl tile sidewalk bordering the entire room.
The two longest—and adjacent—walls display perfectly spaced olive green doors, each labeled separately in white: D-1 to D-16. The cells probably, Devon thinks.
She feels herself shudder at the thought, then quickly flicks her eyes away toward the wall consisting entirely of glass with a door to a small outdoor courtyard.
The opening to the entryway from which she and the guard have just come takes up about half of the last side of the room. The other half is a wall housing three olive green doors. The doors have individual labels, stenciled in white on top of each doorframe: SHOWER ROOM. LAUNDRY. CONFERENCE ROOM.
This could be a freshly painted rec room in a Boys and Girls Club. A place she’d known well, one that wasn’t frightening. A place where she’d played Foosball and Ping-Pong with the other little kids after school while her mom worked. A place where Devon had first learned soccer, inside on the floor of a basketball court.
And the noise she hears is reminiscent of a Boys and Girls Club, too.
The noise.
She takes a breath, forces herself to look toward the noise. Toward the two round plastic tables situated off center in the irregularly shaped room.
Her heart hesitates, then pounds. The scene, like cigarette smoke in a small room, squeezes Devon’s lungs.
Girls.
Girls playing cards. Girls scribbling on paper. Girls laughing and talking or sitting alone.
Girls roughly Devon’s age.
Girls in orange jumpsuits. Like hers.
Pod, her mind whispers. Like peas in a pod. And you, you are here with them.
One or two girls look Devon’s way, curious. Another glances up, then says something to the girl beside her, who giggles. Another raises her hand and waves.
Devon looks away, to the desk the woman guard is sitting behind. It is solid and impersonal and somehow reminds Devon of the reference desk at Main Library.
Those girls aren’t anything like me, Devon tells herself. They’ve done something bad, really bad, to end up here. The scariest kind of girl is in this place, the kind she’d give a wide berth to while jogging in Wright Park or step away from while waiting for the bus. The kind the police drag out of Stadium High in the middle of class.
She doesn’t belong here. Her thoughts turn desperate, grasping for supporting evidence. Her report cards are immaculate, certainly very unlike any of these girls’. Unfamiliar teachers recognize her in the halls and smile. Fellow students shout over the clamor to commend her latest performance in the goal: “Go, Tigers!” Strangers call her to babysit. She tutors fellow students in Spanish, gives young aspiring goalkeepers individual training sessions. Referees kids’ rec soccer games, keeps the parents on the sidelines in control and civilized. Don’t these people here realize this? Can’t they see it? She’s not anything like them.
She has to get out. Today. She must get out today.
“You need to leave your bedding here.”
Devon looks up blankly, the voice yanking her from her thoughts. She slowly comes to realize that the woman guard had just said something to her, and the man guard is no longer there. Where did he go?
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Devon stammers. “I . . . didn’t hear you.”
“No.” The woman gives Devon an exasperated smile. “No, you weren’t listening. What I said was: ‘You need to leave your bedding here.’”
“Oh.” Devon almost smiles with relief. She’s not staying after all! “Because I won’t need them.”
The woman eyes Devon quizzically. “No,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. “Because you haven’t been assessed by Mental Health yet. That’s usually one of the very first things we do here at Remann Hall after Intake, but the priority today was getting you into court. So, you can just drop your stuff right here, and I’ll take you to your cell.”
Devon stares at the woman, confused. She doesn’t get the connection between Mental Health and a pillow and blankets, why she must relinquish them if she’s going to remain here. She squeezes her bedding harder, takes a step backward.
The woman cocks her head, a frown creasin
g the space between her eyebrows. “Um, I think I just told you to drop your bedding here? You cannot take it with you. This is for your own safety, Devon, until Mental Health determines differently.”
The room quiets.
Devon can feel eyes, many eyes, from the tables behind her slowly homing in. Devon squeezes her own shut, feels her lips tremble. She just can’t do what this woman is asking of her. Not here. Not with all those girls watching. They’ll see her, they’ll see her jumpsuit. And then they’ll all know.
Devon shakes her head.
“Okay.” The woman sighs. “I don’t think you quite get how things work around here. It goes like this: I tell you to do something, and you do it. End of discussion. Now, let’s try this one last time. Please drop your bedding, right here and right now, and then I will take you to your cell.”
Devon’s arms quiver, from all the squeezing and the fear. The woman is obviously prepared to mete out punishment if Devon doesn’t comply. Devon can’t imagine what that punishment might be, but how could it be worse than what she’s just been asked to do? But still . . . she is unaccustomed to punishment or authority-figure disapproval. She is unaccustomed to confrontation. Except with an opposing player near her goal, but that skill has no crossover application in a place like this.
“Can’t I”—Devon takes in a shaky breath and swallows—“couldn’t I just . . . when I get to . . . my cell? Please? I promise—”
“No,” the woman interrupts. “And I’m losing patience, fast.”
Devon looks at the woman while she’s looking back at Devon. Devon knows she has no choice now. She relaxes her arms. The bedding tumbles to her feet in a heap.
The woman lifts her chin with an expression of self-satisfaction. Her eyes travel from Devon’s face, down to her chest, and stop. She takes a small intake of breath, whispers, “Oh.”
Devon’s face burns. She looks at the floor.
For a moment Devon and the woman remain like that.
The room stills around them.
The woman quickly steers Devon toward the back wall of perfectly spaced olive doors. They must pass the two round plastic tables, all the eyes quietly tracking them. The woman does her best to shield Devon, but those eyes, like the ones in the courtroom, are sharp. They don’t miss the wetness of Devon’s clothes, dark and ringed like massive armpit sweat, except freakishly misplaced.
Whispers erupt. Soft at first, then urgent. A muffled giggle.
Devon’s hair prickles, pulls away from her scalp. They are discussing her and laughing. Somehow Devon’s legs function, move her across the room.
“Hey! What’s up with her boobs?”
The woman guard stops at one of the olive doors. D-12 is stenciled in white on the doorframe above it.
The woman releases Devon and unlocks the door. Devon counts breaths until the heavy door is pulled open, anxious to escape the eyes and finally hide. The woman moves aside, allowing Devon to pass.
Devon steps forward, peers in.
Light gray cinder block walls. Dark gray cement floor with a drain in the center. Stainless steel toilet and sink in the far corner. Blue plastic rectangular block against one wall—the bed, she guesses, because of the thin rubberized mattress that’s tossed over it. Three narrow slats of frosted plastic on the far wall, allowing three faint horizontal shafts of sunlight into the space. The faint reek of urine.
A tiny, walled-in cage.
Devon turns to the woman. This can’t be real. She opens her mouth to say something, to plead.
The woman nudges Devon forward. “This is your cell.”
Devon stumbles inside.
The woman follows behind. She indicates the three fixtures. “Bed. Sink. Toilet. And that’s about it for an orientation.” She looks at Devon. “I’m going to allow you to keep the mattress, only because I’ll be monitoring you every five minutes. However, if I determine that you’re not using it appropriately, out it goes. Mental Health should be by to talk to you soon.” She pauses. “You have any questions for me?”
Devon says nothing, her eyes locked on the stainless steel toilet in the corner. Horrifying. She can’t do this.
“Okay, great.” The woman nods her head. “Well, once Mental Health talks to you, you’ll get a booklet that spells out all the rules and regulations for this place. You’ll be tested on it sometime tomorrow. We do this so everyone’s on the same page and knows exactly what to expect here.” She hesitates, clearing her throat. When she speaks again, she’s perceptively talking faster. “One final thing. I’m very sorry, but I have to ask you to remove your bra.”
Bra? Devon fires the woman a look of shock, crosses her arms over her chest.
“It’s for your own safety until Mental Health talks to you.”
Devon feels her throat tighten, and she closes her eyes. She is so tired, so miserable, so utterly worn down.
“Look.” The woman guard clears her throat again. “I don’t . . . I won’t give details, but bras can be used for dangerous purposes. As can blankets and sheets and even mattresses, the reason I had you leave your bedding outside.” She pauses. “So, please. Let’s just get this over with. Your bra?”
Wearing bras is dangerous? Devon’s mind spins back before she can stop it. His lips on her face, leaving soft kisses on the tip of her nose, across her closed eyes. Her throat. She sighs, throws her head back, and his lips travel down the length of her neck. Tremors sizzle through her spine. His hands move gently down her back. Reaching under her shirt—slowly, cautiously—his fingertips touching her skin, an icy electricity. Unhooking the clasp . . .
Devon shakes her head, pushing the memory away. No, when bras come off, that’s when things get dangerous.
She opens her eyes. The woman guard’s hand is out, waiting.
Devon presses her lips together and slowly turns away. Reaching behind her back, Devon shakily works the clasp from the outside through her jumpsuit and the undershirt beneath. Under her collar, she loops a thumb under one strap and shrugs it off her shoulder, then loops and shrugs the other strap before pulling the bra off entirely and out one sleeve. Her breasts are heavy and sore and only reluctantly surrender their damp fabric, finally slapping painfully against her chest.
Devon balls up the bra in her fist.
The tears are building again, so close and ready to roll. She breathes deeply. Keep it down. Don’t break now. She grabs her breasts then because she must; they are hard and hot, that prickling again. The warmth wets the jumpsuit between her fingers, trickles down her ribs.
Devon turns quickly, thrusts the bra into the woman’s hand, not meeting her eyes. “It’s wet”—A small sob squeaks from her throat. “It’s so gross. I’m . . . sorry.” She covers her face with her hands.
“Oh, listen.” The woman’s voice turns gentle now. “Don’t be.” She pats Devon softly on the shoulder as Devon sniffs and gasps with her effort to force the tears down. “I’ll get it washed in the meantime. Okay? And bring you a clean jumpsuit.” The woman pauses, her hand lingering on Devon’s shoulder. “Everything’s going to be okay. I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but eventually it will. I promise.”
Devon’s resolve is caving with that woman’s simple gesture. Her body shudders with the strain of keeping it all contained: the shame, the pain, the watching eyes, the secret whispers, the end the end the very end of everything.
Just go! Devon’s mind screams. Please just go and leave me alone!
One last squeeze on the shoulder, then the woman’s feet step away, brush across the cement floor.
“Oh.” The woman turns back momentarily. “I almost forgot: welcome to Delta.”
The door clanks shut.
That sound again.
Heavy. Metallic. Final.
Devon stands with her face in her hands for a long time. Then she curls up on the rubberized mattress, turns toward the wall.
chapter five
“Devon?”
Devon opens her eyes, squints at who’s peering at h
er from her opened door. The voice belongs to a woman, someone unfamiliar. Light streams from behind this woman and into the dark cell, washing her out, so all Devon sees is a faceless shadow of a shape.
A dream. Devon closes her eyes, draws herself into a tight ball.
“Devon.” The voice again, more persistent. “Devon, my name is Dr. Bacon. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. Would that be okay?”
Devon’s eyes snap open. She’s awake and cold. She sits up abruptly, looks around. Her back is slick with sweat, her undershirt sticks to it. A sweat that would fit if she were on a field with a ball, newly clipped grass under her cleats. But she’s not. She’s inside a tiny cell with a toilet in the corner and a cement floor. The sweat exists because of the rubberized mattress beneath her and under that, the molded plastic bed.
“Devon?”
Devon finally turns her eyes toward the woman at the door.
The woman steps out of the shadow. Devon can see her face and hair, one long braid that slips down her slender back to brush her waist. “Sorry I had to wake you,” the woman says. “I know it’s been a long, hard day. You must be exhausted.” She twists to kick a jam under the door so it stays open, then carries a folding chair into the room, placing it the perfect distance from Devon—not too close, but not far away either. She rests her hands on the back of the chair and smiles, her eyes intent on Devon’s face.
Devon likes the way this woman is dressed. Dark straight skirt that hits her ankles, three-quarter-sleeved tee, sports watch, hemp trail mocs. And that braid. Earthy, yet neat.
The woman is older than she seems; her hair is almost entirely gray.
“May I sit down, Devon?”
Devon scoots backward until her back hits the wall behind her. She pulls her legs into her chest. The front of her jumpsuit is stiff from the dried milk. Always leaking, then drying, and leaking again. She can smell it, too. An organic sort of sourness.
Finally Devon nods, Yes.
Amy Efaw Page 5