After. Part 21

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 a.n.a.lyzing 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 cla.s.s? 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 cla.s.sroom 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 b.u.mping you up to Honor status. They're going to discuss it this morning, in fact, during their meeting-"

"Really?" Honor status. This news excites Devon, and she smiles back at Ms. Coughran then. Dom will be very happy.

Ms. Coughran nods. "Yes, really. So that would move your bedtime up to ten, giving you lots of extra time. If you can get into the cla.s.sroom at, let's say, five thirty or so, you could potentially work for at least three hours every night, unless the staff has some special activity planned. So, what do you think?"

The possibility of keeping her mind engaged interests Devon; those lame word searches and Sudoku puzzles that Ms. Coughran has been giving them to do in cla.s.s are starting to get tedious. And having something to occupy her evenings besides scouring the book cart or hiding out in her cell. A legitimate excuse to avoid the other girls, keep to herself.

"Sure," Devon says. "It sounds really cool. Thanks."

"Great!" Ms. Coughran smiles bigger. "So, then there'll be three of you all together-"

Three of us? Devon s.h.i.+fts on her stool. The idea loses its appeal suddenly. She won't be by herself?

"-who I think would really benefit from this arrangement. You know Destiny, don't you? She's actually a very gifted writer-"

Devon remembers that Destiny had written a poem and read it aloud to the cla.s.s. Ms. Coughran had seemed impressed with it, and all the girls had clapped.

"And then there's a girl who just came here this past Friday morning. I don't know if you've met her yet-Samantha?"

Sam, the tall one with the red hair? Devon nods. "Yeah, I played some basketball with a new girl on Sat.u.r.day morning. At least, I think that's who you're talking about."

"Basketball, huh?" Ms. Coughran shakes her head disapprovingly. "I hope you didn't overdo it, Devon. Playing basketball."

Devon rolls her eyes. "No, I didn't overdo it. Anyway, we had to stop because-"

Karma. Kicking and screaming, the staff slamming her to the ground. The stretcher, the blood. It's all there, fresh.

Devon hadn't really allowed herself to think much about Karma. Not since talking to Dom that last time on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Devon feels sick inside all over again.

Ms. Coughran raises her eyebrows, prompts, "Because?"

"Karma," Devon whispers.

"Oh, yes." Ms. Coughran's expression darkens. Her smile is gone, a tired sadness replaces it. "So I heard." She sighs loudly. "But she's back now."

Back? Here? "But . . ." Devon takes a breath. "But . . . she was bleeding. She-"

POP! The bolts on all sixteen cells snap open.

Devon and Ms. Coughran jump.

Together their eyes jerk toward the clock over the control desk: 7:30.

"Whoa!" Ms. Coughran giggles embarra.s.sedly, slapping her palm to her chest. "Not used to that sound."

"Neither am I," Devon says, laughing. "It scares me every single morning."

"Yeah, I bet." Ms. Coughran stretches to her feet, yawns. "Well, anyway. Yes, Karma is back. Got in from Tacoma General last night, safe and sound and ready to cause trouble." She winks at Devon, then checks her watch. "Well, I'll see you in the cla.s.sroom in about an hour. I'm going to skip out of here and grab myself some java. I'm a java junkie, you know." She knocks on the tabletop. "Gotta keep that pep in my step." She waves lazily behind her back as she walks away.

Devon sits there at the table for a moment, sorting out how she feels. She's relieved that Karma is back; it probably means that Karma's pretty much okay. She thinks about Ms. Coughran's special cla.s.s, explores the idea of maybe getting to know the other girls, Sam and Destiny, a little better. It's not a completely horrible thought, she finally decides. Sam seemed okay. And Destiny might be kind of strange with her thumb-sucking issue, but at least she's quiet.

The common area is growing noisy. The girls are stumbling out of their cells now, rubbing their eyes.

Devon looks around the room, scans the faces. Karma isn't out there. At least, not yet.

Devon takes a deep breath, lets it out. And goes to join the girls retrieving their toiletries from the box beside the control desk.

This morning, Ms. Coughran moves the cla.s.s out to the common area. A woman is already there, waiting for them in a wheelchair.

Ms. Coughran directs the girls to form a semicircle on the floor before her.

Devon chooses a spot in the back, behind everyone. Like being in the goal with the view of the entire field in front of her, the ball's erratic movement and the player reactions. She wants everything clearly laid out in front of her now.

Someone drops down right beside her. Exasperated, Devon turns to see who it is.

Karma.

Devon sighs. Well, at least she's recovered enough to attend cla.s.s again. And be annoying.

Karma gives Devon a jab with her elbow, leans in. "Miss me?"

Devon feels anger then, feels it rise inside of her fast. It's like nothing's changed. Like the Lockdown and blood smears and ambulance stretcher and broken spork didn't even happen.

Devon jabs Karma back, hard. Turns to her, eyes narrowed. Whispers, "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?" Karma lets a smile slowly crawl across her lips.

"You know. I should've told the staff about my spork. I was an idiot not to."

"Oh! You mean . . ." Karma unhooks her thumbs from the holes in her cuffs, yanks up a sleeve. ". . . this?" She reveals a forearm, wound with a gauzy bandage. Moves like she's going to unwrap it.

Devon turns her face away. "Don't bother."

"So you care?" Karma laughs. "I had no idea, Devil. I am so touched." She pulls her sleeve down again. "Like I already told you, I wear my scars on the outside."

"Aren't you special," Devon mumbles.

"Yeah, I am. Thanks for noticing! And here's some insight from my personal friend Anonymous: 'No pain, no gain.' Ever hear that? You should try it sometime-embrace the pain, Devil."

"Yeah, well, you should just get over yourself, Karma, and grow up. You know, everybody in this place doesn't need to be always dragged along for the ride every single time you're dealing with your own personal drama."

"Yeah?" Karma jabs Devon with her elbow again, harder. "Well, um, I don't remember asking you for advice. At least I express myself. At least I don't hide my scars where n.o.body can ever see them and pretend that I'm oh so perfect, like you do. So keep your advice"-she jabs Devon once more-"to yourself."

Devon closes her eyes. She should just ignore Karma, let this pa.s.s.

But she feels her head turn to Karma. Feels herself look Karma right in the eye. Hears her voice say, "Do Not. Do That. Again. Did you hear me? 'Cause I mean it, Karma."

Devon holds Karma's eyes for a long moment.

Then Karma laughs. "Oh, I'm so afraid, Devil. Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you do express yourself, after all." But then she quickly lowers her eyes down to her hands. Hooks and rehooks her thumb through the hole in her sleeve.

"Okay, ladies!" Ms. Coughran shouts over the noise in the room. "Turn down the volume!" Once it dies down, she continues, "I'd like to introduce Paula. She's going to talk to us today. She's a neat lady, so please give her your undivided attention." She gives Paula a pat on the shoulder. "Paula, the floor is yours."

Paula tells the room all about herself, how she came to live in a wheelchair. She wasn't always like this, she says. She'd once been just like them, had friends, a boyfriend, limbs that worked. Paula has a storyteller's voice. It doesn't take too long before the girls get pulled in.

"But I made some really bad choices," Paula says. "Two specifically. The first was to drink at a party, and the second was to dive into a swimming pool at that party. Unfortunately for me, that pool was only four feet deep. I broke my neck."

"d.a.m.n," Devon hears Karma whisper to herself. "Shoulda 'looked before you leapt,' lady."

"Thinking back on that day," Paula says, "if I had been sober, my mind would've been clear and I would've, as they say, looked before I leapt." She laughs then.

Karma and Devon glance at each other, find each other's eyes. Karma raises an eyebrow at Devon, smiles slyly. Then quickly turns away.

"Those two choices, the drinking and the diving, they changed my life forever. I broke three vertebrae and became a paraplegic, paralyzed from the waist down. I was seventeen at the time."

Devon watches as the girls in front of her look at one another.

"She was drinking underage," Macee whispers loudly to the girl beside her, the one with the white spider-silk hair.

"Thanks for that brilliant observation," Karma mutters under her breath. "'A fool empties his head every time he opens his mouth.'"

"So," Paula continues, "I've got a question for you all. When you initially saw me here today, what was the first thing that you noticed?"

"Your wheelchair," Jenevra says immediately. She's sitting right up front.

Paula nods. "Not my hair color, or the color of my eyes. Or the shape of my body, or my age, or what I happen to be wearing. No, that's exactly right. People see this"-she taps the arm of her wheelchair with her fingertips-"and that's who I become to them-a wheelchair. And most of the time, they can't ever get past that to see the person who's actually sitting in it."

Devon looks closely at Paula then. She sees Paula's skinny, atrophied legs lying inside a pair of black warm-up pants. Her feet in a pair of Nike running shoes, her ankles twisting inward, each foot sitting lightly on a metal footrest. A black strap around her waist holding her into the chair. Devon looks up at Paula's face. She's probably about her mom's age, Devon guesses. Short brown hair cut in a bob. Brown eyes, light blue eye shadow swiped over the lids. Tiny silver hoop earrings. Smile lines around her eyes, her mouth. Now that Devon really looks at her, she realizes that Paula's actually pretty, in a very pleasant, even happy, sort of way.

"I may be physically handicapped. I may not be able to walk anymore. I may have trouble dressing myself. I may be forced to pee through a tube for the rest of my life. But that doesn't have to define who I am."

Paula smiles, looks around the semicircle slowly. "I have a life sentence," she says simply. "For the rest of my life, until the day I die, I'm more or less a prisoner in this chair. And I have that life sentence because I made some really stupid choices when I was young. I can't really blame anyone else for my predicament, can I? Because at the end of the day, it's me and the choices I've made. Now, most of you guys made some stupid choices, too. Haven't you? That's probably why you're sitting here today. But unlike me, you don't have life sentences. You're going to get out of here at some point with the chance to change the course you're on at this moment. Second chances are rare in life; I know this from personal experience. Please do not let your past choices handicap you like mine have. Don't let them define who you are going to become."

The room is silent.

Paula laughs self-consciously then. "Enough preaching for today, huh? Okay." She leans sideways, pulls up a duffel bag from off the floor beside her wheelchair, places it on her lap. She takes out a plastic model of a spinal cord and pa.s.ses it around, handing it to Jenevra first. Paula talks specifically about her injury, shows exactly where her spine broke. What it feels like to be paralyzed. How long it took for her to recuperate, the painful physical therapy. She answers the girls' questions.

Macee asks Paula if she can move her arms.

"G.o.d!" Karma whispers to herself. "Does she even have a brain? The chick's only been using her arms all morning!" She pauses. "Here's the advice I have for you, Macee: 'Never miss a good chance to shut up.'"

Devon laughs despite herself. She glances over at Karma again. She's still looking down at her hands, but she's got a slight smile on her face.

Tension is still there between them, but . . . Devon leans toward Karma, whispers to her, "Yeah, but then she'd only remind you that we're not supposed to say 'shut up'!"

Karma gives Devon a shove, whispers back, "Hey! Ridiculing others is not allowed in this facility. Let's just get that straight right now."

"Fine, and neither is you pus.h.i.+ng me," Devon says, shoving Karma back. "Remember?"

"Oh, I won't forget it, Devil. Not me."

They turn their attention back to Paula, then. She's talking about all the road races she's won in her wheelchair. She tells them of her current challenge, how she's now been training for the Portland Marathon, her first. That she's going to do it this October.

After Paula wraps up her presentation, Ms. Coughran herds the girls back into the cla.s.sroom. She asks Destiny to give a sheet of paper to each person, Sam to count the pencils and hand them out.

The cla.s.sroom is quiet. The girls seem unusually thoughtful.

"Now," Ms. Coughran says, "time to write about a bad decision you've made. It doesn't have to be the bad decision that landed you in here. All right? It doesn't have to be a 'big' bad decision. It can be something small. So, one paragraph on that. For the second paragraph, I want you to describe the consequences that followed this bad decision. Consequences for you, but also for any other people it may have affected. Because, remember, the choices you make don't just hurt you. People don't live in gla.s.s bubbles. Any questions?"

Ms. Coughran looks around the room. n.o.body says anything.

"Let's attempt to learn something with this exercise. Really stretch ourselves. Think about Paula and all the wisdom she's gained through her unfortunate experience. When we're all done, those who want to share with the cla.s.s may do so. All right? Hit it, people!"

Devon stares at her blank paper. She thinks about what Paula had said about having a life sentence. Paula hadn't done anything wrong, anything criminal at least, but still her life was ruined. Devon thinks about what Dom had said that first time the two of them had met in the conference room, how she had explained that Devon could get a life sentence if she were to be tried in adult court. Then Devon thinks about the hearing tomorrow, remembers how much is riding on it, feels a sharp jolt of panic in her gut. She shuts off the thought, forces herself to breathe evenly and slowly. The roiling in her stomach starts to subside.

The familiar sound of pencils scratching across paper surrounds her.

Devon glances up. Karma is there, sitting at the next table over, in a chair facing Devon. But she's staring intently down at her own blank paper, her hands in her lap. Devon wonders about this. No scrawled anarchy symbols? No smirk? No acting like she's asleep and bored?

Then Devon looks back down at her own paper. What should she write? Random memories flicker in her mind.

A soccer ball slipping between Devon's hands before the jarring thump of her body hitting the ground, the ball whipping into the net behind her as the roar of the parents rises from the sidelines. State Cup last year; in the final minutes of the game her split second of hesitation had caused a goal and, thereby, the loss of the champions.h.i.+p game.