After (20 page)

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. Coughran.”

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:

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. . . .”

The girls continue talking to each other like Allison isn’t standing up there at all.

“Hey!” Allison yells. “Excuse me? I’m conducting a class here. I’d appreciate it if you’d shut up and listen!”

That gets the girls’ attention. Silence drops over the room. Macee is frozen in midmovement, bent over Ms. Coughran’s desk, where she’s counting the pencils she’d collected. Staring up at Allison, she whispers, “We’re not supposed to say ‘shut up.’”

“Well, okay, fine. Sorry.” Allison clears her throat again. “But as I was
trying
to say, today’s topic is Growing Up—”

Devon hears Karma scoff under her breath. “I was
born
grown up, hag.”

“So, to start, people have certain expectations for you as you get older, right?” She looks around the room. “Meaning, the older you get, the older you’re supposed to act. The more responsibility you’re expected to take on. True?”

Nobody moves.

“But at the same time, as you grow older, don’t
you
also have expectations for the people around you? Like gaining respect and autonomy from them?” She pauses. “
Autonomy
is just a big word for ‘independence.’” She pauses again. “And sometimes, these two separate sets of expectations—what others expect from you, and what you expect from others—clash. Don’t they? Causing some pretty big problems. Right?”

“Yeah. It’s called adolescence, reject,” Devon hears Karma whisper to herself. “Get some therapy, chicky; you’ll get over it.”

“These problems sometimes come in the form of prejudice or stereotypes.” Allison looks around the room. “Are you all following me?”

“Uh, not really . . .” says some girl with curly blonde hair sitting at the far table.

“Okay, well . . . hopefully what I’m talking about will make more sense once we explore this together.” Allison twitch-smiles. “So, let’s start with prejudice. Have you ever been put down or called a derogatory name by an adult?”

The room is silent.

“
Derogatory
means ‘offensive.’”

Still no response.

“Okay, well, one of my expectations for you guys right now? That you participate in the discussion. Me up here lecturing is going to get really boring fast—”

“Surprise! We’ve already reached that point,” Karma mumbles to herself.

Again, nothing from the class.

“Okay, so how about this—have you ever been told that you’re too young to understand something?”

Allison gets a reaction this time. Devon can hear whispering popping around the room.

“Or been made to feel that you’re less intelligent than an adult? Maybe had an adult lie to you about something so obviously untrue, as if you’d be so stupid or naïve as to believe it?”

The whispering gets louder. Devon glances up at Allison, expecting her to shout again, but she doesn’t. In fact, she looks relieved.

“Okay, so what about dress? Meaning, has an adult ever criticized your appearance or made negative comments about what you’re wearing? Told you that you can’t go out looking”—she makes little quotation marks with her fingers—“like that?”