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 cla.s.sroom 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 cla.s.sroom. 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s-"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 cla.s.s, then turns to the whiteboard. Starts writing numbers across it, equally s.p.a.ced: 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 cla.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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?"

n.o.body 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 cla.s.s.

"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 naive 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?"

Devon thinks about the questions Allison is posing, and she feels a strange void inside. Has she ever been told she's too young to understand something? No. Been made to feel less intelligent? No. With her mom, it's mostly been the opposite. The secret things Devon's mom had confessed to her, cried over, obsessed about. The advice her mom had sought from Devon, wanting rea.s.surance and support. Devon would listen to her mom and would feel in this vague sort of way that, really, she wasn't quite smart enough or old enough or something to hear these things. To know what to say when the collection people called wanting the status of unpaid bills. To hear her mom retell the raunchy, age-inappropriate stories she'd overheard while bartending at Katie Downs. To cover for her mom, creating white lies to tell the Latest Loser that her mom wasn't around when she didn't want to talk to him. No, her mom rarely kept anything from Devon because of her youth.

"Has an adult ever invaded your personal privacy in any way? Like, read your diary? Or maybe listened in on your phone conversations? Monitored your e-mail or IMs or text messages?" Allison scans the room. "Does anyone have something they'd like to share? Because, really, I'm hearing a lot of whispering out there." She moves her hands around like she's stirring the air.

"Let's bring it out in the open so everyone can benefit from it."

"Well," someone finally says, "I'm here because of an invasion of my privacy." Devon turns to look over her shoulder at the speaker. A girl at the table behind her. Gla.s.ses, shoulder-length brown hair. Bad acne.

Devon tries to remember her name. Jean? Jan? Jamie? That one from last night after dinner, the one who'd lost the card game some of the girls were playing. The one who'd shoved Jenevra hard, then went screaming into her cell. Everyone got Lockdown for thirty minutes because of it.

"Okay," Allison says. "Go ahead. But, remember, let's keep things generic. No specific details, okay?"

"Okay," the girl says. "So, basically, I kinda keep a blog-I mean I did on the outs. And, basically, one of my friends' moms read something I posted on it that she didn't like, and, basically, she called the cops."

Allison nods. "Okay. But blogs are public, aren't they?" She glances around the room. "You put it out there because you want people to read what you write, correct? So I don't think you could call that an invasion of privacy exactly. Anyone else?"

Is it an invasion of privacy, Devon thinks, to be lying alone in the dark, hearing her mom's giggling in the bedroom down the hall with the Male Guest of the Moment? Or her mom asking Devon to help select which thong to buy off Victoria Secret's clearance table? Devon feels a tightening inside herself. It's definitely an invasion of something.

Karma stretches her arms high, throws her head back to look at the ceiling. "It's an invasion of privacy when after someone's"-Karma makes little quotation marks with her cuff-covered fingers-"brother comes to visit a resident here and the staff stops her on the way back to the pod and then forces her to open her mouth to check under her tongue and-oh my gosh, can you believe it?-they discover smack. I find that really annoying and unfair." Karma smiles at Allison. "Very prejudiced. Don't you think? That recently happened to a"-she makes little quotation marks again-"friend of mine."

Allison just frowns at her.

"Well, this one time my mom's boyfriend moved in with us." Jenevra is tilted way back in her chair, feet up on the tabletop. "She made me share my room with his kid. Kid as in guy. We were both fourteen, and we had to share the same bed! How about that?"

"Whoa!" someone yells. "That's messed up!"

Allison shakes her head. "I'm really very sorry about that. Wow."

"Whatever." Jenevra rubs her hand over her shaved head. "I kicked his a.s.s. I mean b.u.t.t. He slept in the bathtub after that."

"Yeah, well, when I was thirteen? My mom took me to the doctor? And had him do this check on me? To see if I was still a virgin!" someone says.

"Bet you weren't," Karma mutters to herself. She shifts around in her chair, restless.

"Well, my mom IM'd my friends and stuff pretending she was me!" another girl shouts, bouncing in her seat.

The examples come fast now, girls talking over each other, one upping each other.

"Okay, okay," Allison says, holding up her hands. "Those are all really good examples. But we should move on." She points to the whiteboard behind her. "So, I've written some numbers up here. These numbers represent years, all right? From age twelve to twenty-one. I'm starting at twelve because that's when most adults begin thinking you are less like children and more like something approaching adulthood. It's when you generally start gaining certain privileges and responsibilities. So, let's start listing some of those privileges and responsibilities up here under each year." She picks up a marker, uncaps it. "Age twelve?"

"Well, you can babysit when you're twelve," someone says.

"Good!" Allison writes "Babysitting" under the 12 column.

"And, also, you can take the city bus by yourself," someone else says. "And stay home alone."

Karma scoffs. "Did that when I was five."

So did I. Suddenly the room is there, in Devon's mind. The one with the toddler bed made up in pink piggy and yellow duckie sheets-she'd already outgrown both the bed and the sheets by then. But in the memory, Devon had stayed in that bed for hours, waiting. Finally sneaking out into the hallway when she had to pee so badly she was afraid she'd wet her panties. Everything quiet and still, the only sound was coming from the box fan propped in the kitchen window, a sc.r.a.p of paper caught on one of its blades-pflipp . . . pflipp . . . pflipp-through the empty apartment. Her mom gone, disappeared for the entire weekend. The lure of the casinos and some guy with money drew her away. She'd left for work one Friday night and just didn't come home. "Sometimes grown-ups have to have a little fun, too," she'd explained to Devon when she had finally returned. "You weren't scared. Were you, hon?"

"It's still cheaper at the movies when you're twelve," another girl says.

"Good work!" Allison says. "Now. How about thirteen?"

"Well, you get into PG-13 movies."

"And you're a teenager."

"My mom let me wear makeup when I turned thirteen."

"You get your period."

"Shoot me!" Karma says to herself. "This is so lame." She thrusts her hand up in the air.

"Yes?" Allison looks over at Karma. "You have a comment?"

"Are you even kidding me? h.e.l.l no. I gotta go to the bathroom."

"We're not supposed to say 'h.e.l.l,'" Macee says from the next table over.

"Yeah?" Karma looks over her shoulder at her. "Well, F.Y.I., freak, 'h.e.l.l' is a hot spot destination. So, why don't you just go on down there and check it on out?"

"Uh, please watch your language and name-calling," Allison says. "You may go ahead and use the bathroom, but please come right-"

"Knock, knock!" A voice from the doorway. Then Ms. Coughran pokes her head into the room. "Excuse the interruption, but I must summon someone." She scans the room until her eyes land on Devon. Crooks her finger at her. "Devon, you are wanted in the conference room."

Devon stands up. Is this it? Dr. Bacon? Already? She feels her heart jerk.

Karma jumps up then, too. Kicks at Devon's feet, whispers, "Doesn't it feel good to be wanted?"

Devon moves toward the door. She feels closed in, can't wait to get out of this room so she can breathe. Too much Karma.

"And where are you going, Karma?" Ms. Coughran asks.

"Bathroom," Karma says sweetly, flashes her fake smile. "Miss Allison said I could."

Ms. Coughran steps aside, allowing the two girls pa.s.sage through the door. Karma hip checks Devon as she pushes past her.

"Be good now, Karma," Ms. Coughran says.

Karma stops, abruptly spins around.

Devon almost slams right into her. Only her quick reflexes prevent it. But maybe she should have. Maybe she should've given Karma a good thunk, like she would on the field. That not-so-subtle warning to the other players that inside the goal box is her kingdom. That meeting her 1 v 1 in that particular place isn't going to be fun.

"I am so good, Ms. Coughran." But as Karma says this, her eyes are on Devon. "But not you," she whispers. "Or . . . did the Devil make you do it? Hmm? Is that it? Is that why you're here, Princess Perfect?" Smirking, she whips back around, saunters across the hall to the bathroom. She stops at the door, kicks it open, holds it there with her foot. "Oh, and Ms. Coughran? Just for future reference? I agree with my B.F.F., Anonymous, when she says: 'I'd rather be lucky than good.' Good is just so overrated. Bad girls have the most fun. Don't you agree, Devil?"

The door whisks shut behind her.

Devon just stands there, staring after Karma, at the closed bathroom door.

Ms. Coughran pats Devon on the shoulder.

Devon jumps.

"Hey, girl," Ms. Coughran says. "Don't let Karma get to you. She's just a b.u.t.ton pusher. It's how she amuses herself. Next week, she'll be on to someone else. You'll see."

Maybe . . . But Devon doesn't quite agree; there's something more to it than that. Isn't there?

The thought vanishes because the door to the pod buzzes.

Devon turns as the door opens and the woman with the long braid steps through it. Dr. Bacon. She smiles at Devon, walks toward her.

"h.e.l.lo, Devon," she says. She glances at Ms. Coughran. "h.e.l.lo, Nadia."

"Well, howdy," Ms. Coughran says. "She's all yours. The conference room awaits."

"Thank you. And when Devon and I are finished, I'll need to see Macee."

"Okeydokey. I'll warn her." Ms. Coughran gives them a wink, says, "Later!" and heads into the cla.s.sroom.