"Well, maybe they wouldn't have found anything wrong with me."

"Yeah." Dom makes a snide laugh. "Maybe they would've found a lot wrong with you."

Devon brings her thumb up to her mouth. Chews on it. "I . . . I didn't feel like I was that good anymore." Her voice is so soft, Devon isn't sure she's said anything at all. "I was playing really bad, Dom. I was feeling heavy and slow. My timing was totally off. And my jumping . . . toward the end of my high school season in November, I was having a hard time putting the b.a.l.l.s over the crossbar. Those high b.a.l.l.s would just roof me sometimes. Coach Mark was starting to notice it, too. He kept getting on me to play faster. He kept yelling at me." The last sentence is a squeak. She takes a moment to pull herself together. "One time he screamed in front of everyone, 'Get the lead out of your a.s.s, Davenport! You are totally ineffective back there!' He . . . he'd never said anything like that to me before. Ever." Devon covers her face with both hands. "So, I . . . I wanted to take some time off and work out on my own in the afternoons, take a month or whatever and get in really great shape before the season started. Work hard on my core and run. Jump rope." She drops her hand then, looks up at Dom. "I was going to come back before league started. That was my plan, Dom. I swear."

"And, according to all that extensive research you did on your injuries, you determined that it was perfectly safe to work out."

"The Web sites just said no contact sport activities. No heading the ball. Stuff like that."

"Uh-huh. And, so, did you? Work out?"

Devon nods. "Yes. Every day. Even on the weekends. I was running about thirty miles a week. And I even did those shoulder-strengthening exercises that I found on the Internet."

"Well, you never came back, did you?" Dom's voice is quiet now. "The girls' season for Washington state's premier league started at the end of February, and you never came back to practice, Devon. So, you didn't stick to your 'plan' after all."

Devon shakes her head, whispers, "I wasn't ready yet."

"Wasn't ready yet." Dom studies Devon for a long time. Devon can see all sorts of thoughts going on behind Dom's eyes. Dom's expression is one of intense dissatisfaction and suspicion.

Finally, Dom stands up. She slowly walks to the wall on the other side of the room opposite Devon. Leans against it and crosses her arms. Stares at the floor for a long time.

"What about friends?" Dom says at last. She looks over at Devon. "You never mention them. Except that one girl here in Detention, that Karma . . ."

"She's not my friend," Devon says quickly.

Dom c.o.c.ks her head. "So, do you have friends? Anyone you feel close to, anyone who you'd be able to trust with your secrets? Your worries?"

Devon looks down at her knees again. "Yeah. Of course. Everybody has friends."

"No, I don't think that's always the case, Devon. Most people have lots of acquaintances, but acquaintances aren't friends. There's a difference."

Devon shakes her head. "Whatever. I already talked to Dr. Bacon about this stuff yesterday. Why do we have to talk about it again?"

"Because I want clarification, Devon. I have a specific purpose for the questions I ask, and Dr. Bacon has her own reasons for the questions she asks." Dom pauses. "Dr. Bacon has drawn the conclusion that you have two completely separate sets of kids who you interact with. You have a set of kids that you hang out with at school, and then you have your club soccer teammates. Is that correct?"

Not exactly. There's one girl who straddles both worlds of school and club soccer-Kait. But Devon doesn't want to go there with Dom right now, and she didn't mention Kait to Dr. Bacon, either.

Devon nods. "Yeah, pretty much. I told her that on my club team, most of us go to different high schools, so during practice is pretty much the only time we see each other. Most of them have no clue what I'm like at school."

"Are you a different sort of person at school than you are with your club team?"

Devon doesn't know how to answer that question, so she just shrugs.

"Your coach told me that you are a leader on the field," Dom says. "That your teammates really respect you and seem to like you a lot. So, what's the situation like with the kids who don't play soccer? The regular school kids. Do you have friends there, too?"

Devon draws her legs in closer, wraps her arms around them. She thinks about Dom's question. Does she have friends? Her number is programmed into a lot of people's cell phone contacts, so she gets plenty of texts, and she usually has kids to sit with at lunch. Some of them play on the varsity soccer team with her, and some don't. But she's never had anyone over to her apartment; Devon's mom just isn't around much and it would just be weird. And Devon doesn't like to waste time at the mall or the movies after school or on weekends very often; she's way too busy for that and doesn't have the money for it anyway. This arrangement has always seemed to be enough for Devon. Mostly, the people at school are her "friends" simply because they are there.

Except Kait. She was always more than just "there." The years of sleepovers at Kait's house-the prank calls and movie watching and music listening and whispering in the dark. But, well, Kait wasn't really speaking to Devon much anymore.

"I'm just not a big talker, I guess," Devon says at last. She raises her eyes to Dom. "I really don't like to talk about myself very much. So, when I'm around people at school, I sort of just sit there and listen. It's not that I'm shy or unpopular or anything. It's just that if I have something to say, I say it. Otherwise, I'm sort of just there. And I'm totally fine with that."

"But it's different when you're out there, playing soccer?"

"Yeah, because I definitely have things to say then. About the game and what's happening on the field. From the goal, I can see the entire field."

"Okay," Dom says. "So, did you talk to anyone about Connor? About your relationship or how you felt about him? To a teammate or someone at school? Anyone at all?"

Devon shakes her head no.

But over the summer, Devon remembers, Kait had grown suspicious. "You're acting very strange, Dev," she'd teased in her silly singsong. Like always, they were coming off the field together, their afternoon practice finished. "You're being really secretive. You look like you are glowing." She'd grabbed Devon's cell then, right out of her backpack, ignoring the sweaty shin guards and gloves that smelled like roadkill. She clicked through Devon's call log. "So, what's this three-oh-three number? Hmm? Wow-it's in here a lot recently. Way more than my number even!" She looked over at Devon and grinned. "Could this possibly be a love interest? Could Devon the Untouchable have finally met her prince?"

Devon grabbed Kait's bag, then, and s.n.a.t.c.hed her car keys. And they chased around the field, laughing and squirting each other with their water bottles until Coach Mark yelled, "That's it, Tweedledee and Tweedledum! Next practice, get here fifteen minutes early 'cause you're doing suicides. You two obviously have way too much energy!"

And Kait had yelled back, "So, which of us is Tweedle Dumb?'"

Devon closes her eyes. No, she didn't even tell Kait about Connor.

"But your mom knew about him?" Dom says. "Right?"

"Nope."

"Your mom had no knowledge of your romantic involvement, having s.e.x-"

"No way! I'd never, not in a million years, tell her that! I don't talk to my mom about anything."

Devon stares back down at the floor again. She's so tired suddenly. So done with talking. Can't Dom see this?

"All right, let's push on to something else." Dom kicks at the floor with the toe of her cycling shoe, thinking. "The question I'm going to ask you now is one I've asked you before, but in a different way. The difference is subtle, but important. Before, we've discussed the fact that you were afraid that you might be pregnant because you'd had s.e.x that one time with Connor. The context of that discussion revolved around your behavior during your September appointment with the doctor at the clinic, with Dr. Katial-how you reacted to his questions, your not returning the urine sample to his office, wearing the sanitary napkin in your underwear, et cetera. This question has to do with later circ.u.mstances, as time moved forward in your story. Did you ever notice anything specifically about your body that may have led you to believe that you were, in fact, pregnant? You've told me that you felt heavy and slow at soccer practice, that you noticed you weren't jumping as well. And that you were starting to wear baggier clothes because they felt more comfortable. Did you, at any time, suspect that you were pregnant, Devon?"

Devon thinks about Dom's question. Did she suspect? Did she?

Running up Carr Street, what game did she always play? She'd stand on the corner of 30th and Carr after running the three miles to get down there, staring up at the monster hill before her, as long and steep as any in San Fransisco. She'd check her watch. If she could make it up those six blocks from h.e.l.l-from 30th Street to Yakima-in under two and a half minutes, then there wasn't anything "wrong" with her. If she failed to make her self-imposed time . . . But it was just a stupid game; she knew that nothing was "wrong" with her. It was just a way to motivate herself to bust her b.u.t.t, to give herself a goal with consequences. And two and a half minutes was not a generous window of time. But she made it every time, sometimes with only seconds to spare. Her lungs would burn and her heart pound, and she'd bend over at the waist, feeling like she might puke when she was finished. Her stomach tight and throbbing.

Except once.

When she'd stopped her watch that one time, it read 2:36. She'd stared at the numbers, a cold sweat p.r.i.c.king her skin.

Just six seconds. It didn't mean anything. Right? Six seconds is basically four strides. One full breath cycle. A brief lapse of concentration. It probably happened when she'd sidestepped that walker with his unruly dog, straining at its leash.

And the air was thick that day, the temperature too warm for February. She hadn't slept well the night before, either, had kicked around in her sheets, worrying about a world geography project that was due at the end of the week. And she'd skipped lunch earlier that day to cut calories, skipped lunch every day that week, actually. She shouldn't have. Skipping lunch always made her weak. All of that together could easily account for those lost six seconds.

But still. She hadn't made the time. It could be a sign.

She jogged the remaining mile home. Pounded up the steps to her apartment. Untied her shoe to retrieve the key she always attached to her shoelace when she went running.

She yanked open the door, slammed it shut. Closing off the light from the outside.

She stood in the doorway, catching her breath and thinking.

She dropped to the floor and hooked her feet under the couch. And did sit-up after sit-up until she'd done five hundred without stopping, falling back exhausted, panting up at the ceiling.

Trying so hard to squeeze down the lump that was her stomach.

To flatten it away.

"Devon? Come on. Please focus!"

Devon snaps her head up. Blinks, clearing her dim living room and that ratty couch away. "Sorry . . . I . . . "

"My question again: Did you ever suspect that you were pregnant?"

Devon shakes her head no. Just because she did a few sit-ups? It means nothing. She did sit-ups every day.

She thinks about what Dom mentioned, the clothes she'd worn. Baggy warm-ups mostly. Loose-fit jeans, oversized sweatshirts. Just because she dressed like a slob? She'd been so tired lately, all that extra running. Warm-ups were just easier. Pony-tails so much simpler. Applying makeup just to sweat it off? Less grooming meant more time for sleep.

But there were other things, strange little rituals, and her mind creeps toward those things now. How she'd avoided ever entering her mom's bedroom. That antique full-length mirror was always there, the one her mom prominently displayed like artwork on the far wall between the two windows-ornate and condemning. She'd stopped taking baths, too, something she'd always loved to do with a book-she'd soak and stretch and soothe her overworked muscles. But at some point she'd started to opt for the quick five-minute shower, instead. She'd wash hurriedly-her hair and face, shoulders and arms, legs and feet. Her midsection-why bother? The water from the showerhead above, mixed with the soap and shampoo, rolled down her body and rinsed away her sweat adequately enough. She wouldn't ever touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-she had let him do that once. She wouldn't touch her belly, either, the skin around her navel. Because what if? Ridiculous question. But . . . what if there was something there, deep inside herself, and IT felt her fingertips? Thought that her touch meant she loved IT?

She'd been touched once. All that touch brought on was fear, disappointment, and self-disgust. And a profound loneliness.

"Devon." Dom's voice. Full of resigned weariness.

Devon feels the wet track that a tear has left as it slid down her cheek. She wipes it with the back of her hand. "Yeah?"

Dom and Devon watch each other from opposite walls for a long moment. Then Dom shakes her head. "Look, we're not accomplishing much of anything at the moment. We've just sort of run out of steam. I wanted to go over some more of what you discussed with Dr. Bacon yesterday, specifically the things you told her about your mom, but it's not all that crucial for us to talk about right now. So, I'll just see you on Tuesday morning, all right? Before the hearing. We'll go over some last-minute details then."

Devon looks back down at the floor. She doesn't want to disappoint Dom. All these things building in her head, they are so scary. Her throat just won't open to let them escape.

"You need to get some rest. I'll ask the staff to let you stay in your room for the remainder of the weekend. But if you think of anything-something you remember and want me to know, or think I'd want to know, or any little thing at all-write it down. And we'll talk about it on Tuesday morning."

Dom pushes herself off the wall then, walks across the room to where Devon is sitting, her cycling shoes click-clacking across the cement floor. She offers Devon a hand to help her up.

Devon places her hand in Dom's. Dom squeezes it.

"Please trust me, Devon," Dom says softly. "I know how independent you've always been. But you have to let go now. You just can't do this on your own anymore."

"I'm trying, Dom," Devon says. "I really am."

"Yes, I know." Dom pulls Devon to her feet. "But try harder."

chapter seventeen.

Devon bolts upright, awake.

The ghost of a dream fades from her mind like a cool mist in the morning. Only a vague unsettled feeling lingers now-one of being lost or stranded somewhere alone or of leaving some important task undone.

Devon lies back down, closes her eyes, tries to bring the dream back. But it's gone, stealing along with it any desire for sleep. Devon tosses a while under her wool blanket and sheet, her mind pushing toward places, toward uncomfortable things, where she doesn't want to go. Things like how totally alone she had been. The past months, all those messages on her cell phone from people at school or her team, messages that Devon had listened to, then immediately deleted, unreturned. The texts she'd read and ignored. The invites to various parties and s...o...b..arding trips and concerts that she'd declined. The cla.s.s-a.s.signed group projects that Devon had opted to do by herself. The semester exam study sessions that Devon had turned down, choosing instead to sit at her desk at home while her cla.s.smates were meeting at Starbucks, shoving tables together and drinking Venti lattes and Frappuccinos with extra whip. The times Kait and the varsity team captain, Lucy, had offered to accompany Devon on her afternoon runs-"So you won't get lonely," Lucy had said. "No way," Kait had scoffed. "To kick your b.u.t.t"-but Devon always finding some excuse to run alone. Going to sleep before her mom got home from work, or leaving the house early in the mornings when she'd worked nights, the few quick text messages the only communication between them: "Left wash in 3rd dryer. Pls bring up." "Some guy coming at 11 to fix toilet. Let him in." "Chinese takeout in the fridge. Drink milk. XOXOXO!" Hustling between cla.s.ses, her head down to discourage eye contact and conversation. Most days opting to eat lunch hunched in one of the library carrels or not at all, choosing instead to spend the time crouched inside one of the bathroom stalls while skater girls giggled and smoked by the sinks.

Why had she pulled away from everyone and everything?

Eventually, the calls and texts trickled to nothing. The offers to run after school stopped. n.o.body talked to her in the hallways during pa.s.sing periods. The teachers quit trying to coax answers from her in cla.s.s. Only her mom kept up an attempt to engage, but Devon was rarely around to satisfy it. And her coach, of course. The worried look in his eyes, the unasked questions hovering there. But Devon avoided him, too, darting into a cla.s.sroom or bathroom when she saw him coming.

And then there was Kait, the most difficult to dodge. She'd taken Devon's detachment so personally. "What's wrong?" she'd text. "Are you mad at me?" "Where were you at lunch?" "Did I do something?" And when Devon didn't reply, Kait finally wrote that long, angst-filled letter and slid it through the slats of Devon's locker. Kait just didn't get it; she couldn't understand that Devon's need to be alone had nothing to do with her. Devon crumpled the letter and lobbed it in the trash, and when she'd turned around to leave, Kait was right there, watching. Her shocked expression changed from hurt to disbelief, then hardened into scorn.

Oh, G.o.d. Devon had been lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

She finally kicks off her bedding to disrupt the stream of disturbing thoughts coursing through her mind. She stands, the floor chilly under her bare feet, then goes to look out the window of her cell. Checks the clock over the control desk across the pod: 7:03. Still too early for Wake Up.

She sees Ms. Coughran standing out there beside the control desk, talking to the staff-one of the day shift staffs, the blonde ponytailed one with the big smile. Seeing Ms. Coughran reminds Devon that today is Monday. She'll have to go to cla.s.s today, be around the girls again. The nearly two-day window of time that Dom dictated she stay alone in her cell-reading, sleeping, and trying to relax-is officially over.

Ms. Coughran must have detected movement from Devon's cell, because suddenly she turns her head and looks right at Devon. Raises a hand, waves.

Devon jumps back out of sight, but it's too late. The lock of her door pops, and she watches Ms. Coughran move determinedly toward her cell from across the common area.

Ms. Coughran pushes the door open a crack, sticks her head inside. "Hey, girl! Saw you peeking out your window. Awake already?"

"Yeah," Devon whispers. "I couldn't sleep for some reason." She turns back to her bed, retrieves her rubber slides from the cubby because the floor is too gross for bare feet.

"I hear you. I had the same problem this morning; that's why I'm already here at this unG.o.dly hour." Ms. Coughran hesitates, then takes a step into the cell and glances around briefly. "Well, this chance meeting is actually good, Devon. It gives me a couple secs to talk to you. I've been wanting to get you alone."

Devon feels a little wary. Why alone?

"So, you want to come out in the common area and sit at one of the tables with me?"

"Did I do something wrong?"

Ms. Coughran laughs. "Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. No, I finally got your school records on Friday afternoon and have been meaning to talk to you about them. That's all. No worries." She pushes the door wider and steps aside, an invite for Devon to step outside.

It's not like Devon will be able to sleep anyway. Her mind's too whirling and, besides, the time's too close to Wake Up. Still . . .

"But I didn't brush my teeth yet-"

Ms. Coughran waves her hand dismissively. "Trust me-your breath can't be worse than my husband's, and I deal with that daily."

Devon steps out of the cell, and together they walk to one of the round tables. Each takes a stool across from the other.

This is the first time that Devon's sat here at one of these tables. The table's the same kind as in the conference room, but this one displays no warped heart ink splot. The only marks are some initials and symbols scratched into the hard plastic. She runs her hands over the table surface, waiting.

"Well," Ms. Coughran starts. "Your report card tells me that you are quite the Little Miss Smarty-Pants."

Devon shrugs, feels her face heat up. "I guess."

"It doesn't surprise me. Even though you didn't open your mouth one time last week." She gives Devon's hand a playful slap. "You just have 'that look.' That 'smart look.'"