A short, slight woman, the staff from behind the control desk, steps through the doorway, holding a food tray in one hand.

The woman looks at Devon, and Devon yanks her jumpsuit up over her knees. Sweat breaks out everywhere.

"Caught you in the act, huh?" the woman says. "Don't think this is a first for me, okay? You girls need to get over yourselves."

Devon watches as the woman continues inside, shoving the crumpled sheet out of the way and placing the tray at the foot of Devon's bed. "This is your breakfast, but don't expect room service every day, okay? After today, you'll be coming out of your room like everybody else. We always keep the new residents in their rooms for twenty-four hours after Intake, okay? To get used to things. It's called Orientation Status. That's a rule, okay?"

From her mortifying spot on the toilet, Devon, in a funk of disbelief, observes the woman. She can't understand the woman's absolute disregard for her privacy, moving methodically as she does in her shapeless Seattle Mariners T-shirt and black Adidas sweatpants and speaking in that crusty lilting tone of hers with a hint of an accent that Devon can't place. She could be Mexican or Native American or even Indian, judging from her skin color and short black hair, straight and flat and shapeless on her head, and her chiseled facial features. She could be forty, or she could be sixty; Devon can't guess.

The woman glances around the room, nodding to herself, like she's doing a mental inspection. Then she turns her dark eyes on Devon. "My name is Henrietta, okay? You're going to be seeing a lot of me. Most of the time I work nights, okay? But today, I have the day shift, too. Back-to-back shifts. So you better not mess with me, okay? I am not in a mood to be messed with."

Devon nods.

"Good." Henrietta also nods, satisfied that she'd gotten across whatever she'd intended to communicate. She drops a thin booklet on top of the food tray. "You need to read this, okay? If you have any questions, just ask. I make cell checks every fifteen minutes, okay? That means me looking into your window to make sure everything's all right. By lunchtime, you need to be ready for my test, okay?"

Devon nods again. "Okay," she whispers. She doesn't want to tell Henrietta that she'd already received the booklet from the staff woman last night, that it's stashed in the cubby under her bed. She'd fallen asleep memorizing it. That was before the doctor had shown up, waking her.

"And you need to pa.s.s it, okay? So don't blow it off." Henrietta studies Devon for a moment. Devon averts her eyes to the floor, feeling miserably uncomfortable under the woman's gaze, wishing that she would just move along and give her some privacy. And quit saying "okay?" every five seconds. How annoying. Devon shifts on her seat, her b.u.t.t growing painfully numb.

"After you eat, you'll need to take a shower, okay?"

"Oh." That makes Devon feel better, something positive to look for. She glances up. "Okay. That would be . . . really great. Thank you."

"Thanking me makes no difference. It's a hygiene issue with you, okay?" Her voice turns scolding now. "Let me tell you, I would have made sure you got one last night, even if I had to drag you out of your cell myself." She clamps her mouth shut, says nothing further for a moment. "But we'll wait-okay?-until the other girls start school for the day. That way we won't be violating the twenty-four-hour rule of no contact with the other residents, okay? The shower is right across the common area. So it's just better if no one's around then, okay?"

School? They have school here? Well, whatever. She won't have to see the girls, at least not in the near future. And maybe not at all. She may be gone soon, hopefully before tomorrow ever comes. She'll be back at Stadium High School, sitting in her own cla.s.ses. Turning in her critical a.n.a.lysis on The Taming of the Shrew that's due for Mr. Andrew at the end of the week. She'd already finished it two days after he'd a.s.signed it.

The woman steps toward Devon. Her face is intent, almost like a hawk's on the hunt.

Devon shrinks back, her spine touching the cool stainless steel behind her.

The woman pulls a thick maxi pad out from somewhere and tosses it on Devon's lap.

Devon stares at it. She can feel heat crawling across her face.

"You have a meeting with your lawyer at ten."

Her lawyer? Devon feels her heart pick up, beating fast. Maybe she is leaving here. Soon. No, today! Is that the reason for the shower? So she can leave all fresh and clean?

Devon looks up, smiling slightly, her embarra.s.sment momentarily forgotten. "Thank you."

But the door's clanked shut. Henrietta is already gone.

chapter seven.

The first thing Henrietta says when Devon steps outside the shower room is, "Comb your hair." She shoves a black plastic comb into Devon's hand, then leads her to the door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM, two doors down from the shower and directly across the common area from Devon's cell. "Let me tell you, first impressions are lasting impressions. You only get one, so make yours good." She opens the door and moves aside. "Okay?"

Devon takes a step inside and stops. Who she sees isn't who she'd pictured. This person isn't old and balding or wearing a shabby, dandruff-sprinkled suit or hunching over a stack of files, barely acknowledging her presence.

Instead, this person is a woman. And young. In a dark, perfectly pressed suit, cream cuffs peeking out of her jacket sleeves. A tight, neat updo, almost like a beehive. Blonde hair, but not like her mom's fake blonde straight out of a box. This woman's hair is almost gold, with too many colors weaving through it and catching the light to be fake. Tiny, wire-framed gla.s.ses. And she's looking right at Devon.

Devon feels the teeth of the comb biting into the palm of her hand. She's acutely aware of her own sloppy appearance, her hair still wet from the shower, dripping onto the shoulders of her jumpsuit and leaving wet tracks.

This must be some mistake, Devon thinks. This isn't her lawyer. This person belongs in an episode of Law & Order, not here with her. Devon turns back, but Henrietta is gone. The door has clanked shut, probably locked.

"Devon?"

Devon turns back around. The woman half-stands, smiles, and offers her hand across the table. "Hi. I'm Dominique Barcellona, your attorney. You can call me 'Dom.' How are you doing today?"

Devon stares. She can detect a faint whiff of the heavy sweetness that clouds over the makeup counters at Nordstrom's. It's like what her mom sprays, thinking it will mask the cigarette smoke. Devon feels her heart twist, then harden, with the thought of her mom. Always hiding something and never present when Devon needs her. Devon frowns, looks at this coiffed woman with suspicious eyes: so, what is she hiding?

"Okay." The woman's voice has an edge to it now, but she keeps her lipsticked smile in place. "Mind sitting down?" She lowers her unshook hand slightly, indicating the stool across the table from her.

Devon realizes then that she had been rude; she hadn't taken this woman's hand and shaken it. So much for first impressions. She opens her mouth to apologize but then quickly shuts it. Why should she apologize? She'd been taken off guard, hadn't she? And this woman . . . Devon feels an uneasiness growing inside. What will this woman want from her anyway?

"We have a lot to discuss today and, unfortunately, not a whole lot of time in which to do it." The woman checks her thin watch on her wrist for emphasis. "So, we should get started right away."

Discuss? Devon doesn't move.

The woman frowns slightly, then her hand disappears behind her back, smoothing her skirt before sitting down herself. "Uh, is there a problem, Devon? You seem a little . . . confused."

Devon looks down at the comb in her hand, runs her thumb over its teeth. It tickles. "You're not a man," Devon whispers, then glances back up at her.

Something flicks in the woman's eyes, and her frown is replaced with a smile. "Your powers of observation are impressive." She laughs. "This is the twenty-first century. News flash: women have been attorneys for quite a while now, Devon." She clicks her tongue. "Wishing for a man to rescue you-not a great way to make friends."

Devon shifts her weight, uncertain what this woman had meant by that. Friends? Right. And wanting a man to rescue her? This has pushed a b.u.t.ton. Devon rubs her thumb across the teeth of her comb again, hears the faint prripp, prripp it makes. She needs n.o.body-man or woman-to rescue her. Ever.

The woman waves toward the stool opposite her again. "Sit. Please."

Devon hesitates, but then moves to seat herself. Both the table and stool are bolted to the floor. It is the same type of table, Devon realizes, that the girls sit around in the common area-to eat on, to play cards on, to watch Devon from and laugh.

She feels itchy. She doesn't want to be here. Not in this room or at this table. Not sitting here at this predetermined distance from the bolted-down table, either, which can't be altered by either tipping back the stool or pulling it out a few inches. And definitely not with this strange woman, who makes dumb comments, thinking she's so smart. Who is so unprofessional that she wants Devon to call her by her first name, like they're "friends." Well, she won't.

"Okay." The woman lifts a brown accordion folder from the floor and drops it on the table, sounding like a slap between them.

Devon's eyes jerk to the folder. On it, a white label spells her last name DAVENPORT in black.

"Let's start at the beginning." The woman opens a yellow legal pad, readies her pen. "Why don't you tell me why you're here."

Devon's eyes stay on the folder. It isn't empty; she can see that. The band around it is stretched taut. So, why the question? Doesn't this Dom, this attorney, this female attorney, already know? It's all right there in front of her.

This irritates Devon. The inefficiency of it. The insincerity of it. She looks down at the comb, stares at it a moment, then pulls it through her damp hair, as if the woman isn't even there. The shampoo Henrietta had given her was cheap and greasy. The comb meets no resistance. Bits of water sprinkle her hand.

The silence lasts a long time. Devon finally peeks at the woman across from her. She's exactly as Devon had last seen her, pen poised over the yellow paper, watching her. "Well, why are you here?" Devon blurts at last.

Her voice was too loud, she thinks. Too aggressive, distrustful. She hadn't meant to sound like that exactly; she'd merely meant to sound disinterested and bored. But there it is, and she can't take it back.

"Excuse me?" The woman looks surprised to have been asked a question. "Why am I here?"

Devon looks away. "You aren't my lawyer. You weren't in the courtroom with me."

"Oh," the woman says, drawing the word out. "I see . . ."

Devon looks back at her.

The woman carefully places the pen on top of her legal pad, folds her hands in front of her. "You're thinking of Mr. Stevens. Well, he just happened to have the docket when you first appeared in court. Since then, the big guys who make the decisions at the Department of a.s.signed Counsel-where I work-sat down and discussed your case and basically decided that out of the, oh, eighty-plus attorneys who work there, I am best suited to represent you. But I had some input into that decision, too; I wanted your case. Does that answer your question?"

Devon doesn't say anything, she just stares back at the woman. Her voice is so cool, calm, measured. Not like Devon's own-so stumbling and emotive. And what the woman had just said, that she'd wanted her case. Why? And even that word: case. Like Devon is something to be studied. Something to be discussed and decided upon.

"I'll take that as a yes." The woman picks up her pen and taps it on her yellow legal pad. "Now. Do you understand what happened yesterday? In court, I mean."

Yesterday? Was that only yesterday? Devon closes her eyes. Her memory of those few minutes in the courtroom is disjointed. The judge. The attorneys. The impressive-sounding words. Her jumpsuit darkening with her own leaked milk. Her humiliating tears, right there in front of everyone.

The woman waits a respectful amount of time, then launches in. "Well, you were there for an arraignment. English translation: to have the charges against you formally read. But the focus quickly changed because the prosecution-the lawyers representing the interests of the county, the ones trying to put you in jail-"

"I know what prosecution means," Devon whispers. She looks over at Dom quickly, guiltily. Why had she said that? So rude.

"Well, good. Then you must also know that the prosecution filed a motion requesting a hearing to determine whether you should be tried as a juvenile or as an adult. It's called a declination hearing, because the juvenile court would then be declining jurisdiction over your case. These hearings are actually mandatory with cases like yours. Cla.s.s A felonies, that is. Now, the purpose for this hearing-"

Cla.s.s A felonies. Devon turns away. She doesn't want to hear any of this. The criminals on TV deal with felonies, not her. She fixes her eyes on the wall to her left. White painted cinder block, like every other wall in this place.

"-is to determine your rehabilitative potential. But before we go into all that, I think we need to talk about your charges. Do you understand, and I mean really understand, what you're being charged with?"

Devon keeps her eyes on the wall. How many coats of paint did they have to slather on it for it to look so smooth and glossy? A lot, she decides. Cinder block is pretty rough.

"All righty then. I'll take that as a no." Out of the corner of her eye, Devon sees the woman reach for the brown DAVENPORT folder.

Were the walls always painted white? Had they ever tried a different color? Like fluorescent green, for instance, just to see how it looked? Because, if it were Devon's choice, she'd try fluorescent green. One of her keeper jerseys is that color. It always makes her stand out on the field, draws the ball toward her.

Her keeper jersey; she thinks of it now. The number 1 on its back. A lonely number. Only one goalkeeper on the field. Only one player who guards the net. Only one who stands strong and alone behind the other ten players on the field. No place to hide, no way to disappear.

The woman pulls off the rubber band holding the DAVENPORT folder together. It expands as the woman opens it, displaying pocket after pocket, papers tucked into each. The woman pulls out a sheet, looks it over briefly, then slides it across the table toward Devon.

Devon's eyes are disloyal; they shift from the wall to the paper all on their own. The woman's hand is holding it there, her slim fingers with short neat nails. The polish matches her lipstick. Something Devon's mom would have approved of. Something Devon couldn't care less about. Keepers' hands are meant to catch b.a.l.l.s, not look pretty.

The woman pulls her hand away, leaving the paper, stark and white, before Devon. "This is called a charge sheet. And on it, your charges."

Devon directs her eyes back to the wall.

"Devon," she says sharply. "Look at me."

Devon presses her lips together, slowly turns her eyes toward the woman. Devon realizes now that she's sitting on her own hands, death-gripping the sides of the plastic seat under her thighs. The comb is gone, dropped. She hadn't heard it fall. Sweat dampens her armpits, even though the room is cool.

The woman's eyes are locked with Devon's. "Your charges," she says again. "Attempted Murder in the First Degree."

Devon feels her thighs tighten, quiver. Somehow she had managed to avoid hearing any of this in the courtroom.

"Abandonment of a Dependent Person in the Second Degree." She pauses, gauging Devon's reaction. "Criminal Mistreatment in the Second Degree, and a.s.sault in the Third Degree. That makes four charges, total."

Murder? Murder? And there were others, too. Abandonment. Mistreatment. a.s.sault. A whole horrible list. This is what they think she's done?

But how? How did she do these things? She can't remember any of it.

"The a.s.sault charge, according to the police report, occurred once you had arrived at the hospital, when you resisted the medical personnel's efforts to examine you."

Devon watches as the woman pulls other papers from a pocket in the brown folder. "I have the police reports here, along with all corresponding statements of witnesses and, of course, the statement from the victim of the a.s.sault herself, a, uh, Dr. Laura Klein."

Doctor. Black rectangular gla.s.ses. Blonde ponytail, wisps around the face. White lab coat. A knee comes up. A yell. People run from all directions, close in. Pin down arms, hold legs. Confusion. Flailing. A needle, sharp and cold.

Devon is shaking. She pulls her hands from under her legs and hugs herself to stop it.

That knee. Was that knee Devon's knee? It's all there now, right there; she sees it in her mind. So near and clear and vivid. She squeezes her eyes shut. The scene plays over and over. An unwanted memory. It didn't exist before, but now it's there. This woman, the one sitting across from her, placed it there. Pulled it out of some dark corner and dropped it in the light.

"As I'm sure you can guess," the woman is saying, "the attempted murder charge is categorized among the most serious of crimes, Devon, a Cla.s.s A felony. The other three charges of abandonment, criminal mistreatment, and a.s.sault are all Cla.s.s C felonies. My opinion? They're charging you with abandonment and criminal mistreatment-basically the same charge just worded differently, which I think is totally bogus, by the way, but that's something we'll deal with later. And the a.s.sault charge? Well, that's just really pushing it. Anyway, my feeling is that they're charging you with those other lesser offenses so that if the attempted murder charge doesn't stick, they can get you on something. But abandonment alone can get you up to five years in jail."

Five years? In jail? Devon's breathing picks up. Faster, faster. She looks behind her, toward the door. They can't put her in jail, can they? Not if she can't remember . . .

The woman continues to explain the legal definitions of abandonment and mistreatment, but Devon's mind is stuck on those five years. She does a mental fast-forward of herself five years from now, imagining her life. Twenty years old, almost twenty-one. In college. Walking across a campus-not just any campus, but UNC's or Santa Clara's or even U Dub's playing Division I soccer-a backpack over one shoulder, heading down to the field, visions of keeping for the national team dancing in her head. The World Cup and the Olympics further in the distance and still only a dream, but definitely something to work for. All gone, zapped, because of this.

No, not because of this. Because of IT.

But. She had heard them-hadn't she?-all those nurses at the hospital, whispering in the hallway? The baby's okay, they'd said. She's here at the hospital. Getting stronger. Healthy. Pretty, even. Strange sort of irony, isn't it? Both baby and mother in the same hospital at the very same time, but unable to see each other? Sad state of affairs. Oh yes, very sad. Very, very sad.

A tinge of relief slips through Devon's thoughts. The nurses called IT a "she." That means IT is alive. Not only alive, but healthy and pretty and strong.

So, they've got it all wrong. IT wasn't abandoned, IT was found. IT wasn't murdered; IT lived.

Devon feels her body relax. Her hands drop to her lap. Okay. She hadn't done anything, after all. They'll all realize that they'd made a huge mistake. They'll apologize, exchange the orange jumpsuit for the clothes her mom will bring for her when she finally comes, and this will all be far behind her.

Devon turns back to look confidently at the woman across from her. She'd been discussing her ideas on the various legal issues she plans to pursue but stops when she sees the look that Devon's given her, a look of smug triumph. "Don't think you're off the hook just because the baby lived, Devon."

The words are a slap. Devon's hands become fists in her lap.

"When someone attempts to commit a crime, the attempt is cla.s.sified as if he or she had actually accomplished that crime. That's the way the law looks at it; the intent is what's important, not that some stroke of luck or act of G.o.d or whatever you want to call it made everything turn out all right in the end. Understand?"

How had this woman read her so thoroughly? Devon was always able to hide everything so well. It's her game face; she could pull it all in and never let it show. In the goal, or at home. She is impenetrable.

The woman places her hands flat on the table. "Am I getting through to you? 'Cause right now there's a baby found in a trash can behind your apartment who's linked to you, and the D.A. is charging you with attempted murder. That means you could conceivably go to jail . . . for life."

Life? A strangled sound involuntarily squeezes out of Devon's throat. Life? She turns away, faces the wall again. She can feel her lips quiver, the muscles in her face melt, her eyes sting. Keep it under control, she tells herself. Don't cry. Stay solid. Stay hard.

"Look, I don't think that's likely to happen, Devon, I really don't." The woman's voice softens somewhat. She reaches out and touches Devon lightly. "It was an attempt; no judge is likely to give the max for an attempt. Especially if you stay in the juvenile system. There's no such thing as life imprisonment in the juvenile system. The maximum time you'd get would be to the age of twenty-one." A slight pause. "That's why it's so important that we win this hearing coming up next week, so we can keep you in the juvenile system."