Devon jerks upright in her bed. Will she ever get used to that sound? That sound, which announces each new day?

She stands, shuffles to the toilet in the corner of her cell, relieves herself. The pad lining her underwear displays only a thin brownish streak this morning. Like the blood at the end of a period.

When she's finished, she goes to check outside her door. Like yesterday, the girls are moving around the room, preparing for the day.

This is the day Devon must join them. She must go out there, get a tray from off the food cart. Retrieve her bag of toiletries with the other girls and wash her face, brush her teeth. Go to school. Start working toward that Honor status so the judge will be impressed.

And that thought, her status and impressing the judge, reminds her that she has a job. Or at least, she thinks she might. Henrietta had a.s.signed it to her yesterday afternoon.

"Since I had to clean up your mess today," she'd said, "you get to clean up after everyone else. Starting tomorrow. Okay?" Henrietta had said this after hosing the puke down the drain in Devon's cell. "What comes around, goes around." Then she'd handed Devon the unit rules test as promised and made Devon sit on the stainless steel toilet in the corner to take it while she herself proceeded to wipe down Devon's mattress and mop the cement floor with a strong disinfectant.

Devon feels some relief. She has a mission; she always does best with a task to perform. She now has a place to go and something specific to do when she steps outside her cell. She'll walk right up to the desk and the staff woman behind it and inquire about her job.

Devon turns to her bed, folds her one sheet and one blanket, first in half, then in half again, and once more in half before stacking them neatly at the foot of her bed as prescribed in the unit pamphlet. Devon places her pillow on top of the pile, then peers out her little cell window one last time. The path to the desk is clear, no girl in her way to step around. She takes a breath to center herself and pushes open the door.

"Good morning," the woman says when Devon gets there. She's unfamiliar, this woman. She's very tall and lanky with short dishwater blonde hair.

Devon nods back.

The woman waits for Devon to say something, to ask a question or register a complaint.

Devon clears her throat. "I'm new here. And I was told yesterday-I mean, Henrietta told me-that I have a job cleaning up? I'm just wondering what exactly it is that I have to do. Because I'd like to get started on it right away. If that's okay."

The woman says nothing for a moment, just looks at Devon with an amused expression on her face. "Well!" she finally says. "This is new and refreshing. Someone asking me for a job? I seriously think this is a first."

Devon smiles to herself. One step closer to Honor.

The woman turns toward a white board on the wall behind her. A simple chart is there, ch.o.r.es listed in one vertical column-Laundry, Mop, Windows, Sink/Counter, Wipe Down, Trays/Trash-and first names in a second column beside it. The woman rubs off a name beside "Trays/Trash," picks up a dry-erase marker and writes "Devon" in its place.

This surprises Devon, that the woman knows her name already. Why does everyone here always have to know everything? Devon can feel her momentary burst of "take charge" confidence seeping away. What else does this woman know? Devon thinks of the crumpled papers stashed in the cubby under her bed. Has she seen the articles, too? Read them?

"Here you go," the woman says. "The girl who had Trays and Trash was released last night, so it's all yours. That means from now on, I expect it to get done by you. If it doesn't, you'll lose points, which will affect your status." She tells Devon the requirements for the job. After every meal, once all the girls have returned their trays to the food cart, Devon will stack the trays neatly. She'll then get a trash bag from the staff on duty and pick up any napkins, milk cartons, sporks, et cetera that were left around the room by accident. After that, she'll empty the trash in the bathroom and shower rooms. Finally, she will attach the trash bag to the hook on the food cart and wheel the cart to the door to the unit so that it can be taken away later.

"Pretty simple. Any questions?"

"No," Devon says, absently running one hand along the top of the desk. "I don't think so." She sees a piece of paper taped there: TOUCH THE CONSOLE.

GET A 0!!!!.

Devon s.n.a.t.c.hes her hand back, looks at the woman guiltily. That rule wasn't in the pamphlet. She feels a jolt of panic-she doesn't know all the rules here. But she must. She must learn all the rules and perform them to perfection. It's her best shot of returning back to the real world, her real life.

"Don't be sorry for the things you didn't know anything about." The woman turns away to mark something on a clipboard. "But now you do know it, so don't let it happen again. Pretty simple." She points toward the floor beside the desk. "Now grab your toiletry bag out of that box. Your name's on one of them. Find it, use it, and bring it back when you're done."

Someone else is waiting to talk with the staff. In her peripheral vision, Devon can see a small, dark-haired girl bouncing up and down on her toes impatiently.

The woman shifts her eyes to the other girl then. Dismissing Devon.

After breakfast is over, the girls start to make their way to the cla.s.sroom, one of the rooms off the entryway. Devon had managed to sit alone, in a corner, to eat a few bites of the toasted frozen waffle and mushy fruit c.o.c.ktail. Beside her was a cart jammed with paperbacks, worn with use. Scanning the t.i.tles had given her something to do while the other girls moved around the room or did their ch.o.r.es or ate at the round tables. Only after most of them had cleared out did she move to collect the stray napkin, the stray spork.

Devon veers the cart with the trays and trash around the few girls loitering in the entryway outside the cla.s.sroom. She stops the cart at the door to the unit, as she'd been instructed. The moment she'd entered through that door replays in her mind, and all the accompanying feelings-how she had felt clutching her bedding to hide her chest, stress churning in her stomach. That moment was not even two days ago. Her stomach still feels the same; that anxious feeling has never left her, not even in her sleep.

Devon peers through the door's small window to the hallway outside. Directly across is another unit, labeled UNIT C. Through the small window of the opposite door, she catches movement inside. Blue jumpsuits carrying breakfast trays to a cart, pushing and shoving and jostling each other. Boys.

"Mmmm. Nice, huh?" A voice whispers behind her.

Devon looks over her shoulder. A girl is there, standing a little too close, invading Devon's personal s.p.a.ce. She's heavy-lidded, with only tiny dark slits for eyes, her brown hair twisted into two low braids held with rubber bands. Her face is too pale, even for the sunshine-challenged Northwest, with big, pouty lips.

"Yeah, well," the girl says, "as the saying goes, 'If you want to marry a prince, you'll have to kiss many frogs.' Compliments of my friend Anonymous. That, over there, is a pod full of frogs." She leans even closer, whispers, "Pucker up and get busy." She turns from Devon then, a crooked smile playing those lips as she saunters away and through the door to the cla.s.sroom.

Devon takes a moment to steady herself; the girl had startled her, though Devon doesn't think she'd let it show on the outside, thankfully. And that thing about a prince. Hadn't Kait once said something to Devon about finding a prince, too? Devon pushes the thought away and follows after the girl toward the cla.s.sroom.

"Time to zip the lips!" Devon hears a voice shouting over the loud girl chatter as she crosses the threshold. A woman rises from behind a cluttered desk at the front of the room. Must be the teacher, Devon thinks. She watches as the presumed teacher props herself on a tall stool beside the desk, a large whiteboard to her back. Waving Devon forward from where she had hesitated in the doorway, the teacher says, "Come on in. Take an empty seat." She scans the room and points. "That's a good one, over there."

Devon's eyes skim over the room's three rectangular tables and find the vacant seat indicated. It's beside the pale girl with the braids. The girl scoots her chair back to make room for Devon, presenting the seat to her with an open hand, her crooked smile creeping back onto her face. Devon feels sweat p.r.i.c.kling all over her body.

"Hey!" The teacher turns back to the room of girls and raises her hand. "Ladies? h.e.l.lo, ladies!"

Devon moves for her seat, careful to keep her face a mask. She does a quick scan as she moves: the three tables, including hers once she's there, will each hold five girls. She does the math-fifteen girls in all.

"Ladies, why am I raising my hand?"

The noise level in the room drops one notch, then two.

Devon reaches her place and sits down.

"Better." The teacher says. "Now-"

Devon feels eyes. .h.i.tting her from all directions. What should she do with her hands? Place them on the table? Put them in her lap? She glances at the black girl sitting across from her. She's outright staring at Devon, sucking on her thumb. Devon looks quickly away. Another option, Devon thinks wryly, place hands in mouth.

"Uh, Ms. Coughran?" the thumb sucker across Devon's table blurts.

The teacher looks over at her. "Yes?"

Staring down at the tabletop, the girl says, "I just wanted to say that why you raise your hand is 'cuz you want us to be quiet."

A snort comes from somewhere in the room, and a "No duh" from another.

"You've got it," the teacher says. "Thank you, Destiny. Now-"

Devon chances another quick peek across the table at the girl who the teacher had called Destiny. She's sucking on that thumb again, her face unreadable. Her hair's twisted into tiny Rasta knots; it looks like she's wearing a wig of brown Cheetos sticking up everywhere, but cool. Destiny, Devon thinks. A curse, that name. Like her own middle name, "Sky." Devon's mother's dreams, compressed into three heavy letters.

"Okay," the teacher says, pulling up a clipboard from the desktop. "Roll call time. When I call your name, all I want from you is 'here.' Got it?"

Devon turns her eyes back on the teacher. She puts on a pair of funky reading gla.s.ses that had been hanging around her neck on a multicolored beaded chain.

"I'll start with me-Ms. Coughran-with whom most of you are well acquainted." She smiles. "That's 'cough,' as in what you have when you're sick and 'run,' as in what you do when you're chased."

"Tee hee, Freak Woman." Devon hears the braid girl beside her scoff under her breath. "So funny, I forgot to laugh."

"Now, let's hear from the rest of you-Bella?"

"Here."

"Casie?"

"Here, Ms. Coughran."

"Destiny?"

Devon keeps her eyes on this Ms. Coughran as she goes down her list. Yet another person here with an indistinguishable ethnicity and age. But she looks too young to need reading gla.s.ses, Devon decides. She has this dark hair twisted up into some hair clips, and warm brown eyes. She wears hip clothes, but not pretentious or ridiculous for her age-a short jean jacket, boot-cut jeans, square-toed shoes, big sterling hoops in her ears. She makes a point to smile at every girl as she calls her name.

"Devon?"

Devon blinks, yanked back to reality.

Ms. Coughran is smiling at her now.

Devon's heart pounds. Okay, so what's the big deal? Calling roll happens the first day at any school. And sometimes every day, if you have study hall with Mr. Brugman (aka "Drugman"), who's never learned a single student's name in his twenty-two years at Stadium and is proud of it. Calling role is expected.

"Here." It comes out a sort of gasp, which Devon isn't satisfied with, so she clears her throat and repeats, "Here."

"I need your birth date, the last school you attended, and current grade. I don't have a copy of your school records yet, but I'll put in a request for them today." Ms. Coughran has pulled a pencil from somewhere and is waiting for Devon to talk.

Everything in Devon's body is resisting this; the room is quiet, listening. What ever happened to the Right to Privacy? When the information comes out of Devon's mouth, it's fast and tinged with annoyance. "May fifth. Stadium High School. Soph.o.m.ore."

"Thank you, Devon." Ms. Coughran turns back to her clipboard and resumes calling roll. "Evie?"

"Here."

"Grace?"

"Here."

"Haylee?"

"Stadium." Another whisper from beside her. The girl with the braids kicks Devon's chair and laughs softly. "What a c.r.a.p heap. Hate that place." She leans close and whispers. "Bet you love it."

"Karma?"

"Oh! Right here, Ms. Coughran!" The girl with the braids straightens, her voice practically singing the words, pure sarcasm. Ms. Coughran pauses, watching Karma for a moment before moving on.

"Keesha?"

"Here."

"Lexie?"

Devon looks over at the girl with the braids. Karma, huh? Talk about a name setting someone up for failure. Their eyes meet. Karma smirks. When Devon doesn't look away, Karma makes a crude gesture with her tongue.

Karma's unfortunate name makes Devon think about her own ridiculous one again. Take away the oppressive "Sky" part, and there's still the embarra.s.sing "Devon Davenport." Her mom's subtle attempt to set Devon up to become a soap opera star. Or Broadway diva. Or fashion designer. Things that Devon's mom had always dreamed of one day becoming herself. Things that Devon would refuse to do even if held at gunpoint.

"And, finally, Tana."

"Here."

Ms. Coughran drops the clipboard onto her desk. "Okay." She pulls up a silver travel mug from the mess that's her desk and cups her hands around it. "Rule time."

"Snore," Karma murmurs beside Devon.

"We do this every morning so people new to the cla.s.s know what's expected. And it also serves as a nice reminder for the rest of us. Because everyone needs reminders, don't we, ladies? Repet.i.tion aids learning."

Ms. Coughran goes through the rules and expectations. No curse words of any sort are allowed, including what she calls the three "s-words": stupid, shut up, and sucks. "Respect yourself and one another," she says. "Words hurt, and 'shut up' can be like a slap. Profanity is offensive and contributes to illiteracy. If you don't have anything nice to say, talk about the weather. Don't interrupt when others are talking, especially me. Don't discuss your charges, where you live, or anything else about your personal life on the outs with anyone in here. Unless the person who's asking is me." Ms. Coughran takes a sip from her travel mug. "Now let's talk about behavior."

Ms. Coughran goes over more rules, about not bringing court papers into the cla.s.sroom or writing letters to boyfriends while in cla.s.s or leaving the cla.s.sroom without permission, the bathroom included. Devon half-listens, but mostly she allows herself to look around, to get the information she needs about the room through her eyes.

The small s.p.a.ce resembles a kindergarten cla.s.s, not anything close to what Devon had imagined "school" would look like here-if she'd allowed herself to think about it. Bright pictures cover the walls: watercolors of rain forests, tissue-paper American flags, pastel drawings of zebras, and crayoned coloring book pages of Disney's various princesses-Snow White, Cinderella, the Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty. The Disney display strikes Devon as very out of place, considering the kind of girl who goes to school here. Crammed bookshelves of different heights take up most of one entire wall. A long table across the back holds five turquoise desktop iMacs all in a row. Then there's the filing cabinets, plastic milk crates stuffed with art supplies, the TV and DVD player on a rolling cart, the overhead projector and globe and boom box, all stashed in the remaining available s.p.a.ce. And, of course, Ms. Coughran's cluttered desk at the front beside the big whiteboard. Cozy chaos.

"Do not bring anything in here," Ms. Coughran is saying now. "No hygiene items, no combs, no cups. Nothing in your socks and nothing in your pockets. The only thing allowed in your pockets is lint."

Devon hears Karma groan beside her. "G.o.d!"

"Keep your hands to yourselves. And," Ms. Coughran says, "M.Y.O.B.-that's 'mind your own business.' That will take you far. Any questions?" She looks around the room. "Any answers?" She waits. "You ladies are all so good with the answers. I know there's at least one comment out there."

Devon looks around the room, too, but cautiously. The girls are all very busy watching their hands or the tabletops or the empty s.p.a.ce in front of their faces.

"n.o.body? Well, okay. Then let's. .h.i.t it, people!" Ms. Coughran downs the rest of her drink and slams the mug on her desk. "Jenevra? Evie? You two pencil count and pa.s.s them out. Casie, get some paper and hand one piece to everyone. Please." Ms. Coughran turns her back to the cla.s.s, faces the whiteboard. "Quickly, ladies."

Devon watches as two girls walk up to Ms. Coughran's desk and count pencils from a canister. The girl on the left, the one with the shaved head, moves like an athlete. Devon suddenly recognizes her; she's that girl Devon had seen her first day here, waiting on the plastic seats to go into court.

Ms. Coughran is writing a column of words down the whiteboard: shadow, imagine, stars, twist.

"You can kill someone with a pencil," Karma whispers in Devon's ear.

Devon doesn't respond in any way. Pretends like she didn't hear her. Or, even better, like she couldn't care less.

"There's lots of ways to do it." Karma laughs to herself. "Aren't you wondering why they're counting out those pencils oh so carefully?"

Devon says nothing.

"It's so when we break for lunch and they collect them back, they'll know how many they had in the first place. If the numbers don't match, we all get Lockdown and searched." Karma's breath is hot, and Devon wants to shove her away. "Makes it very tough to kill someone around here. But"-she kicks Devon's chair-"it's still possible. Totally possible."