time Devon allows herself a furtive look around, her eyes snatching up the details.
A huge, bright room. Four white walls, but irregularly shaped. A warped trapezoid.
A high ceiling, like in a gym.
That ubiquitous gray carpet with a sort of white vinyl tile sidewalk bordering the entire room.
The two longest—and adjacent—walls display perfectly spaced olive green doors, each labeled separately in white: D-1 to D-16. The cells probably, Devon thinks.
She feels herself shudder at the thought, then quickly flicks her eyes away toward the wall consisting entirely of glass with a door to a small outdoor courtyard.
The opening to the entryway from which she and the guard have just come takes up about half of the last side of the room. The other half is a wall housing three olive green doors. The doors have individual labels, stenciled in white on top of each doorframe: SHOWER ROOM. LAUNDRY. CONFERENCE ROOM.
This could be a freshly painted rec room in a Boys and Girls Club. A place she’d known well, one that wasn’t frightening. A place where she’d played Foosball and Ping-Pong with the other little kids after school while her mom worked. A place where Devon had first learned soccer, inside on the floor of a basketball court.
And the noise she hears is reminiscent of a Boys and Girls Club, too.
The noise.
She takes a breath, forces herself to look toward the noise. Toward the two round plastic tables situated off center in the irregularly shaped room.
Her heart hesitates, then pounds. The scene, like cigarette smoke in a small room, squeezes Devon’s lungs.
Girls.
Girls playing cards. Girls scribbling on paper. Girls laughing and talking or sitting alone.
Girls roughly Devon’s age.
Girls in orange jumpsuits. Like hers.
Pod , her mind whispers. Like peas in a pod. And you, you are here with them.
One or two girls look Devon’s way, curious. Another glances up, then says something to the girl beside her, who giggles. Another raises her hand and waves.
Devon looks away, to the desk the woman guard is sitting behind. It is solid and impersonal and somehow reminds Devon of the reference desk at Main Library.
Those girls aren’t anything like me , Devon tells herself. They’ve done something bad, really bad, to end up here. The scariest kind of girl is in this place, the kind she’d give a wide berth to while jogging in Wright Park or step away from while waiting for the bus. The kind the police drag out of Stadium High in the middle of class.
She doesn’t belong here. Her thoughts turn desperate, grasping for supporting evidence. Her report cards are immaculate, certainly very unlike any of these girls’. Unfamiliar teachers recognize her in the halls and smile. Fellow students shout over the clamor to commend her latest performance in the goal: “Go, Tigers!” Strangers call her to babysit. She tutors fellow students in Spanish, gives young aspiring goalkeepers individual training sessions. Referees kids’ rec soccer games, keeps the parents on the sidelines in control and civilized. Don’t these people here realize this? Can’t they see it? She’s not anything like them.
She has to get out. Today. She must get out today.
“You need to leave your bedding here.”
Devon looks up blankly, the voice yanking her from her thoughts. She slowly comes to realize that the woman guard had just said something to her, and the man guard is no longer there. Where did he go?
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Devon stammers. “I . . . didn’t hear you.”
“No.” The woman gives Devon an exasperated smile. “No, you weren’t listening. What I said was: ‘You need to leave your bedding here.’”
“Oh.” Devon almost smiles with relief. She’s not staying after all! “Because I won’t need them.”
The woman eyes Devon quizzically. “No,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. “Because you haven’t been assessed by Mental Health yet. That’s usually one of the very first things we do here
A huge, bright room. Four white walls, but irregularly shaped. A warped trapezoid.
A high ceiling, like in a gym.
That ubiquitous gray carpet with a sort of white vinyl tile sidewalk bordering the entire room.
The two longest—and adjacent—walls display perfectly spaced olive green doors, each labeled separately in white: D-1 to D-16. The cells probably, Devon thinks.
She feels herself shudder at the thought, then quickly flicks her eyes away toward the wall consisting entirely of glass with a door to a small outdoor courtyard.
The opening to the entryway from which she and the guard have just come takes up about half of the last side of the room. The other half is a wall housing three olive green doors. The doors have individual labels, stenciled in white on top of each doorframe: SHOWER ROOM. LAUNDRY. CONFERENCE ROOM.
This could be a freshly painted rec room in a Boys and Girls Club. A place she’d known well, one that wasn’t frightening. A place where she’d played Foosball and Ping-Pong with the other little kids after school while her mom worked. A place where Devon had first learned soccer, inside on the floor of a basketball court.
And the noise she hears is reminiscent of a Boys and Girls Club, too.
The noise.
She takes a breath, forces herself to look toward the noise. Toward the two round plastic tables situated off center in the irregularly shaped room.
Her heart hesitates, then pounds. The scene, like cigarette smoke in a small room, squeezes Devon’s lungs.
Girls.
Girls playing cards. Girls scribbling on paper. Girls laughing and talking or sitting alone.
Girls roughly Devon’s age.
Girls in orange jumpsuits. Like hers.
Pod , her mind whispers. Like peas in a pod. And you, you are here with them.
One or two girls look Devon’s way, curious. Another glances up, then says something to the girl beside her, who giggles. Another raises her hand and waves.
Devon looks away, to the desk the woman guard is sitting behind. It is solid and impersonal and somehow reminds Devon of the reference desk at Main Library.
Those girls aren’t anything like me , Devon tells herself. They’ve done something bad, really bad, to end up here. The scariest kind of girl is in this place, the kind she’d give a wide berth to while jogging in Wright Park or step away from while waiting for the bus. The kind the police drag out of Stadium High in the middle of class.
She doesn’t belong here. Her thoughts turn desperate, grasping for supporting evidence. Her report cards are immaculate, certainly very unlike any of these girls’. Unfamiliar teachers recognize her in the halls and smile. Fellow students shout over the clamor to commend her latest performance in the goal: “Go, Tigers!” Strangers call her to babysit. She tutors fellow students in Spanish, gives young aspiring goalkeepers individual training sessions. Referees kids’ rec soccer games, keeps the parents on the sidelines in control and civilized. Don’t these people here realize this? Can’t they see it? She’s not anything like them.
She has to get out. Today. She must get out today.
“You need to leave your bedding here.”
Devon looks up blankly, the voice yanking her from her thoughts. She slowly comes to realize that the woman guard had just said something to her, and the man guard is no longer there. Where did he go?
“I . . . I’m sorry,” Devon stammers. “I . . . didn’t hear you.”
“No.” The woman gives Devon an exasperated smile. “No, you weren’t listening. What I said was: ‘You need to leave your bedding here.’”
“Oh.” Devon almost smiles with relief. She’s not staying after all! “Because I won’t need them.”
The woman eyes Devon quizzically. “No,” she says slowly, drawing out the word. “Because you haven’t been assessed by Mental Health yet. That’s usually one of the very first things we do here
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