Hero Complex

by Margaux Froley

  But Cleo alone had never given Devon an understanding smile. She knew there was nothing to be patient about, nothing to politely endure while the story unfolded. No, what had happened was somehow personal and deliberate. Cleo knew, too, that this wasn’t an accident. Devon also suspected—though Cleo never admitted as much—that Cleo might have even felt responsible. She’d let Devon out of her sight. She’d traipsed ahead, happy and drunk, oblivious to lurking danger.

  Besides, the attack had shaken the politeness out of Devon. Life was too short to follow rules anymore. She needed to get answers and wasn’t worried about stepping on anyone’s toes along the way.

  “You don’t have to pretend that I have a choice in this,” she said to Dr. Hsu.

  The woman’s smile didn’t falter, but she tilted her head to the side. “Oh, of course you have a choice whether you want to see me or not. Except you’re smart. You also know that your choice comes with conditions. Keaton can’t reinstate the peer counseling program until I’ve given my vote of approval.”

  “What else is new? I play ball with you guys, or I can kiss my Stanford rec letter goodbye.”

  Dr. Hsu shrugged but kept smiling. Professional yet understanding, Devon thought. The recipe for a good counselor. “Who says I even want to be a peer counselor again?” Devon asked.

  “I don’t know. No one. You, maybe. It’s your choice.”

  “Choices again. Nice.” Devon let out a short laugh.

  Dr. Hsu sipped her tea. Waiting. Devon knew the waiting game. Let the subject talk about what they want; it’s more revealing. Dr. Hsu’s haircut was too expensive for someone who didn’t take this job seriously. Hell, she’d earned a PhD in psychotherapy; she probably wouldn’t cave until Devon said something first.

  “You want me to talk about the attack, huh?”

  “If you want.” Another sip of tea.

  “I didn’t see him. I didn’t notice anything weird earlier in the night. I’ve been through all of that. Someone hit me. There’s nothing else to tell.”

  “There’s still you, your experience of the night. Plus, we know that you were drinking at the time, so maybe your experience is, let’s say, heightened.”

  Devon blinked rapidly. “Heightened? You ever been attacked? It happens so fast, but time slows down. It’s hard to explain. One minute I can’t find Cleo, another I’m on some secret deck, and someone hits me hard. I could have gone overboard. It would have been so easy. ‘Girl gets drunk, falls over side of boat at night.’ No noise, no light. I wouldn’t be here. I’m sure that was their plan. Someone didn’t want me to be here.”

  “And by someone, you mean your attacker?”

  Devon shook her head and laughed. “I see what you did there. You say attacker like it’s in quotes. Like that part is still up for debate. My alleged attacker.”

  Dr. Hsu leaned forward, gripping her mug with both hands. “Well, let’s discuss the facts. Cleo found you; there was a 911 call. The yacht immediately came back to shore. What happened then?”

  “Look, I know it sounds far-fetched.” Devon maintained eye contact with Dr. Hsu. It was important that she not present like she was lying or uncomfortable with the truth.

  “Devon, the police met the boat at the dock. Everyone was cleared. So either the attacker was a guest at the party, or what? He jumped overboard in the middle of the night in the bay? Yes, I’ll be the one to say it. What you’re proposing does sound far-fetched. That’s why people are worried about you. Do you want to talk about how much you had to drink that night? Have you been drinking beyond just that night?”

  “That’s not the issue here.” Devon fought to keep her voice even. “What happened wasn’t random. I know there’s more to this; I just don’t know what yet. The last time I felt like this …” She didn’t finish the thought. It would make her sound paranoid.

  “Yes, tell me about last time.” Dr. Hsu leaned back, adjusted the blanket over her lap, and took another sip of tea.

  Devon paused. Dr. Hsu had clearly been warned about Devon. But how? Was the school pitching Devon as some sort of paranoid rogue they needed to tame? She had been right about Hutch despite everything Robins had said about her theories. Yet somehow she was being painted as the delusional one here still.

  “You think I’m imagining things? Like, someone is out to get me?”

  “No, not at all,” Dr. Hsu quickly replied. “If someone was out to get you, this is a very real post-traumatic stress reaction. I’m just trying to understand why you feel that one person is part of something larger.”

  Devon lowered her eyes. “Last time, when Hutch died, no one believed me. This feels the same, like there’s more than just this one incident. I don’t know how I know, I just do. There’s more to it.”

  Dr. Hsu nodded. “But this isn’t last time.”

  “I didn’t say it was. It’s like last time.” Devon pushed her shoulders back and sat up straighter. Dr. Hsu was not going to twist her words around.

  “Okay. Tell me more about Hutch. About your relationship with him.”

  “I’m sure Headmaster Wyler told you everything you need to know about Hutch and what happened. It’s been in all the papers.”

  “Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”

  Devon bit her thumbnail. It was pointless to attempt to convince Dr. Hsu of anything. Apparently the brass at Keaton had a specific idea of what Devon’s issues were.

  Fine, if she couldn’t change their minds, she might as well use their preconceived notions to her advantage. While their version of Paranoid Devon spun in circles, Real Devon could focus on finding her attacker. Raven and Bodhi were already hacking into the records of the yacht catering company. But that wasn’t appropriate conversation for therapy, was it? No, she could be the Devon that Keaton wanted her to be right now.

  For the first time, she smiled at Dr. Hsu.

  Game on.

  CHAPTER 2

  Devon was one of the early arrivals in the dining hall on Saturday morning. She had been awake since 7 A.M. Sleeping until noon would have been a luxurious waste of the day, but her body would not comply. So she’d rolled out of bed, pulled on her Keaton hoodie, retied the drawstring on her plaid flannel pajama pants, and slipped into her battered Uggs. It was Saturday morning; bras were optional as far as she was concerned.

  The good news about Keaton was that weekend mornings were generally an all-out call for sloppiness. It’s not like they wore starched uniforms during the school week, but after five eighteen-hour days in a row, Saturdays warranted pajamas.

  While the kitchen staff placed steaming potatoes and silver-dollar pancakes into the waiting vats at the food counter, Devon opted for the cereal island. Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Puffs, Cheerios, granola, and Corn Flakes. All freshmen tended to fill up on the Froot Loops and Lucky Charms. Maybe it was that early taste of freedom from parents choosing healthier cereal—or just a sugar radar that was more finely tuned the younger you were—but everyone consistently started with the full-sugar cereals. When the rebellious fun dimmed, their breakfast choices became plainer. Devon had indulged in her Lucky Charms phase and was happy to put it, and the memory of all that purple milk, behind her. Now like most juniors, she was a Corn Flakes girl.

  Seated at an empty table in the back, she dug into her bowl of cereal. From this vantage point she had a clear view of Presley—also in pajamas and Uggs—strolling through the doors and filling up a plate with pancakes. Weird, Devon thought with a smile. She expected Presley to be in a soccer uniform or running gear. Winter was her prime time to show off her athletic skills, and she usually spent her free time training.

  Devon wasn’t getting a soccer scholarship anywhere; that much was certain. No, instead of pretending that she had any inclination to be a future all-star, Devon was happy with “self-directed gym” or “Approved Slacker Hour,” as she looked at it. It had to be the easiest sports assignment in school. Only juniors and seniors were allowed to sign up. Go to the school gym for an hour
and sign an attendance sheet. That was it. No teacher supervision, no uniforms. While most of the school ran laps, drills, and scored goals, Devon could pretend to do yoga or simply read a book in the corner near a weight machine. Presley, on the other hand, was actually ranked in California as a top soccer player. Colleges would be vying to give her a scholarship.

  “Last Saturday before the gauntlet of crazy,” Presley explained, answering Devon’s unspoken question as she plunked her tray down on the table. “I’m about to lose all my weekends for the next four months. Can we please have a girls’ date today?”

  Devon smirked. She let her remaining Corn Flakes go soggy before answering. “Depends. What does this girls’ date entail?”

  “Well, first off, we get back to where we were,” Presley said. “Things haven’t been the same since last semester, and I kinda still hate myself for … you know, doubting. Hutch. Can we please get our nails done and get a picnic from the deli and eat too many carbs while ogling surfers down at the Cove?”

  Perfect. It was their favorite Saturday ritual, dating back to their freshman year. Granted, those deli sandwiches were partly to blame for both Devon and Presley gaining a few of their Freshman Fifteen, but those early weekends on the beach marked the beginning of their friendship. Who else could Devon talk to with equal intensity about the value of a good sharp cheddar cheese and the hilarity of surfers who tried to peel themselves out of soaked wetsuits and look cool at the same time?

  “If those carbs are attached to a deli sandwich, then, yeah, I’m in.”

  Presley clapped her hands together. “Cool! I gotta go for a run, do some laundry, but meet you for the twelve-P.M. bus into town. We’re gonna have some fuuuh-uuuun!” She swung her head from side to side, singing the last word.

  Devon felt something hopeful stir inside. Pretty much everything with Presley was fuuh-uuuun!, even the way she used her hands to dip each pancake into a puddle of syrup before stuffing it into her mouth. But Devon hadn’t heard the word in a while. Hutch’s death had drawn a Before-and-After line in their friendship. Before, Devon figured that she and Presley would be inseparable. College, first jobs, boyfriends, future husbands, weddings, kids … there was Presley alongside her. After, Devon had to face the reality that maybe this friend wouldn’t have her back unconditionally. Was this an attempt to reclaim their “Before” friendship?

  But that wasn’t the question that mattered, and Devon knew it. There was only one question: Was that even possible?

  BAY HOUSE WAS JUST stirring to life as Devon left her room to meet Presley at the bus pickup. The sound of a lone shower running, the chatter of girls talking in the laundry room, and a movie playing on someone’s computer trickled into the hallway. But when male voices joined the chorus, Devon slowed her pace. Where was that coming from? Boys weren’t allowed inside a girls’ dorm at this time of day. She heard the bang of drawers opening and closing. Near the end of the hall, a door was wide open.

  Maya’s.

  Devon peeked inside. Two movers, burly guys in matching yellow T-shirts, were taping boxes closed. The mattress was bare, the walls blank. Even the desk looked cleaned off. Maya wouldn’t be coming back to Keaton, Devon realized. She knew Maya might be taking time off because of her pregnancy, but Devon thought there was always hope of her returning. In one quiet Saturday morning Maya’s existence would be wiped out of Keaton history.

  Outside Devon saw the U-Move-It van in the dorm driveway. A black Mercedes was parked next to it with a woman in the driver’s seat talking on her cell phone. Her black hair fell perfectly around her shoulders, and her deep brown eyes looked just like Maya’s. Devon recognized her instantly from the Internet and magazine articles: it was C.C. Tran, Maya’s mom and wife to pharmaceutical titan Edward Dover. They locked eyes.

  Devon gave her a tight smile, which C.C. returned just as tightly. Devon couldn’t imagine what that woman must be going through: her teenage daughter pregnant, dropping out of school, and having a baby with an accused murderer, the scion of a family rival, no less. I thought my family dinners sucked. It seemed impolite to stare, so Devon continued up the hill to meet Presley.

  AS THE KEATON BUS shifted gears on its drive down the hillside into Monte Vista, Presley turned in her seat to face Devon. “I had an idea over break. It’s kind of amazing, but you’re going to have to get your mom on board.”

  “On board for what?” Devon asked. She saw where this was going—permission slips of some sort.

  “What if we went on our college trip together? Maybe you and your mom and me and my mom? We could do a few schools around New York and Vermont. A little East Coast tour. Wouldn’t that be the best trip ever?” Presley’s blonde curls bounced with each word.

  Every junior at Keaton was planning a productive spring break. Either they were touring college campuses, or they were doing something to boost their applications, like working in a Honduran orphanage or organizing a glitzy fundraiser to promote early cancer screenings. Just last night, Devon overheard Sima Park down the hall asking her roommate which shoes were more appropriate for hanging out with orphans, Toms or Birkenstocks. (Sima voted Toms, ultimately. Double do-gooding, she reasoned.)

  Devon, meanwhile, had far overshot her goal of using the Keaton peer counselor program as an extracurricular bonus. Of course, the irony was too twisted for her to consider for very long without feeling sick. But there was no denying it; Hutch’s death would help her in terms of getting into a good college.

  Beyond just bragging rights for being Keaton’s first peer counselor, she’d picked up some local notoriety for her involvement with sniffing out his murderer. The Santa Cruz Sentinel had run a small column about Devon as Keaton’s first peer counselor turned live-action sleuth. Devon’s problem wasn’t so much what to write about herself but how to approach the delicate subject of boosting her self-image through others’ pain. She’d long stopped Googling herself—which probably wasn’t a good thing. But what else could she do, when Hutch’s name always appeared with hers?

  “Besides,” Presley continued in Devon’s protracted silence, “we totally have to scope out which school has the hottest guys. ’Cause you know I’m a sucker for a guy in a peacoat. And the one thing we can count on during spring on the East Coast? Peacoats. It’ll be like living in the fall/winter J.Crew catalog. Yummy.”

  “You already live there,” Devon cracked. It was true; Presley’s dorm room walls were adorned with J.Crew catalog pages of men wearing black and blue peacoats—handsome, yet slightly chilly. This was her new type.

  “So what do you say?”

  “Yeah, that could be fun. I’ll talk to my mom,” Devon said.

  Presley clapped again. Devon smiled but couldn’t muster up the same excitement. She had been so focused on Stanford, it hadn’t occurred to her to look elsewhere. But maybe Presley was right. Maybe Devon should keep her options open. Although she’d leave the peacoats to Presley.

  THE SANDWICHES WERE PERFECT. Devon hadn’t had her favorite once this entire year, the roast beef with cheddar on pumpernickel bread, which was tantamount to a crime. She and Presley had their sandwiches wrapped to go. (Presley stuck with her favorite, the turkey and cranberry “for old times’ sake.”) They walked the few blocks to the beach and found a comfortable set of boulders to lean against while they ate and watched the surfers.

  “If you watch them long enough, you feel like you’re bobbing along the top of the ocean like they are,” Devon said between bites.

  “What’s up with you going all surfer-centric on me?” Presley asked. “First you’re friends with the Elliots, next you’ll be joining the morning surf van.”

  Devon finished chewing. “And you’re saying that’s a bad thing?”

  “Hey, I didn’t say it was good or bad. You’re just different. I feel like I used to be able to read your mind, but now you seem kind of lost at sea, like you’re just drifting through everything. Or maybe it’s just me.” Presley slapped Devon’s leg. “Come on, admit it. Yo
u over me? You found someone else?”

  Now Devon had to laugh. Only Presley could cut to the heart of what was happening between them. “Pres, you know you’re my first love. There’s nobody else but you. Well, you and some tasty waves,” she added in a stoner surfer voice. “Hope that’s copacetic, dude.” She wadded up her sandwich wrapper and tossed it at Presley’s head.

  “You two being Surf Betties today?”

  Devon squinted up to see Raven Elliot standing in front of them in the sand. Raven’s signature dreadlocks were wrapped into a beehive shape at the top of her head. Her wetsuit hung at her waist, a black swim shirt with a Rip Curl logo across her chest, and her wax-riddled surfboard under one arm.

  Devon really hoped Raven hadn’t overheard her “tasty waves” joke. “Hey, Raven! Yeah, we’re just here to make sure everyone’s behaving out there on the water.”

  “Yeah, ’cause if they’re not, they’re gonna have to answer to me.” Presley held up a menacing fist.

  Raven giggled. “You see Bodhi out there?”

  “Wasn’t looking. But don’t think he’s out there,” Devon replied.

  Raven looked at Presley and bit her lip. “You know, he wanted to talk to you. About the yacht crew from New Year’s. We found something. Well, Bodhi found it mostly. I just pulled some video files.”

  Devon heard an overloud sigh next to her. Suddenly Presley was standing up. “Okay, Veronica Mars. I’ll leave you to your investigations—”

  “Wait,” Devon pleaded. Presley turned, and Devon saw the look in her eyes. She didn’t want to be a part of this. There was no point in asking Presley to stay; this was the line their friendship didn’t cross. “I’m sorry, but I have to deal with this …”