“You think they’d want us to drink milk. It’s in their best interest to keep us strong.” Jason clipped a pen into one of his many pockets.
“Their best interest?” Devon leaned against the counter. She remembered now that Jason was a legacy student. In theory it only meant that he had a sibling or parent who attended Keaton before him. But when the headmaster asked all the new legacy students to stand up during orientation, Devon understood that being a legacy put you in a special club. It meant you were a bigger piece of the school’s DNA than other students. Only five kids in their class of seventy had stood.
Later, June (the month) explained that Jason was the prize legacy of the freshman class. His older brother, Eric, had graduated from Keaton last year. Apparently Eric was a perfect Keaton specimen: chemistry genius, all-star lacrosse player, but more prankster than Stepford Student. (“Keaton values individualism”—The Month’s words. Uttered seriously.) Jason and Eric’s very rich and very generous father, William, had also attended Keaton. June had whispered the last part conspiratorially: Rumor had it that the new science wing built three years ago existed solely because Jason’s dad wanted better chemistry facilities for Eric.
Jason grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. Threw it up in the air and caught it. “You know, for the organ donations. That’s what we’re here for. A big bunch of young, unsuspecting organ donors. Gotta feed the machine somehow.” He took a big bite from his apple. “So, like I said, they want to keep us healthy.”
Devon put herself in Ariel’s shoes. The smart thing to do would be to play along.
“Silly me. Here I was thinking they were shaping us into well-rounded young adults.”
“Bor-ring,” Jason drew out the word as long as possible. “That’s what they want us to think. Looks much better for the catalogues.” He examined his apple and took another oversized bite. Some of the apple juice dribbled down his chin and onto his white V-neck shirt. Devon had to look down to hide her smile. Jason had just blown whatever cool image he was trying to create. But honestly, it was the first time she’d caught anyone doing anything remotely human all week. “You’ve got it all worked out then. Good thing I ran into you … Jason, right?”
Jason held Devon’s gaze longer than was comfortable. “Yeah, good thing,” he said.
Devon instinctively took a small step back. She had seen that look-into-your-soul look before. Last summer Ariel made Devon double date with these guys that worked at Amoeba Records, Luke and Spencer. Devon was supposed to date Spencer, but he wouldn’t stop talking about “the importance of The Clash in music evolution.” Talk about bor-ring. She remembered that he kept staring into her eyes, willing her to like him back. It was the same look Jason was giving her now. He was definitely flirting with her. Devon broke away from the stare by brushing her hair out of her eyes. She was bad at flirting. Her over-analytical brain crept in. He didn’t ask her name. Clearly he knew. Now she was the lame one for asking the question. “Well, guess I’m not going to get that milk, so, see ya, Jason.” Devon put her empty pitcher down next to the machine and made a beeline for the exit.
“Hutch. Jason’s … whatever.… Hutch is really more my thing,” Jason-turned-Hutch called after her.
Devon turned only when she reached the doors.
“Gotcha, Hutch. Well, good luck with the organs.”
“Are those Nutter Butters?” Hutch asked with a smirk.
The package was sticking out of her pocket. Great. Now it looks like I can’t go anywhere without bringing cookies with me.
“You gonna eat those all by yourself?” Hutch left his apple on the countertop and began rubbing his palms together like a cartoon villain.
“Why, you want one?” Devon asked. Save one for Derek. How right her mom was. She made a mental note to thank her later.
“Hells yeah.” Hutch was next to her in a heartbeat, reaching for the bag. “Wait, sorry, that was rude of me. You should do the honors.”
He pushed the bag back, eager for her to open it. There was nothing in Hutch’s face that made Devon feel like they had just met or needed to be on their guard.
Amazing: her first Insta-Friend. Not from a sponge pellet, either. She tugged at the plastic, but stopped short of opening it.
“That brings me back to the original problem,” Devon started. “You can’t do Nutter Butters without milk. It’s a thing.”
Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Oh, it’s a thing?”
“It’s a thing. Like peanut butter and jelly.”
“Like Simon and Garfunkel?”
“Yeah. Like Rocky and Road.”
“Or like orientation week and sucking.” Hutch smiled wide at his own joke.
Devon laughed.
“Let’s get some milk then,” Hutch said mischievously.
“The machine is locked. Think we already established that,” Devon reminded him.
“This machine is. But where do you think they store the milk for the machine?”
Devon found herself smiling, again, too. What did he know that she didn’t?
“Come on. If it’s a thing, then we gotta go on a mission to make the thing happen.” Hutch grabbed Devon’s hand and pulled her through the doors. “That’s just what was missing tonight. A secret mission.…”
Devon’s thoughts were louder than Hutch’s words. His long fingers clasped her hand, scrunching her knuckles together. He pulled her along the gravel path outside the dining hall, leading her around back. The ocean wind whipped at her hair again, but, Hutch’s oversized grip felt warm and protective around hers. Safe. Which was weird and definitely not safe, her over-analytical brain reminded her, because she’d just met him.
One solitary light jutted out from the roof in the back, illuminating stacked wooden crates and metal dumpsters. Hutch pushed on the metal handle of a lone rusted blue door. “Presto,” he whispered.
Sure enough, it opened right up into the school’s industrial kitchen. No locks here. Hutch led her inside, only letting go of her hand when she was past the threshold.
The door shut silently behind them.
“They don’t lock the kitchen?” Devon’s voice sounded ditzy in her own ears.
She tried to make sense of her surroundings while her brain tried to catch up. How did a package of cookies get her here? Five minutes ago she was alone in her dorm room, and now here she was on a “secret mission” with Hutch, the knobby-kneed prized Keaton legacy. In the dark, her heart began to thump again. Ariel would be proud. This was undeniably stupid and exciting. “A place that bases everything on an honor system leaves a lot of room for stupidity,” Hutch said.
Devon reached for the light switch, but he placed his hand over hers.
“No lights. It’ll give away our position.”
Hutch was just inches from her now. The outside light cast a dim glow through the small window above the door. Devon tilted her face up to him and felt his warm breath on her forehead. His light brown eyes were on Devon, flitting between her nose and lips. His eyelashes were dark but barely registered compared to his wide eyebrows. And his lips had that perfect dent in the middle. Devon found herself wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips. Hutch’s hand tightened over hers for an instant, but then he pushed away. The moment over. If it was a moment at all.
“We’re not supposed to be in here,” Devon whispered.
Hutch hopped on a sterile metal counter, his long legs dangling, as if he had all the time in the world. “Supposed to? Devon, Devon, Devon,” he said in a faux-mocking voice. (So he did know her name.) “ ‘Supposed to’ is such a loaded little phrase. Do you really want to live your life doing everything you’re supposed to do?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question. He stopped smiling. His eyes dug into Devon, forcing an answer out of her.
“No, I guess not,” Devon stammered.
“Good. Because I figure there’s two kinds of people in the world. The ones who do everything that’s laid out for them, the supposed-tos, and then the
re’s the people that look above it and do what they want to do. I prefer the latter, but maybe that’s just me. A not-supposed-to.” Hutch shrugged and slid off the counter, tip-toeing to the industrial fridge that hummed in the corner. “Now, how about that milk?”
The school bell echoed across the dark campus.
Curfew!
Devon gasped. She clutched the cookie package to her chest. Bad idea. She was right; this was stupid. She was supposed to be in her dorm room right now. Why did she have to try out her Ariel-like personality so close to curfew? She wasn’t Ariel. That was the whole freaking point.
Hutch didn’t budge.
“Um, we have to go, don’t we?” she hissed at him. This wasn’t a rhetorical question, either. The Companion clearly stated that all students have to be inside their designated dorms by 10:30 P.M. Hutch pursed his lips, as if disappointed. “If you say so.” He crossed to the door and pushed it—but it didn’t open. “Hmm.” He pressed the handle and pushed again. And again. He cracked another smile.
“What?” Devon blurted out. She could feel the panic rising up along her spine, up the back of her neck and flooding her squirming skull. No, she didn’t want to be at Keaton. But that didn’t mean she wanted to get kicked out before classes even started, either.
“You try then,” Hutch said. He stepped aside.
Devon gripped the metal handle and pushed hard against the door. Nothing.
“What are we supposed to do?” Her voice quavered. “They’re gonna wonder where we are. We have to check in. Rule #3b.” Why wasn’t Hutch freaking out? Did being a legacy mean you couldn’t get into trouble? All she could do was imagine packing up her dorm room, taking down the pictures she’d just tacked to the corkboard, her mom’s disappointed silence on the drive back home. Her mom would never forgive her—
“Supposed to. Supposed to. You keep saying that.” Hutch strode back across the kitchen and opened the fridge. He leaned inside, hands on bony hips, scanning the shelves. The frost billowed around him like it was whispering dirty secrets.
“Well, yeah, sorry if I’m some annoying rule-abider, but it is boarding school,” Devon muttered. She tried to fight back the bitchy tone the fear had brought on. “There are rules. And we are breaking at least one, probably more. Like, does this count as four feet on the ground? I don’t know. And doors aren’t supposed to be closed like this when members of the opposite sex are … that’s 4b, I think … no, maybe it’s 1b, no, that’s plagiarism.…” Her voice trailed off as Hutch emerged from the fridge clutching an armload of supplies. “What are you doing?”
“Look, someone will be coming around sooner than later. We’ll just flag them down, explain the cookie thing, it’ll be fine. These things happen.” Hutch dropped his supplies on the metal counter with a clang.
Devon started to breathe again. Maybe he was right. One of the pillars of Keaton was honesty, and they were just looking for milk. She had the cookies to prove it. “You really think someone will come by?”
“Sure, they always do. Ten minutes, tops. Your dorm head probably won’t even notice if you’re late. And you know what we should do in the meantime?” He was already pulling a bowl from a nearby shelf, a wooden spoon from a canister. “Finish our mission.”
Devon’s ears perked up at “our.” She had never been an “our,” “us,” or “we” before with a guy. Ever. Our mission. Hutch poured pancake mix into the big bowl.
“Weren’t we just getting milk?” Devon asked.
“Oh yeah, change of plans. We’re making Nutter Butter pancakes now. Infinitely better, right?” Hutch nodded at Devon, practically agreeing for her.
She tried not to nod back. And yet she couldn’t help but go along with it. With him.
“Nutter Butter pancakes? Is that even a thing?” Devon hoisted herself onto the counter next to the ingredients.
“Oh, it’s a thing. You’ve just been too busy doing everything you’re supposed to do to know about it. I think I’m going to have to illustrate. Commence opening Nutter Butters.”
Devon broke open the plastic package. “You’re lucky you found me. I was going to share these with Spring House.”
“Screw Spring House. They won’t appreciate your Nutter Butters like I do, Devon.” Hutch reached into the package and grabbed a cookie. Devon picked one out too.
“Cheers.” Hutch clinked his cookie against hers. He gave her a wink and took a bite. The two of them chewed, eyes locked. The only sound was their crunching cookies against the hum of the fridge.
“You know,” Hutch began, his mouth still full of cookie. “There are two kinds of people in this world.”
“The supposed-tos and the not-supposed-tos,” Devon replied, trying not to spit crumbs at Hutch.
“Yeah, those too, but there are another two kinds of people in the world. Those who like peanut butter and those who don’t. And we, Miss Mackintosh, are the same kind of people.” Hutch pulled a measuring cup down that was hanging on the wall next to the stove. “Now be a good organ donor and crack open the Bisquick, will ya?”
“You know what I heard?” Devon poured the pancake mix into the bowl. “Nutter Butters are particularly good for the organs.”
Hutch lit the gas stove.
“See, we’re actually providing a service. Getting our organs nice and healthy for donating.” He cracked an egg into the bowl with a flourish.
A beam of light suddenly broke through the dark kitchen.
“Duck!” he hissed.
Devon jumped off the counter and landed next to Hutch on the floor. They huddled below the table. A jerky flashlight swept past the kitchen windows.
“Isn’t that our rescue party?” Devon asked. Her hands started to shake with all the adrenaline surging through her body.
Hutch wrapped both his steady hands around hers. “Except that’s not a teacher. That’s Tino. He’ll go nuts if he catches anyone in his kitchen. Trust me.” He kept his eyes glued to hers and brought one hand to his cheek. He kissed the inside of her palm and pressed her hand to his cheek again. Her heart froze. He kissed me! Well, he kissed my hand, but still! A kiss! She could feel his soft skin peppered with rough patches where he had started shaving. “Looks like someone’s not used to breaking the rules,” he whispered, smiling at her.
She pulled her hand away and looked down at the floor. “No, that’s not it.”
But Hutch tilted her face back up toward him. “It’s okay if it is. It’s kind of cute actually.”
Devon smiled slightly and let Hutch’s hand linger on her chin.
“I almost forgot,” Hutch whispered. “Never leave evidence behind.” He reached his hand up and over onto the table, and slowly, careful not to make the plastic crunch, he brought the bag of Nutter Butters down to their hiding spot.
“My hero,” Devon whispered back. “How would I survive without you?”
“Without me, you and your cookies would be toast,” Hutch whispered a little too loudly.
Devon pressed her lips together, holding back her laughter. Hutch frowned. Devon bit her lip and Hutch shook his head at her. Laughing was not an option. Her chest heaved from the pent-up air trying to escape.
A key slid into the door. Hutch’s eyebrows rose into two wide arcs over his eyes. Devon’s right hand started shaking once more. Hutch reached for it, and kissed her palm again. He held her hand between his and nodded slightly. Everything’s gonna be all right, he seemed to be telling her. This place isn’t as bad as it seems.
She believed him.
And then the key turned and the lock clicked into place.
CHAPTER 1
September 5, 2012
Junior Year
Devon’s eye caught the harsh glare of the setting sun. She blinked and looked down, realizing she was rubbing her right palm where Hutch had kissed her years before.
“Devon? Are you sure you can handle this?”
She looked up at Mr. Robins. The sunlight suffused the wooden blinds behind him, highlighting the chao
s of his curly brown hair. He scrunched his flabby cheeks, pushing his thick, black-rimmed glasses further up his nose. A bushy eyebrow flickered. He wanted an answer.
“Devon? If it’s too much—”
“No, Mr. Robins. It’s fine. I can handle it,” she said.
He leaned back in his chair. “Good. You’re certain?”
“I’m certain,” she said. Her voice tightened.
“And remember from the training guide, you don’t need to have all the answers. You just need to listen. That’s the most important thing you can do for them right now.”
The backlighting found the details in Mr. Robins’s tired face: the end-of-day stubble around his chin and upper lip, the wrinkles that were beginning to make a home at the edge of his eyes. He looked as exhausted as she felt. “Your fellow students are really going to need you.”
“Whoever you think needs a session, I’m here to help,” she said.
“Whomever,” he corrected her.
“Sorry, whomever,” she said through gritted teeth.
“You don’t have to do the push-ups this time,” he offered.
“Thanks,” Devon seethed. Could he really be thinking about grammar right now? Mistaking ‘who’ and ‘whom’ in front of Mr. Robins actually resulted in push-ups. Sometimes the whole class would have to do them for one person’s mistake. But, no, even he had no interest in these Keaton-isms today. He studied his fingernails.
“Imagine if my program had been around earlier. Maybe Jason would have sought refuge in a peer instead of turning his anger inward.…”
“Yeah, imagine.”
“I realize we’ve only been through a basic amount of training over the summer, but we’ll do the best we can, hmm?” He flashed Devon a tight-lipped smile. It was at once a supportive gesture combined with a hint of I’m watching you.
Devon nodded. What do you mean ‘we?’ You’re not the one being thrown into the lion’s den, she wanted to say.
“Like I said, I’m here to help. So, if we’re good here.…” she let the words drag out, but Mr. Robins didn’t get the hint. He was still pondering the mystery of his fingernails.
Keaton School 01: Escape Theory Page 2