Keaton School 01: Escape Theory

by Margaux Froley

  “You know, if you and Jason were close we can arrange—”

  “Hutch. And no, not really. We talked a bit freshman year, but that was like once, ages ago … no, I’m fine. These things happen.” Devon took a deep breath to keep her rising thoughts from spilling out. These things happen. Like getting locked in an off-limits kitchen with a guy after curfew. Sure, that happens all the time. Those damn Nutter Butters. That night in the kitchen. Their night in the kitchen.

  Mr. Robins started shuffling through papers on his desk. “You should get yourself some dinner.”

  Devon jumped up. As she swung her worn-in backpack over a shoulder she caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection in the window. She’d grown a few inches since freshman year. That flat chest was no longer a problem by the time she was a sophomore. She now lived in the Keaton sweats she used to loathe, and kept her hair in a messy ponytail most of the time. It was as if someone had thrown her chipper freshman RA, June, the month, into a washing machine—and Devon was what came out, her smile left behind long ago in the spin cycle.

  “Thanks,” she said on autopilot.

  “I’ll send Matt over to you first thing tomorrow,” Mr. Robins replied, focusing on his desk. “Classes will be cancelled, so you can take all the time you think you need. Just remember what we talked about this summer; listen, take notes, and then we’ll discuss afterward, okay?”

  “Sounds good.”

  The next thing she knew, Devon was standing in front of the milk machine in the dining hall. It was all the same meaningless swirl: the dull whispering voices of other students eating dinner, faculty trying to keep their toddlers quiet out of respect, and the kitchen staff yelling behind the scenes. Noise in a place that should have been dark and empty. All I wanted was some milk.

  What would she do if she could go back to that night? Would she have done it differently? She wanted to experience that newness again. She thought of that apple juice dribbling down his chin. What if he hadn’t been there in the dark? She would have just gone back to her dorm without the milk. She would have shared that bag of cookies with the girls in her dorm and watched Bring it On. She wouldn’t know him like she did. And she wouldn’t be feeling this … whatever feeling the gnawing pit in her stomach was called. She wouldn’t be feeling that.

  But Hutch was there in the dark. And despite what had happened over the past two years, however less frequent their conversations became, however much his secret glances at her across the classroom dwindled, she did know him.

  A plate clattered to the floor somewhere in the back of the dining hall. She heard applause for the klutz at fault. A few people laughed. How is anyone laughing right now?

  Hutch was right; he’d always been right. They were just a bunch of organ donors. Drones cycling through the prep school system and getting spit out on the other end with their fancy college acceptance letters in hand. They were moving parts in the machine. Replaceable parts.

  But Hutch wasn’t replaceable.

  Devon hated them. Hated that she was one of them. She had become a part of their machine. The same machine that Hutch had tried so hard not to be a piece of.

  The words escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

  “… bunch of organ donors.”

  The metal milk machine blurred in front of her, morphing into a rippling molten bubble. She reached for a glass, but her hand looked fuzzy. Only then did she realize she’d been crying.

  Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training Guide

  by Henry Robins, MFT

  Upon completion of the Peer Counseling Pilot Program Training program, the Peer Counselor will read and sign below:

  Peer Counselor Oath

  I, Devon Mackintosh, do swear, to the best of my abilities, to uphold the standard and method of Peer Counseling as explained in the Peer Counselor Pilot Program Training Guide written and taught by Henry Robins, MFT.

  I have completed the forty-hour Peer Counselor Pilot Program Training Course with Henry Robins, MFT.

  As Peer Counselor, I will not give advice to my subjects, but will use the listening and communication skills taught to me by Henry Robins, MFT, to be an understanding and helpful counselor to my peers seeking help.

  I will keep and respect the confidentiality of my subjects, and will refer any subject to a professional when warranted.

  Devon Mackintosh 9/5/12

  Peer Counselor Signature

  Date

  Supervisor Signature Date

  Signed forms should be given to Henry Robins, MFT, before first Peer Counseling session.

  Name: Matt Dolgens

  Session Date: Sept. 6

  Session #1

  Reason for Session: Best friend to Jason Hutchins

  “I DON’T KNOW WHERE he got it, if that’s what this is all about.”

  Matt slouched in the cracked faux-leather armchair. A metal music stand lay on the floor behind him. An out-of-date amplifier collected dust in the corner. So much for peer counseling resembling actual professional therapy. Why she’d imagined a movie set—where subjects lounged on plush recliners in a cozy, neutral, book-lined room; where Devon sat safely behind and beyond their field of vision—she had no clue. She knew Keaton.

  Nothing sat between her and Matt’s angry eyes but three feet of stuffy air.

  At least the two armchairs she’d secured were comfortable. Plus she’d slapped a poster of a Rorschach inkblot test onto the wall. Now she regretted it. She’d hoped it would make the room feel like a proper counseling space. But even calling this a “room” was generous. It was an eight-by-eight-foot soundproof box.

  During the weeklong intensive summer training session with Mr. Robins, he’d emphasized that creating the right environment was important. “I think one of the music rooms would be ideal. Why don’t you go make it yours before the school year gets going,” he’d suggested. “Kids feel safe there. Believe me, I know. It’s where they hook up and puff weed.”

  Devon remembered making a concerted effort not to cringe. Was “puff weed” ever something any Keaton student ever said, at all? Still, she’d heeded his advice. Devon could only hope that one of the music prodigies on campus (or a longstanding couple) wouldn’t start a turf war. Who was Devon to stand in the way of Sue Lin’s violin genius? Or to poke another hole in the soul of Keaton’s resident indie guitarist, Phoenix Flowers (his real name), depriving him of the privacy to write his heartbroken love songs? On second thought, that was probably a boon for the whole Keaton community. How could any self-respecting female actually fall for … but no. She was not here to judge. She was here to be judgment-free. Besides, soundproof walls were essential for therapy too.

  It was against school policy (Companion Rule #6c) to burn candles, but before Matt even showed, Devon had lit an oversized Scent-o-Vanilla she’d smuggled in to eradicate the musty smell. It was hot in here, though. The sun beamed through a small window, highlighting the dusty air. She should get a plant. Mr. Robins had a plant in his office, didn’t he? She slid the lid off her new shiny Mont Blanc pen—a gift from her mom for completing the training course “because your notes are valuable, the pen you write them with should be to.” Devon had to admit, it was the one thing right now that made her feel remotely qualified to be a peer counselor. She wrote in the corner of her notebook page reserved for Matt’s sessions: Plant.

  “What are you writing?” he demanded.

  Devon swallowed. “Keynotes for our session,” she lied. “We’re here to talk about you and how you’re handling Hutch’s death,” she added, purposefully holding his gaze. “And as far as knowing or not knowing where he got the drugs, it doesn’t matter. Everything you say here is confidential.” That was the truth.

  His jaw twitched. He sniffed, staring down at his feet. “Good, because I found out when everyone else did in that assembly yesterday. I mean, I saw the ambulance drive up the hill. I got that ‘I’m sorry’ text on the night he.…” Matt paused. “On the night he killed himself. But I di
dn’t put it together. I’m sorry? He didn’t have anything to be sorry about with me, so I figured it was just a mistake, like he probably meant it for Isla. I didn’t know he’d sent it to his whole address book.”

  “His whole address book? Like, everyone in his phone?” Devon made her first real note.

  Hutch’s suicide text not sent to me.

  “Yeah, you know, the ‘I’m sorry’ thing. But by the time anyone put the pieces together it was too late.”

  Was it wrong to be annoyed that she was left out? You weren’t even in his phone, Devon. That’s how close you were. So you weren’t lying to Mr. Robins when you said that Hutch was just an acquaintance. She looked at Matt. His shaggy blond hair was damp and starting to curl up on the ends as it dried. From the fresh red sunburn on his cheeks and deep tan line on his neck, Devon knew that he’d had already gone surfing this morning. He and Hutch were regular fixtures on the 6 A.M. van for the diehards that wanted to catch a few waves in Monte Vista before class.

  “I still can’t believe he was out there all night,” Matt went on. He shook his head, like he was disagreeing with his own memory. “I don’t care what they found on him. Hutch wasn’t taking Oxy. Not him. When they do one of those toxicology things they’ll know.”

  Devon flipped through the training guide in her mind. “So, Hutch wouldn’t take Oxy. Go on,” she prodded.*

  Matt crossed a bare foot over his knee and picked at a callous on the side of his big toe. Devon blinked. He wasn’t wearing shoes. She hadn’t noticed that, either. The bottom of his foot was calloused and embedded with dirt. But as Devon stared at his foot she realized she hadn’t seen Matt wear normal shoes since he’d started at Keaton freshman year. He went barefoot everywhere—except when he had to wear cleats for soccer or lacrosse, and dress shoes for formal assemblies. His calluses were so thick they were shoes at this point.

  “I mean, maybe he was out there drinking a bit and he fell asleep and the cold got him. I checked the temperatures. It dropped to freezing that night. They rushed this whole suicide decision if you ask me. It just wasn’t him. I would know if he was thinking about something like that. He would have told me. I know he would have.”

  Of course he would have, you two were like brothers, is what Devon wanted to say. But instead she said: “It’s a shock to lose someone close.” More than that, she knew it was a shock to Keaton. Even students who’d never exchanged a word to Hutch burst into tears when Headmaster Wyler made the announcement in a special all-school assembly. Rumors had already been flying. Why not? There’d been an ambulance and police cars on campus. Even teachers were crying. Hutch was one of those guys everyone knew and everyone couldn’t help but like.

  His girlfriend last year, Isla, had been at the epicenter of the largest cluster. Others had sobbed together in stairwells or hugged each other in the aisles. Devon hadn’t cried then. She hadn’t cried for the same reason Matt was so pissed off right now. Hutch and suicide were just two things that you would never put together.

  “I know it’s a hard thing to accept,” she heard herself go on. Mr. Robins had told her that getting the subject to accept a situation was the key to successful therapy.†

  Matt tilted his head at her. “Really? That’s what you’re supposed to say to me right now? ‘Acceptance’ crap? It’s not like my dog died, Devon. This is Hutch we’re talking about. I mean, no offense, but why am I talking to you? Big Brother trying to keep tabs on us so the suicide doesn’t spread? Before it becomes the cool thing to do?”

  Devon brushed her bangs away from her eyes. He kind of had a point. Would I want to talk to me? She tried to gather her thoughts, remember her training from the summer. It was much harder to do this with people you actually knew. This was not one of Mr. Robins’s practice tests. When in doubt say someone’s name. It creates a sense of familiarity. He has to see you as someone he can confide in. Right. So even though in the outside world Matt Dolgens would NEVER confide in me, let him know he can trust you in here.

  “Matt,” Devon began, “you are—”

  “Required to be here,” Matt finished.

  Devon hesitated. “I think of it as more of an opportunity than a requirement.” She cringed as the textbook answer flew from her mouth.

  He sneered. “Ha! More BS.”

  “I know it sounds lame, but it’s true. This program really is here, I’m here, to help you.” Devon kept her smile even and reminded herself not to get defensive. Matt’s reaction was normal. It was part of the process. It was part of what separated and distinguished Devon from Matt and Isla and everyone else at Keaton—Hutch, too, maybe. This was Devon’s purpose. She was a neutral observer from the get-go. She’d made that decision when she’d met Hutch, hadn’t she? Back in the days of June, the month; back when she still clung to the idea that Ariel was her true best friend (as opposed to the sporadic cheery-but-incomprehensible Facebook friend Ariel had morphed into)…. Devon had known that she was never meant to be anything more than a fly on the wall of Keaton. “That’s the only goal I have.”

  “Please,” Matt spat back. “The only goal you have is to be a Keaton bitch. Some kid overdoses on their property so they gotta cover their asses somehow. So you narc us all out, and you get a good college rec letter? It’s been done before. Must be nice to sell out like that.”

  Devon stiffened. “Matt, come on.”

  “Next question, Dev. Let’s get this over with.”

  She was going to have to change tactics. Hutch. Bring it back to Hutch. She forced a gentle smile. “Remember when you and Hutch went through Buck initiation? You two showed up at like 3 A.M. at my door in Spring House in your boxers? You said you had a mission or something like that.”

  “A secret mission,” Matt corrected. But his tone softened a little and a smile began forming on his lips. “Hutch loved a secret mission. The seniors made us try to get girls’ underwear, but it was Hutch’s idea to go to your room.”

  Devon nodded. A hard lump had formed in her throat. She could see the sides of his cheeks getting red, his eyes moistening. She leaned forward in her chair.

  “What are you thinking about?” she whispered.

  Matt swallowed back the tears. He said in a calm voice, “Hutch was the first person to call me out on my shit, freshman year. He called me a spoiled a-hole one day when I wouldn’t take out our trash. No one had ever said anything like that to me. I mean, Hutch grew up with money like I did. But I was used to being special, untouchable. He knocked me down a peg. I hated him for it. But it’s the best thing anyone could have ever done for me, ya know?”

  Devon leaned back in her chair. With a shaky hand, she wrote on her notepad: Hutch = reality check.

  Matt cleared his throat. “More keynotes?”

  She looked up to find his cold eyes boring into hers. “Right. Just notes for myself to keep track of what we talk about—”

  “But those don’t go anywhere, right?” Matt asked. His tears were gone.

  “Well.” She smiled. For some reason, she was conscious of showing her teeth. She imagined it was the kind of terrified smile chimpanzees make when they’re nervous. “Don’t freak out. I have to record these sessions. It’s procedure.”

  “Are you recording this right now? You know I can lawyer up in a second?” Matt’s voice escalated into a sharp bark with each word. “None of this is going anywhere without my consent. And I doubt you want to get my dad involved.”

  Devon blinked several times. Right. Reality Check. She couldn’t try to be his friend. She wasn’t supposed to try. In this room, in this time, a “helpee” was just that: a human being who needed help from a detached resource. And as long as she sat in this chair and did what she was supposed to, Matt would see her as the enemy. It was her purpose to win his trust, not his friendship. It was her purpose to help him, no matter how pissed he got at her. Still, she knew that getting his dad involved was not a bluff on his part; his family definitely had the means and most certainly kept a lawyer on retainer. Mat
t’s family created the Dolgens Ski Company; they sponsored the U.S. Ski Team during the past Olympics. In public wasted moments, usually just before summer break, Matt had always bragged about how he’d expand the company into surfboards, how his dad would put him in charge of creating a surf team.

  “Matt, I’m not a narc, okay?” Devon finally said. “Give me some credit. You know me.” She stood to prop the window open.

  “Do I? When was the last time you and I actually had a conversation? Freshman year? On the bus to Freshman Campout? And then Hutch ODs and all of a sudden I’m supposed to pour my heart out to you? Bring up all the sweet memories you want, I’m done talking.”

  Devon sat back down. “Fine, you don’t have to talk. I can’t make you. You just have to stay here for the whole session.”

  Matt lowered his eyes. “So who else are they sending to you? Me, Isla? I heard Isla’s pretty wrecked. Started bawling right in the Dining Hall in front of everyone. They had to take her to the Health Center to get her to calm down; she was scaring all the freshmen. Guess it makes sense she was with Hutch all last year. They lost their.…” He caught himself before saying too much, drumming his fingers on his knees. “Who else are they making talk to you?”

  Devon bent low to meet his gaze. “That’s confidential information. That’s part of this whole Peer Counseling thing. You guys have complete anonymity to talk about whatever you want.” Then she leaned back and glanced out the window, as if she didn’t care whether Matt spoke or not, as if she wasn’t hanging on his every word. Funny: this is what it took to get a peek inside Matt Dolgens’ brain. A guy that most girls (who hadn’t already) would give anything to hook up with. Most girls but her.

  “Isn’t that redundant?” Matt muttered. “Isn’t anonymity by definition complete?”

  “It’s not redundant if it’s emphatic,” Devon pushed back.